USS Independence CV62
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
Author's Notes: Ancient mariners led a perilous existence. Sailing in treacherous waters with only simple navigational instruments, voyages frequently ended in disaster as ships went aground and foundered. Profoundly superstitious, legends and myths of unknown terrors lurking in the majestic deep haunted their imaginations. Old nautical charts, reflecting these fears, portrayed a menagerie of terrors: multi-armed leviathans, fearsome dragons, seductive sirens, and vengeful deities.
Before embarking upon voyages, to propitiate the gods and gain favor with the sea's denizens, sacrifices were offered in elaborate ceremonies. The Phoenicians believed human sacrifices were particularly efficacious, offering infants and handsome boys to their gods. Among the Greeks and Romans, animal sacrifices to Poseidon, Athena, Amphitrite, or some lesser sea or wind deity were more common.
Chapter 10: Fleet Welcome
"There was a mighty tempest in the sea, so that the ship was like to be broken. Then the mariners were afraid, and cried every man unto his god...And they said everyone to his fellow, `Come, and let us cast lots, that we may know for whose cause this evil is upon us.' So they cast lots, and the lot fell upon Jonah. So they took up Jonah, and cast him forth into the sea, and the sea ceased from her raging." ~ The Story of Jonah, The King James Bible, Chapter 1 ~
1MC: `Standby for the evening prayer.'
Aboard warships at sea, prayer is provided for in the law that established the Navy and was reinforced by Thomas Jefferson in the 1802 Navy Regulations. A brief non-denominational prayer, delivered by the ship's Chaplin, connects sailors to a routine that has been part of the seafaring tradition throughout the Nation's history.
1MC: `Let us pray. Eternal Father, grant us strength and wisdom to successfully accomplish refresher training and improve Independence's combat readiness. Watch over your servants at sea, our shipmates and brothers, and especially the young midshipmen. Guide them in the pursuit of qualifications while revealing your wonders upon the seas. We humbly ask these things in your name, amen.'
"Amen," echo the HTs in R-Division's forward berthing compartment.
The sailors are thankful for midshipman 3/c Brian Klodaski.
Inherently vulnerable, reliant like a newborn upon its mother, the young Naval Academy boy is dependent upon the generosity of sailors. Providing a robust fleet education, they will aggressively challenge and expose the neophyte to many wondrous experiences.
The product of a Polish and Irish union, the fair-skinned midshipman, tall, slender, and diffident, has meticulously buzzed light-brown hair reflecting his military bearing and strict adherence to grooming standards. Classically handsome, the glabrous face contains pensive cloud-gray eyes, generous burgundy lips, and a prominent high-bridged nose.
The ascetic berthing compartment, consisting of 60 coffin racks, standup lockers, a lounge table with chairs, and a television is the midshipman's home for the next six weeks. Set parallel to the centerline to mitigate the ship's pitching motion, the 72 x 26 inch racks are arranged in rows with narrow aisles.
Confined to close quarters, the sailors are stacked three high.
The coffin rack, recently introduced to the Fleet, installed during the shipyard availability, provides a 6.5-inch deep storage space under the thin 2-inch mattress pad. Integrated into the rack are privacy curtains, a light fixture, towel rack, ventilation duct, and emergency escape breathing device.
Adrift in a sea of masculinity, Klodaski surreptitiously observes the sailors, their virility suffusing his senses. A delightful distraction, everywhere he looks are trim, attractive, physically desirable enlisted men proudly strutting around naked with prodigious cocks on parade.
1MC: `Taps, taps, lights out, the smoking lamp is out, all-hands turn into their own racks. Now taps'.
The compartment's ballistic watertight hatch is dogged, white florescent overheads secured, and nighttime red-globed lights energized... casting portentous shadows.
Lying nervously in a bottom rack, Klodaski is unaware that he's listed prominently on the division's at-sea watch bill. Overhearing two nearby sailors, the apprehensive midshipman is shocked by the salacious conversation.
"Hey Chalavoutis, get over here and blow me," commands an HT2.
"Forget it, that's not happening tonight," the young HTFN replies.
Cock sucking, a well-established nautical shibboleth, isn't considered gay - it's just bottom dwellers paying homage to superior males.
A descendant of Greek ancestry, Chalavoutis has an exquisite olive complexion, thick black curly hair, and luxurious dark piercing eyes. Aesthetically handsome, the shameless exhibitionist delights in showing off his lean body, generous genitalia, and mouthwatering ass.
On the sailor's chest is a 5-pointed nautical star and compass rose tattoo. The star represents a fixed point of reference upon which sailors rely to keep themselves out of harm's way. The compass rose is a traditional symbol of navigation and of finding one's direction through physical and emotional confusion.
