Special Weapons - 3
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
In military towns prostitutes populate every street corner; so marines rarely screw sailors. That would be gay. And everyone knows there are no homosexuals in the United States Marine Corps.
When deployed aboard seagoing commands, however, the rules of engagement are substantially altered. Combating the tribulations of nautical life, cloistered for long durations without access to women, devil-dogs naturally seek alternative outlets. Embedded in a competitive environment where predators and prey cohabitate, inferior males are routinely subjugated and forced to provide essential services.
And honestly, who doesn't enjoy an occasional piece of sea-pussy?
This story is a work of fiction created solely for the entertainment of inquiring adults. It contains content not approved by the Department of The Navy. The author has no current affiliation within DoN and the views expressed aren't representative of Navy/ Marine Corps positions or opinions.
Sexual interactions between DoN Members, while prohibited by UCMJ Article 125, are nonetheless prevalent... especially at sea. This story contains explicit sexual situations. If graphic depictions are offensive or illegal, please do not read any further.
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Chapter 3
03 0100Z Jul79, 33-57-16 N, 76-17-48 W
Recruits are taught the distinction between their rifle and gun. Standing naked in formation with M16 in their left hand and erect cock in the right, they recite: "This is my rifle and this is my gun... this is for killing and this is for fun." ~ MSgt Nunez, USMC, Parris Island Drill Instructor ~
SSgt Karp and Midshipman 3/c Boyer traverse MarDet berthing.
The large compartment consists of 60 racks stacked 3 high, standup lockers, a TV lounge, and weight room. Located below the waterline and running athwartships, 70 frames forward of the center of gravity, it experiences negligible linear and rotational motions from wind and waves.
With large longitudinal and transverse metacentric heights - a function of displacement and underwater hull geometry acting through the center of buoyance, Nimitz maintains equilibrium with dynamic righting moments at all angles of inclination. So she is an exceedingly stable platform.
Perfect for new marines lacking sea-legs.
Heading outboard to starboard they pass a young PFC in his rack.
Naked, he is perusing a Penthouse magazine while nonchalantly stroking his expanding shaft. Lost in reverie he relishes the freedom afforded by the exclusive all-male environment. Real men don't hide their masculinity... but rather delight in flaunting it.
Adult reading material is ubiquitous at sea. Supplementing private collections, every division maintains a communal stash of erotic paperbacks and glossy magazines. The undeniable lure is the salacious stories and depictions of voluptuous women with curvaceous breasts and inviting pussies.
Boyer stares hungrily at the PFC.
A smoldering seduction, the marine has an exquisite physique - a profusion of granite muscles sheathed in luscious caramel skin. The dangerous 18-year-old baby-faced killer is the progeny of a proud anti-Castro Cuban father and beauteous Dominican mother.
Lean and powerful, he has broad shoulders, massive biceps and triceps, a wide muscular chest with melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chip nipples, rippling abdominals, and heavily corded thighs. Around his neck is an `Our lady of el Cobre' rosary with turquoise beads and gold crucifix.
Boyer salivates.
He imagines licking every inch of flesh.
Property of the Marine Corps, on the PFC's left pectoral is a traditional tattoo: an eagle clutching a fouled anchor with thirteen five-pointed stars above it. The image, tracing its roots from the early Continental Marines of 1776, is on the buttons of modern-day marine dress uniforms.
With the magazine in one hand the PFC strokes his disproportionately long shaft with the other. Finding a nice rhythm, rubbing up-and-down, over the ridge and across the leaking glans, he envisions plowing the beguiling buxom beauty on page thirty-four.
Boyer is mesmerized by the marine's magnificent masculinity.
The perfect body is optimized for killing and fucking.
The midshipman's desire to degust the marine is undeniable. He can imagine it now: the demigod standing at parade rest with a detached demeanor. Absorbing light and wayward souls his pure black eyes are a deep abyss... a portal to Tartarus and imprisonment.
Descending into the underworld Boyer kneels, leans forward, and worships the glorious cock - the most important thing in his life at that moment. Idolizing the paragon of masculinity above the Olympians he willingly joins Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion for eternity.