A flawed yet sympathetic character, he escaped a dysfunctional home as a young boy. Growing up quickly on the dangerous streets of New York City, he survived by servicing gentlemen and peddling his ass to connoisseurs of young boy flesh.
Years later, like many disadvantaged boys, he escaped the streets by selling himself to Uncle Sam. An equal opportunity employer, the military takes all the progeny of misery and misfortune.
In the Navy he is mesmerized by the staggering variety of shipmates' cocks... indicative of America's diverse immigrant composition. A friendly sailor, he offers only token resistance while gorging on the all-you-can-eat buffet and quaffing quarts of delicious navy jam.
"Don't be like that... I know you're a faggot."
"Fuck you, asshole."
Embarrassed, attempting to save face, Chalavoutis bravely defends his reputation - a sailor's most valuable possession.
Underway, battling the vicissitudes of nautical life, strong alliances are paramount for survival. Being known as a homosexual can deleteriously affect perceptions, duty assignments, and career longevity. The dangerous designation can also result in relentless targeting by predatory shipmates with troublesome prejudices and depraved sexual predilections.
"Hey, I know you crave cock... you can't hide it."
"Shut the fuck up," said the humiliated HTFN.
"I've seen you at the recreation center... the way you stare."
The Fleet Recreation Center on Decatur Street, Norfolk Naval Operating Base, across from carrier pier 12, is a natural meeting place for sailors desiring unholy encounters. Frequenting the center, drawn into the masculine wonderland, sailors prowl for delicious cuisine... enjoying the opportunity to freely inspect delectable merchandise.
"Umm... I... I don't know what you mean, you're mistaken."
In the facilities' locker room dozens of sailors leisurely undress and unashamedly parade their masculinity. A smorgasbord of succulent offerings is displayed to appreciative consumers.
Immersed, taking inventory of potential meals, Chalavoutis visually gorges himself. Recognizing sailors from other divisions, exchanging meaningful nods, he memorizes promising contenders for future clandestine rendezvouses.
Aboard ship sexual relationships take many forms - monogamous, promiscuous, anonymous. Populating a robust gay underground, invisible to most, accessible only by private invitation, perfidious lovers indulge every conceivable sexual fetish and predilection.
Occasionally Chalavoutis also encounters officers at the recreation center, including his division officer, Ensign Rozo. A hopeless dreamer, the sailor sometimes pretends he's the officer's boy, servicing the Ensign while enjoying significant prestige and privilege under the officer's aegis.
"Yeah, sure whatever... I know the truth."
"Hey, I'm not gay," the HTFN protests weakly.
Populating the steam room, sauna, and showers, lost souls struggle between military regulations and hedonistic debauchery. Following unwritten protocols, employing subtle gestures, they navigate dangerous waters searching for co-conspirators and kindred spirits.
Desperate boys skillfully establish eye contact, cautiously discern interest, decipher secret codes, determine predilections - supplier or consumer of goods - exchange silent acknowledgements, and covertly consummate transactions.
Just last week Chalavoutis hooked-up with a brutally handsome Latino sailor.
Parading around the open-bay showers, the sailor's exquisite cognac complexion, exceptional abdominal definition, and substantial genitals commanded considerable attention. Stroking the tumid shaft, accentuating its length, he advertised availability to hungry shipmates.
Admiring the mouthwatering package, Chalavoutis made eye contact and smiled suggestively. Exchanging knowing looks, arrangements were quickly confirmed, and the young sailor willingly descended behind the building, feasting on a delicious hot and spicy meal.
"It's in your DNA; it's the Greek way," the HT2 laughs.
"Fuck you! At least I'm discreet, not like your mother... she's been servicing the whole god damn Second Fleet," counters the enraged sailor, precipitously elevating the confrontation.
"Hey asshole that's my mother!" responds the infuriated petty officer.
All sailors brag about getting sucked by shipmates or fucking a buddy's sister - that's perfectly acceptable banter. But mothers are strictly off-limits. Issuing the morally abhorrent proclamation, casting aspersions on the purity of his shipmate's birth, Chalavoutis violates acceptable standards of behavior.
A skirmish quickly ensues and punches are exchanged.
Shipmates quickly gravitate towards the combatants, offer encouragement, and place wagers on the outcome. Surrounded by boisterous sailors, the scrum quickly attracts the attention of HT1 Terrell Jackson, the compartments senior petty officer.
"What the hell? Break it up... now!" thunders Jackson
Impelled to action, intervening aggressively, the dangerously muscled black sailor immediately quells the fight, throwing the combatants against a bulkhead, causing all conversations to cease. Feared and respected, he's the division's first arbitrator and dispenser of justice.
"You two just lost rack privileges for a week."
"Damn HT1, it's not my fault! He started it... talking shit about my mother," protests the HT2.
The loss of rack privileges is significant - no head or sea-pussy from the duty cocksucker.
"If you prefer, I can write up a report-chit, article 128, and let Junior deal with you."
UCMJ Article 128 - Assault:
(a) Any person subject to this chapter who attempts or offers with unlawful force or violence to do bodily harm to another person, whether or not the attempt or offer is consummated, is guilty of assault and shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.
(b) Any person subject to this chapter who:(1) commits an assault with a dangerous weapon or other means or force likely to produce death or grievous bodily harm; or (2) commits an assault and intentionally inflicts grievous bodily harm with or without a weapon; is guilty of aggravated assault and shall be punished as a court-martial may direct
Having no interest in facing Ensign Rozo a.k.a. Junior, their authoritative division officer, the sailors quickly capitulate and shake their heads `no'.
The fight has energized the crew and Jackson, exercising leadership, decides to calm the men utilizing the midshipman. At sea, small diversions provide enjoyment and a break from the monotony of the mundane. As a veteran of several carrier battle group workup cycles, Jackson knows that a sailor's sexual frustrations and desires are not often satisfied in expected ways.
"Doesn't the midshipman have duty rack starting tonight?" asks Jackson.
"Yeah... he's listed on the watch bill," a senior HT2 responds.
Klodaski's arrival and inclusion on the watch bill has been eagerly anticipated. Collectively, the crew will inject him with a proper fleet education... providing instruction on engineering systems, damage control techniques, shipboard procedures, and watch standing requirements.
Surrounded by aggressive sailors disquieting inclinations, the midshipman is embarked upon a perilous adventure. And many lessons not found in any syllabus will be vigorously imparted.
An inherent part of nautical life, the young and handsome, weak and vulnerable, and submissive and gay are routinely sacrificed for the crew's entertainment. It's nothing personal, just life at sea... the minnows swimming with the big fish.
Amusingly, midshipmen never envision their transformation into cocksuckers and sea-pussy. The inevitability, however, is assured as sailors eagerly facilitate the metamorphosis. Devastated, they are ashamed to admit that their contribution to America's defense while on summer cruise was to sexually service superior males.
"Go get him," Jackson orders.
"Yeah!" shout several gung ho sailors.
With infectious excitement flooding the compartment, a throng of corybantic sailors rush the trapped midshipman and violently extract Klodaski from his rack. A brief scuffle ensues - an entanglement of appendages, but he's clearly no match for the motivated sailors.
Experiencing an elevated pulse, the midshipman's perspiring body radiates a deeply evocative woodsy scent. The alluring fragrance, Polo cologne by Ralph Lauren, is a carefully constructed blend of masculine notes of leather, tobacco, and wood with basil and oak moss undertones.
"Hey! W... what... what are you doing? Leave me alone," Klodaski protests.
"Cooperate and you won't get hurt too much," suggests a sailor.
Overpowered and subdued, order quickly emerges amid the pandemonium as two dozen cavorting crewmen watch the proceedings, unabashedly enjoying the boy's desperate plight.
Instinctively, Klodaski recognizes serious trouble as the unmistakable hardness of several sailors press against him. Prior to departing Annapolis, the boy's company commander cautioned him about initiations inflicted upon unsuspecting 3/c midshipmen.
"Let's welcome him into the fleet," Jackson orders.
"Fuck yeah... this going to be awesome," cries an excited HT3.
Historically, initiations play an essential role validating membership worthiness in male centric organizations like sports teams, college fraternities, military units, and fraternal orders. A right-of-passage, the more arduous and brutal the initiation, the stronger the brotherhood and bond.
The beliefs of modern sailors are an amalgamation of ancient legends and myths. And a mariner's world is densely populated by a menagerie of deleterious spirits.
Impinging on sailors' lives at every turn, sentient entities with consciences and purpose, frequently capricious and vindictive, must be placated. For centuries, sacrificial offerings to the Gods of Wind and Wave were prepared before venturing into uncharted waters.
Although no longer as superstitious, prudent sailors still offer symbolic sacrifices to the immortals for favorable conditions upon the high seas.
Fortuitously, Independence has plenty of midshipmen aboard.
Ensuring a safe voyage, Klodaski will be offered to gain favor. He will undergo a traditional ceremony eagerly performed by sailors on all 3/c midshipmen. The symbolic sacrifice and baptism commemorates the transformation from landlubber to seafarer.