Reverentially licking down the esculent he swirls his tongue over the bulbous glans and savors the exquisite taste resonating on his discerning palate. Opening wide, inch-by-inch it advances inside the welcoming mouth and down the ballooning throat.
Lost in the fantasy the epicure feasts on perfection.
"You can blow Hernandez later," said Karp breaking the spell - recognizing the boy's need from his expression and erection. "Let's go, the men are waiting for you."
Boyer is loath to leave. Too precious to be wasted, he craves the looming load. Taking a mental snapshot, visualizing every detail and nuance, the young warrior's potent masculinity is permanently imprinted in the midshipman's synaptic junctions.
Karp pushes Boyer forward.
Prodded like a lamb to slaughter he advances deeper into the labyrinth.
Marines embody an ethos of nationalistic sacrifice.
Inculcated during boot camp and reinforced throughout their career, they are distinguishable by their stalwart bearing and unparalleled courage, commitment, and conditioning.
The service reveres the masculine form. Marines constantly exercise, run, lift weights, and shoot to meet rigorous strength, endurance, and marksmanship standards. Unabashed exhibitionists, strutting around naked for appreciative audiences, they proudly flaunt their muscular perfection.
When constrained aboard ships during peacetime there are limited opportunities for young marines to vent aggression and release pent-up energy.
There are no islands to storm like Peleliu, Okinawa, Iwo Jima; no exhilarating battlefield engagements in dense jungles or on heavily defended mountains; no imperial empires or fascist dictatorships to vanquish; no landscape to litter with the enemy's burnt flesh and charred bones.
No, life at sea is hell for a young marine. Nothing to kill but time.
Ostensibly, between intense organizational physical training, frequent masturbation, and martial arts tournaments their enthusiasm for adventure fueled by surging testosterone remains mostly under control. Still, every avenue to attenuate aggression must be explored.
Quenching the biological imperative to breed and expel seed, sea-pussy is an undeniable reprieve from the mundanity of self-abuse. While non-rate sailors bear the brunt of the devil-dogs' ardent appetite, when available midshipmen are enthusiastically utilized.
There is an old military adage: there are only two types of men... those that fuck and those that get fucked. Materially superior, marines are a uniquely aggressive sub-species with a compulsive drive to subjugate inferior bottom dwellers.
For every winner there is a loser.
And if you're not feasting at the table, you're on the menu.
Laughter erupts from the overflowing compartment lounge.
Two austere sofas and countless `marine-proof" aluminum stacking chairs fill the space. The furniture meets MIL-STD-1623 requirements (Fire Performance Requirements and Approved Specifications for Interior Finish Materials and Furnishings for Naval Shipboard Use, 20 May 1974).
Military realia and iconography is abundant: framed vintage photographs of historic battles; vibrant enameled command crests mounted on luxurious ebony, sandalwood, and mahogany plaques; admiralty flags adorned with gold fringes, cords, and tassels.
Attached to the Marine Corps flag finial are dozens of multi-colored streamers: physical manifestations of awards and participation in military campaigns. Specific battles are highlighted by bronze and silver stars embroidered on the 2.75-inch-wide by 36-inch-long ribbons.
Rowdy devil-dogs are enjoying the evening movie.
Stripped to standard issue olive-green skivvies, the men display a profusion of impressive flesh embellished with USMC', Semper Fidelis', and `bulldog' tattoos. Affirming membership, the ink represents intangible qualities that bind all marines: pride, honor, integrity. It tells the world who they are, what they stand for, and what they are capable of at a single glance.
Their attention is riveted on a television bolted to a cabinet on the forward transverse bulkhead. It's connected to a new VHS player. Introduced by the Victor Company of Japan (JVC), the state-of-the-art machine supplements their vintage Bell & Howell 8mm reel-to-reel projector.
Possessing an eclectic adult-film library, their collection rivals the legendary offerings down in the Chief's Mess. The best movies are produced in Asia... where prepubescent girls and boys engage in outrageous activities with a surprising variety of well-trained barnyard denizens.
And who doesn't enjoy a good dog-and-pony show?
A new film is playing. A teenage boy is on hands and knees.
Holding hips from behind, an imposing alpha with iconic eagle, globe, and anchor tattoo on his chest positions his blood-engorged cockhead. Indifferent to consequences, he lunges savagely forward and drives deep inside the inner chamber until two-blocked.
The impaled boy screams in agony. He's being split open.
"Nice. That's going to leave a mark," laughs a LCpl.
The 45-minute USMC training film showcases effective methodology in the interrogation, subjugation, and utilization of indigenous personnel. Many similar films are shown at the School of Infantry at Camp Pendleton, CA and Camp Geiger, NC.
All marines are taught an essential lesson: battlefield success depends upon overwhelming force, bold tactics, and hyper-aggression. Operating in an informational fog, dancing with death in the crucible of combat, to be timorous, indecisive, or empathetic is always terminal.
History is littered with the corpses of men constrained by convention and compassion. Accepting that collateral damage is unavoidable, the prevailing Marine Corps philosophy is to neutralize threats with extreme prejudice and let the Creator sort the wheat from the chaff.
In the film the alpha repudiates the boy's ridiculous claim on masculinity.
Just because he has a pair that doesn't make him a man.
Inherently, masculinity is a state-of-mind. The warrior archetype embodies strength, assertiveness, sexuality, and violence. Acting decisively without hesitation or fear, the warrior channels innate aggressiveness to vanquish rivals.
While a life-altering experience with profound ramifications for the emasculated boy, it's just another inconsequential Tuesday fuck for the powerful alpha. Smirking at the camera, persistently pumping and thrusting at different angles, he delights in attacking the defenseless sphincter.
And the kid is cuntified.
Enjoying the movie, with no practical stowage, the marines' gear is on display. Tumid shafts, prominent cockheads, and large testicles are all discernible behind the thin cotton material. Uninhibited, many of the men nonchalantly stroke their equipment or offer a buddy a hand.
Arching his body, stabbing forward as deeply as possible, the alpha swells inside the convulsing chute. Holding his breath, discharging his weapon, he empties his dual chambered magazine. Extracting the spent gun upon denouement he spreads the boy open for the camera.
Focusing on the distorted ring, puffy crimson folds are visible inside the gaping hole.
"Fuck... you can see everything," said an impressed PFC.
"Now that's a fucked hole," adds another.
Admiring his handiwork, the alpha grins with justifiable pride. Like a saintly stigmata, chunks of blood stained jam slowly ooze out of the wound, trickle over the perineum, across the perineal raphe, and down the thighs. The camera angle shifts. The boy's tearful face is presented.
It's Boyer.
The marines are watching last week's initiation of the midshipman down in the weapons magazine. Taking multiple turns, ten devil-dogs brutalized the academy boy for hours... stuffing him with rapacious cocks and pints of thermogenic jam.
Copies of the film have already been distributed to Quantico and the Pentagon. The institutions maintain extensive secret archives. Besides providing entertainment for senior officers and valuable training for junior marines, the films afford insurance against the unforetold.
There's no calculus to predict which midshipman may someday make admiral or become a member of Congress... and it's always prudent to have effective leverage to guide future funding and policy decisions. The Marine Corps always negotiates from a position of strength.
Better to have and not need than to need and not have.
The progressive Commandant of Midshipmen at USNA is also kept apprised of midshipmen with special inclinations. As leader of The Navigators - a secret society advocating divine masculinity throughout the Fleet, he encourages unconventional training to widen his boys' perspectives.
Upon returning to Annapolis Boyer will be interviewed by upperclassmen for inclusion in the elite organization. If found qualified he will be assigned special collateral duties. Addressing membership's requirements, he will service hundreds of military-grade weapons.
"Make a hole," Karp shouts. "Sea-pussy coming through."
The men quickly move aside... parting like the Red Sea.
Boyer is pushed to the front of the lounge. Bashful as a crimson-flushed schoolgirl he realizes everyone has been watching his subjugation and sodomization. Adding a stream of comedic commentary, the men have been enjoying a good laugh at his expense.
Humiliated, his confidence erodes like a sand castle at high tide.
"Here's your star," Karp announces. And the marines applauded wildly.
Aboard Nimitz for summer training Boyer is being indoctrinated on shipboard equipment, operational procedures, unwritten rules, and the rhythm of deckplate life. Living the enlisted experience, he is learning many important lessons not found in any classroom syllabus.