"Please let me go," begs the trembling midshipman.
"Shut the fuck up," demands an irritated sailor.
As the midshipman's eyes dart from face to face, his pleas are met with obdurate laughter. With looming dread etched upon his young smooth face, Klodaski desperately searches for an intercessor - one good sailor to prevent the initiation. But like Jeremiah searching the streets of Jerusalem to preclude the Lord's destruction, not one just and honest sailor can be found.
"Get him ready," Jackson commands.
"We're in for a treat," said an eager sailor to a shipmate. "Get your camera."
Defeated, with arms twisted behind his back, Klodaski is immobilized and at the sailors' mercy.
Excitement grows and many sailors, envisioning the evening's entertainment, have impressive erections yearning for attention. Humility and rebirth, central themes in the ritual, are achieved by stripping, shaving, christening, and symbolically sacrificing the neophyte.
Empowered, the sailors take ownership of Klodaski.
Frog marching him towards the three-foot square compartment lounge table, he is placed atop and callously spread out like yesterday's newspaper. Held down by powerful hands and solid sinewy arms, the midshipman is totally helpless as a passel of sailors instinctively congregate around the sacrificial altar... jockeying for good unobstructed views of the offering.
Unsheathing a Navy rigger's knife and a minatory scowl, a sailor aggressively brandishes the weapon featuring a 4-inch blade and marlinspike for splicing and unlaying lines.
"Don't move," he demands.
Flicking the knife, skillfully attacking the midshipman's academy blue tee shirt with gold crest - the trident of Neptune with the Latin motto Ex Scientia Tridens - through knowledge, sea power, the sailor easily slices through the cotton material.
Focusing on the boy's shorts, sliding the razor-sharp blade under the waistband, he cuts out and downward on both sides. Delivering a riveting performance, the knife wielder waves his hands like a carnival magician, and with a flourish liberates Klodaski from all clothing. A choir of conflated voices cheer as the appreciative audience applauds the dramatic unveiling.
"Damn, that's the smallest cock I've ever seen," exclaims a sailor.
"Where are his balls?" asks a shipmate.
Amazed by the insignificant appendage barely noticeable in a dense outcrop of pubic hair, shriveled like a two-week-old party balloon, the sailors laugh hysterically.
A heavily calloused hand reaches between Klodaski's legs and aggressively searches for, finds, and squeezes the marble sized orbs ensconced in a miniature pink purse. Groaning in pain, nausea immediately overwhelms the midshipman as his helpless testicles protested their rough treatment.
"Found them!" declares an HT2.
"That's pathetic," offers another sailor.
Humiliated by the embarrassment between his legs, the despondent midshipman wants to cry as his last ounce of confidence evaporates and shame consumes him.
As an adolescent, observing dozens of naked boys at the community pool, Klodaski is concerned about his slow sexual development. Experimenting with friends, he is surprised that almost everyone, including some younger boys, are more mature.
Sensing the boy's concern, his mother arranges a visit with the family pediatrician.
Providing medical care for hundreds of boys over the years, the devoted doctor enjoys an unobstructed front row seat to the awesome beauty of pubescence. The allure is undeniable, and there are few things more spectacular than watching the flowering of young masculinity.
Conducting a comprehensive examination, the pediatrician lovingly caresses the smooth undersized genitalia. Taking numerous measurements and photographs, documenting salient physical characteristics for future comparisons, he adds to his substantial database.
Measuring a level II on the Tanner scale of sexual maturity, the physician suspects insufficient hormone production. Taking several vials of blood from the boy, he'll order a comprehensive work-up.
Although not necessary, he can't resist the temptation to see if the boy can produce sperm. Skillfully masturbating the humiliated boy, using two fingers and thumb on the miniature shaft, he quickly achieves his objective and collects a few drops of watery ejaculate.
Weeks later lab results confirm suspicions. The Irish curse.
The doctor explains the genetic affliction to the boy. An embarrassment shared by his ancestors, it often skips a generation or two, only to reappear in full force.
Devastated, he learns that his equipment will never approach statistical average size. Although unlikely to ever satisfy a woman, the doctor suggests that the boy can still have a meaningful life servicing superior alpha males.
Determined to still be a man, Klodaski focuses his energy into sports.
Lettering at a prestigious all-boys boarding school, immersed in locker rooms, inexorably drawn like metal shavings to a magnet, he enviously observes naked teammates strutting around like proud peacocks, shamelessly displaying their magnificent masculinity.
Intimidated but fascinated by their sexual prowess, he struggles to safeguard his shameful secret by inconspicuously showering only after most boys leave the facility. Unfortunately, during a team initiation his undersized equipment attracts the unwanted attention of the school's alpha males.