Adapting to life at sea he experiences a profound metanoia. Gaining insight, he now understands a fundamental truth: he's addicted to jam. Craving the quintessence of masculinity, the rich silky tannins, complex flavors, and sensuous aromas explode on the palate like a fine wine.
The crew happily nurtures his dependency.
The midshipman has already been fed more than his fair share of the intoxicating elixir. Not just pedestrian sailor distillate but high-potency Marine Corps jam. Countless opportunities to consume more are in his immediate future... a frightening but exhilarating prospect.
With his arrival in the lounge the marines' excitement increases exponentially. Waiting all week for this night only one thing is on their minds: sea-pussy.
Senior NCOs routinely extoll the wonders of midshipmen... something every jarhead must experience. But baby zero sea-pussy is only available to the Fleet for a short period during summer months... so it's best to make hay while the sun shines.
For a marine at sea the vast majority of days are nothing special.
With few constructive outlets the boredom is overpowering. Operating around-the-clock below decks days lose their meaning and turn into weeks and months. Immersed in the mundane it's the same endless cycle governed by rules, regulations, and routines.
So small diversions to vent aggression are appreciated. Sporting erections and grins, they gang rape Boyer with licentious eyes. They will breed him until everyone has their fill. It's not about sexual orientation or identity, but rather opportunity, shared adventure, and cock-supremacy.
"I want to ball you," states an excited lance corporal.
"We all do," adds a PFC.
A choir of conflated voices vociferously agree.
"Relax. Everyone will get a turn," Karp explains.
Asking marines to remain calm is like telling fire not to burn. Both are uncontrollable elemental forces. An inferno fueled by hormones course through their veins. Breathing rapidly, consuming all the compartment's oxygen, every marine is coiled to pounce on Boyer.
The men will have to share. Sowing the seeds of destruction, serviceable for only a finite period, individual pleasure must inevitably transition to more practical methodology.
There's nothing like stuffing a communal hole with a buddy. It builds esprit de corps and reinforces the strong bonds of brotherhood. The ultimate act of domination, it's exhilarating to transcend perceived limitations and explore new boundaries.
And Boyer will learn what it means to service marines.
Boyer isn't the only midshipman in extremis.
Dozens of USNA and NROTC midshipmen are being initiated by the crew.
Over millennia sea-going cultures developed rituals to celebrate a boy's symbolic transformation from landlubber to seafarer. Depending upon prevailing religious beliefs and social customs they run the gamut from mundane to exotic, insipid to inspired, tame to outlandish.
Whether traditional or progressive, seasoned mariners enjoy themselves at the expense of the recipients. Sometimes initiates cooperate other times not so much. Either way the neophytes learn about humility and the unique challenges of life at sea.
Aboard Nimitz private ceremonies for midshipmen take place in engineering spaces, storerooms, weapons magazines, berthing compartments, heads, pump rooms, work centers, shaft alleys, fan rooms... and other isolated locations dispersed among the 3,000+ spaces on the carrier.
The crew provides the essential ingredients: enthusiasm and cock.
And neither is in short supply.
In No.2 Auxiliary Machinery Room, 5-120-0-E, Machinists Mates have a Cornell Big Red midshipman on the lower-level deck plates. Positioned between the ship's service turbo generators he willingly pays homage to the pit snipes. To everyone's delight he is a talented cocksucker. Of course he swallows every load; that's the way he's been taught by his military-science professors.
After flight ops and aircraft refueling Aviation Boatswain's Mates in Air Department's V4 Fuels Division utilize a midshipman from Duke. No.13 JP-5 aviation refueling station, 03-141-22-F, is perfect for clandestine activities. Taking turns countless airmen ball the obedient Blue Devil until his aperture is no longer serviceable. Out of commission, he joins the binnacle list for repairs.
Mess Management Specialists from Supply Department S2 Food Services Division introduce a Holy Cross Crusader to Filipino meat in a dry provisions storeroom, 3-207-2-A. They feed the midshipman their dark-brown sausages and delicious jam flavored with indigenous spices. The distinctive piquancy is an acquired taste. And over the next six weeks the adventurous gourmand acquires it.
Aloft in the island superstructure AN/SPS-48E radar room, 011-115-1-Q, Operations Department OE Division's Electronics Technicians have a midshipman from The Citadel. Knowing the score, without hesitation the Bulldog assumes a submissive position on his hands and knees. Lifting his ass up and spreading his legs he extends an invitation. And the sailors happily RSVP.
Quartermasters from Navigation Department adroitly manipulate the malleable masculinity of a Michigan midshipman in the Secondary Conning Station, 03-J-0-C. Inexperienced, they teach the diffident Wolverine the art of cock sucking - forcing him to consume enlisted jam. He doesn't know it yet but extensive liberties will soon be taken, and the sailors will nail his ass. Repeatedly.
One deck below a USNA kid enters the focsle, 02-H-0-Q, where Boatswain's Mates from Deck Department's 1st Division lie in waiting. The hubristic midi is besieged, stripped, and secured across the port anchor windlass. Stuffing an oily rag in his mouth to shut him up, providing no preparation or lubrication, the arrogant ass gets fucked. And the bluejackets recalibrate his poor attitude.
No one ever returns from sea unchanged by the experience.
Welcome to the Fleet, midshipmen!
Primal desires smolder.
The pungent perfume of pheromones is palpable.
Boyer gazes around the lounge for clues as if reading his fortune. Naked marines abound. Gorging on the sumptuous visual feast he is dazed by the profusion of perfection. A conflation of ethnicities, young warriors take pride showing-off their annealed musculature and potent masculinity.
Stacked against the starboard longitudinal bulkhead he notices a scarlet vinyl covered polyethylene foam wrestling mat, several tubes of MIL-G-23549 all-purpose grease, a box of disposable rubber gloves, and an assortment of restraints, implements, and other paraphernalia.
There's little doubt about the evening's agenda. He's their sea-bitch; to be used however they desire. They will provide what he ultimately needs. And plenty of it.
A swarm of corybantic marines encircle Boyer.
He's trapped inside a ring of wildfire.
Their eyes, blazing and menacing, radiate a primitive intensity. Intoxicated with an infusion of neuropeptides and a surge of strength from adrenaline swollen muscles, the men have transformed into lethal warriors. And the roaring flames of lust devour rationality.
The big-dicked marines make it their mission to fuck as many midshipmen as possible. Mounted on the bulkhead is a large engraved black-walnut plaque that reads: `What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Except for Marines; Marines will kill you.'
Devil-dogs revere the Greek god Ares. The epitome of masculinity and embodiment of aggression, he represents the violent and physical aspect of war. Standing proudly naked, clad in a bronze Corinthian helmet, carrying a spear and shield, all mortals kneel before him in submission.
There's no sanctuary from the conflagration; no escape from destiny.
Boyer capitulates without protest.
Proficient in field-dressing midshipmen they strip the boy. Without his uniform and insignia Boyer relinquishes his status and position within the military hierarchy. Naked with eyes downcast in submission he's just another disposable piece of government property.
Looking for souvenirs the marines divide the midshipman's garments. Stenciled with `Boyer, Matthew C.' on the waistband, his underpants are a highly desirable trophy. Taking turns casting lots, cleromancy determines the fortuitous winner.
Several marines run rough reconnaissance over the boy. They aggressively twist the nipples, thump the taught stomach, and knead the curvaceous ass. A scrum breaks out between the quivering legs. Hands maul the generous ball bag and squeeze the spongy eggs. Tugging downward they laugh as the orbs snap back and retreat inside the scrotum seeking shelter from the storm.
A wave of nausea hits and Boyer groans.
"Let's see what we're working with," suggests a sergeant.
Applying insistent pressure they force Boyer down onto the wrestling mat. Adjusting his position on forearms-and-knees, they press his chest down, arch the back, lift the ass, rotate the hips, and spread the legs... revealing his most private place.
Grabbing a portable emergency battle lantern off a nearby stanchion a LCpl illuminates the patulous sphincter. Looking to satiate prurient curiosity the men maneuver for unobstructed views. In a moment of wonder they are ensorcelled by the breathtaking sight.
An hush of reverence fills the compartment.
Centered in a deep indentation the swollen pussy lips are encircled by a shimmering aurora of vibrant yellows, greens, and blues. Positioned for their perverse pleasure, the pretty pucker, pink and pristine only last week, is now battered, bruised, and open for business.
"Damn it's beautiful," said a mesmerized PFC.
"Can't wait to tap that," whispers another.
Boyer remains stoically silent. Enveloped in a maelstrom of obsessed marines he couldn't be more vulnerable. Ashamed but aroused, a portrait of obedience, he waits to be bred. Excited by the impending inevitability his traitorous cock elongates and an iridescent pearl drops onto the mat.
Greased fingers probe. An unexpected electric shock surges through him as his muscles instinctively try to clench. Damaged from last week's onslaught the sphincter can't deter the forward advancement of invading digits as they easily secure a beachhead.
Exploring and frolicking inside they engage in an impromptu game of tug-of-war... stretching the pliant slot in several directions. Redirecting the battle lantern, a focused bean illuminates the undulating walls six inches deep inside the exquisite pink trench.
The men's tumid shafts twitch with anticipation.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard," declares LCpl Jefferson.
Striding forward, smoldering in an unhurried melt, he walks around Boyer and inspects his reward. Possessing elite fighting skills and fanatical tenacity he bested other marines yesterday in a hand-to-hand competition to win the evening's right of first-fuck.
Stunningly muscular with a gleaming obsidian complexion, Jefferson has strong Mandinka roots. His hypnotic eyes are ablaze with a seductive intensity that enslaves inferior males. Throwing off sparks, the menacing cock is a gift from his West African bloodline.
Boyer is shocked by the tumescent appendage.
Fraught with contradictions it represents something to venerate, something to fear, something that creates, something that destroys. The massive girth and length are alarming. Trembling with trepidation he panics and attempts to squirm free... but the motivated marines maintain a maniacal grip.
He's not going anywhere.
"It's too big. Please don't bone me," implores the terrified boy.
But the desperate plea fails to persuade the implacable marine.
Compassion and mercy aren't in his repertoire. He's a cutthroat killer with a beating heart of stone. Besides, like Odysseus ensnared in the hypnotic Sirens' song he is spellbound by the seductive lure of sea-pussy. And its mesmeric call can't be denied.
Advancing towards the inevitable Boyer has an epiphany. His last measure of masculinity will be sacrificed to expiate the marines' transgressions. Grasping the irrefutable truth, he will be violently and irreversibly transformed into a split-tail.
Running in his head is the Bob Dylan song "Shelter from the Storm".
`Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood When blackness was a virtue, the road was full of mud. I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form Come in, she said I'll give ya shelter from the storm.
In a little hilltop village they gambled for my clothes I bargained for salvation and she gave me a lethal dose. I offered up my innocence I got repaid with scorn Come in, she said I'll give ya shelter from the storm.'
Like the wayworn traveler, Boyer is tempted to avoid suffering and accept shelter on an alternative path. Contemplating his divinely appointed role, however, walking a razor's edge between heaven and earth he embraces his ineluctable duty.
The rhapsodic marines gather around the sacrificial altar. The juxtaposition of Mandinka and midshipman provide a compelling visual contrast: black and white, man and boy, predator and prey. The tumescent ebony spear-of-destiny slides between the creamy white cheeks. Positioned for deep penetration, the moment of metamorphoses is at hand.
"What are you waiting for?" asks a PFC. "Fuck him already."
"Fuck him... fuck him," voices incessantly chant.
Thirty-eight thousand feet above the flight deck rumblings reverberate in the roiling sky. Numinous powers look down upon Nimitz. The atramentous void suddenly rips apart with a blinding bolt of plasma and the ship's main mast absorbs five hundred mega-joules of fury.
A shower of liquid metal fragments rain down the superstructure like molten steel from a blast furnace. Oxygen molecules rip apart and the sharp, fresh aroma of ozone fills the air. The powerful pulse propagates through the hull and dissipates into the sea... leaving a wake of destruction.
"Fuck! What was that?" exclaims a shocked PFC.
"Damn the TV's fried," bemoans another.
Although shielding protects sensitive electronics from enemy interference, the electrical generation and distribution system isn't designed to sustain enormous amperage transients. Main circuit breakers located in load centers throughout the 2nd deck spark and trip.
Portable electrical devices are damaged. From bow to stern all machinery stops, HVAC systems de-energize, and overhead lights fade to black. In Damage Control Central the Electrical Officer frantically coordinates 120 Electrician's Mates as they combat the cascading causality.
Without electrical power magnetic relays instantly open.
150 psi air stored in cylinders discharge and 4 massive Fairbanks Morse emergency diesel generators light-off. Producing 2 megawatts each, automatic bus transfer switches feed vital loads: propulsion machinery, command and control, sensors & combat systems, weapons elevators, etc.
Non-essential circuits remain dead. Hardwired emergency battle lanterns illuminate passageways, work centers, offices, and berthing compartments. Poignant like a moonlit graveyard, it's a harmony of black, white, and gray as fearsome apparitions dance on the bulkheads.
Stunned by the eerie silence marines forget to breathe.
Undeterred, LCpl Jefferson remains focused on the task at hand.
His worldview is based on pain, passion, and purpose. Holding tight with calloused hands he is ready to pierce Boyer with his lance. Like the supernatural events accompanying the crucifixion at Calvary - darkness, lightening, and earthquake - history marks the seminal moment.
Eternity touches time, the heavens come down to earth, and the old covenant yields to the new. Driven and guided by primordial forces the marine confidently lunges forward in the semi-darkness... impaling the midshipman in one continuous thrust.
"Aauggggghhh!" Boyer screams in explosive agony.
"Fuck yeah... take the pain."
As if he has any choice.
Primal breeding instincts take over. Marines have a well-deserved reputation for rough sex. Their legacy is a trail of bruised, battered, and bloody conquests from the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli. But the hyper-aggressive lance corporal's inimitable skills elevate the art to another level.
Navigating bends and constrictions, stretching and straightening the malleable chute, the behemoth traverses the rectum, explores the descending colon, and presses against the stomach. Burned and blinded by excruciating pain, like the damaged ship, Boyer's lights are extinguished.
It's immensely satisfying for Jefferson to plow the toubab...
... a small measure of retribution for the enslavement and treatment of his ancestors.
Descendant from the great Mali Empire that flourished in West Africa from the 13th through the 16th centuries, the Mandinka people spread across parts of Guinea, Ivory Coast, Mali, Senegal, and Gambia.
And then European explorers arrived.
Looking for gold the Portuguese, Spanish, and English instead found tribal kings anxious to dispose of war captives. Raiding neighboring villages, kings grew rich and powerful bartering human cargo for manufactured goods, rum, and guns from the white men.
Slaves were transported back to Europe and across the Atlantic. In the New World they were exchanged for cotton, sugar, and tobacco. Commodity and collateral, they functioned as the basis of money and represented tangible wealth in the American South.
The chattel was bought, branded, and abused by white masters.
Recalcitrants received harsh discipline until domesticated or dead.
Deliberately debasing and dehumanizing the heavily melanated animals, owners denied males the privilege of wearing pants. Forced to wear dress-like shirts without undergarments they were psychologically feminized... and everything was more-or-less on public display.
Steeped in a culture of sexual tyranny, Southern hospitality demanded that distinguished visitors be offered their choice of slave for bedroom companionship. While some gentlemen opted for celibacy most took advantage of the opportunity to sample something new.
While young girls were routinely raped, many boys were also sodomized.
After the 1808 prohibition on slave importation local breeding became essential to meet the growing demand. Collecting lucrative fees, large plantations rented out prized bucks. Planting potent seed virile studs knocked-up all the fertile mares. And a new cash crop was cultivated.
Keeping extensive records, cross-breeding bloodlines for favorable traits, quality slaves were sired that fetched high prices at auction. The largest auction took place on the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia in 1859. Over several days 436 slaves from the Butler plantation near Darien were sold.
Staged at Ten Broeck Race Course, slaves were stripped and displayed in horse stalls.
People descended upon the facility from hundreds of miles.
Prospective buyers and curiosity seekers inspected the livestock: checking teeth, muscle strength, and reproductive prowess. To the audience's amusement cocks were measured and manipulated to ejaculation, proving seed quality; females were spread open to exhibit pink, disease free cunts.
Instructed by their fathers, adolescent boys eagerly fingered the slaves - learning how to inspect and command the animals. Sporting erections young masters explored up inside moist cunts, rolled down meaty foreskins, and hefted huge ball bags in their trembling hands.
Broken into lots, field stallions, breeding mares, and manor-house geldings sold for $300 to $600; suckling foals, colts, and fillies for less. Well-endowed purebred bucks with pedigree papers often exceed $1,000. Bargains on unregistered, sick, or homely stock were offered on the last day.
Tethered by shackles and misery they walked behind their masters' wagons... commencing the journey to new plantations and a life of servitude.
After 150+ years of selective breeding LCpl Jefferson carries the best genes of his ancestors. Ironically, in no small measure 20th century African-American athletes owe their superior physical prowess, financial success, and celebrated social status to the southern white man.
Boyer stirs awake.
Disoriented and dazed he slowly regains situational awareness.
Tensing in agony, tears stream down his contorted face. The impossibly deep weapon punches his stomach, diaphragm, and lungs - knocking the wind out of him. Whimpering incoherently with each thrust, mostly undecipherable vowels, he feels the full force of Mandinka justice.
Housed inside Boyer's inner sanctum, the triumphant marine with effulgent grin savors the moment's perfection. Moist and tight, an indescribable delight, there's nothing like it... the overwhelming pleasure of fucking privileged white midshipman sea-pussy.
And he hears the congratulatory voices of his proud ancestors.
A hypnotic symphony of moans, groans, squelching lubricant, and rhythmic collisions of sweaty flesh reverberates off the bulkheads and propagate throughout the sonorous compartment. Flanked by dozens of excited marines, indistinguishable heavy breathing bathes the conjoined alpha and omega.
Materializing in-and-out of shadows the enraptured audience watches the penetrating performance. Like lighthouse beacons drawing mariners' attention, shafts of illumination from hand-held battery-powered emergency battle lanterns play over the participants' glistening bodies.
"I'm thirsty," Boyer croaks.
In the monochromatic light a cock appears. Leaking like a faucet with a worn washer the juicy glans rubs against the midshipman's parched lips. Savoring the intoxicating sweetness he automatically welcomes the pulsing shaft deep inside his grateful mouth.
Disembodied encouragement emanates from dark recesses.
"Fuck that pussy... make him feel every inch!"
"Pound that fucking hole!"
Jefferson pummels the midshipman with ferocious intensity... instinctively grinding and gyrating to an ancient tribal rhythm encoded in his chromosomes. Bound by destiny, yoked by violence, the superior male and boy of immolation writhe together in pleasure and pain.
Filled to unfathomable depths Boyer experiences unimagined sensations as he finally understands the profound wonder of total submission. Gaining a new equanimity, unconditionally surrendering to the pain, he spreads his legs wider... content in his inferiority.
And he redeems the white-mans' sins against the Africans.
"Feels so good," grunts the marine.
Lurching forward, thrusting deeper, pressing hips tight against the pussy, he crams every possible inch inside. Approaching the pinnacle of ecstasy, taking a final measure of retribution he unleashes a torrent of potent seed and sullies the white boy with an infusion of Mandinka DNA.
Descending the climatic high Jefferson withdraws and severs the connection. Fluids drip from the distended hole and puddle between the midshipman's wishbone splayed legs. With his mission complete the content marine gives way to an eager platoon mate.
The next devil-dog quickly rams up inside the split-tail.
And then soon after another. And another.
They are insatiable and inexhaustible as only young marines can be.
Deep in a trance, lost in a catatonic dance, Boyer is vaguely aware of time as the shaftings continue unabated. Ascending into a higher dimension of consciousness, experiencing a spiritual convergence, pleasure and pain are unified through a great act of reconciliation.
Staff Sargent Karp watches with an approving grin. His marines are good boys with just too much energy. He knew exactly what they wanted; what they needed. While there are many proven techniques in the leadership toolbox, sex is still the best placater of marines.
And there are few things better than midshipman sea-pussy.
Boyer's adventures continue in chapter 4.
Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, marines, and midshipmen either afloat or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com
Additional Navy sea-stories include:
USS Independence CV62:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/uss-independence/
A Brat's Peregrination:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/a-brats-peregrination/