Forced down onto his knees, the alphas introduce him to real masculinity.
Smacking his face repeatedly with their meaty teenage cocks, they take turns rubbing leaking glans across his trembling lips. Abused mercilessly, everyone has a good laugh at the humiliated boy's expense as he's forced to service everyone.
"Let's go. We have a lot to accomplish tonight," directs HT1 Jackson.
"I've got the ceremonial scissors!" volunteers an elated HT3 Bepler.
Approaching the altar, Bepler moves between the midshipman's spread legs with the precision stainless-steel German cutlery, a gift from his division officer, Ensign Rozo.
Running trembling fingers through Klodaski's pubic hair, enjoying the erotic tactile sensation, Bepler is eager to add the trophy to his growing collection. The androgenic hair, a hard won and coveted prerequisite of manhood, has taken a lifetime to grow.
"Careful, don't cut off his little pee-pee by mistake," a sailor jokes.
"Yeah, then he really would be sea-pussy," an HT3 notes to the laughter of his shipmates.
It's a real concern, however, considering its diminutive size and the nighttime illumination. With the precision scissors in one hand, a comb with nautical scrimshaw in the other, Bepler skillfully cuts the tufts, removing the tangible manifestation of masculinity. Collecting the clippings in a plastic bag, he labels it with the date, time, and midshipman's name.
"Freak," a shipmate playfully shouts.
But Bepler, a well-liked sailor and Ensign Rozo's boy, enjoys special privileges and immunity from any shipmates' condemnation. Besides, his fetish is nothing compared to many other sailors more extreme paraphilia and disquieting sexual predilections.
Moving away, clutching his treasure, Bepler seeks solitude in his rack.
Securing the blue rack curtains, he caresses his growing erection, rubbing up and down over the ridge and across the leaking head. Snapping on the small rack light, opening the plastic bag, Bepler takes a deep breath, savoring the distinctive scent of the evening's acquisition.
Slowly masturbating... the licit remedy of concupiscence, moaning with corporeal pleasure, Bepler blatantly advertises his activity. With the filamentous trophy on his chest, the sailor recalls the half-dozen midshipmen he's sheared to date. Shamelessly, Bepler delights in procuring and owning a boy's private badge of manhood.
The pheromone-imbued hair, containing the axillary steroid androstenone, a modulator of socio-sexual behavior, has a strong attractant effect on Bepler. Inhaling the pleasant volatilized chemical compounds, the sailor quickly ejaculates, shooting ropes of jam on his chest.
Licking his fingers, he consumes his own delicious jam.
Meanwhile, back at the altar, the depilation ceremony continues.
"I've got a razor and shaving cream," exclaims a smirking sailor.
Generously slathered in menthol shaving cream, Klodaski cringes as the emulsion of oils, surfactants, and alcohol sting his gear. Surrounded by ecstatically cheering sailors, the razor eradicates all proof of his hard earned virility with lethal efficiency.
And Klodaski is transformed into a hairless pre-pubescent boy.
"Ok turn him over," Jackson orders with a barely discernible grin.
The sailors, following a routine perfected over the years on many hapless midshipmen, flip Klodaski on his belly. With legs and thighs spread impossibly wide, hips rotated, and ass perched up and open, a small pristine ring is revealed.
Exchanging wolfish grins, looking to satiate prurient curiosity, sailors rubberneck and maneuver for unobstructed views of the doomed midshipman's wondrous flower.
"This is so awesome."
"Jeez, I can't believe they let us do this."
An experienced second-class petty officer, unconsciously rubbing his tumid cock, takes station near Klodaski's head. Leaning down, studying the midshipman, he delights in seeing the range of emotions playing over the kid's miserable face.
"How does it feel, being spread open... put on display?"
"Embarrassing... humiliating," the midshipman stammers, fighting for breath.
Reaching out, he tilts Klodaski's head up. Proficient in initiating midshipmen, the sailor looks into Klodaski's plaintive eyes, down into his soul. Searching, he finds shock, despair, and hopelessness.
"Awesome. You know everyone is looking at your pussy, right?"
Nauseous, the midshipman remains stoically silent and experiences overwhelming feelings of shame. Mentally devastated, surrounded by a boisterous crowd of lewdly laughing sailors, he couldn't be more naked, stripped of his dignity, his asshole fully exposed and on display for their viewing pleasure.
"Definitely sucks to be you," the sailor laughs.
With the veneer of humanity stripped away, adrift without a rudder, the traumatized midshipman mentally retreats inward, his eyes distant and unfocused.
He's gone.
Like Phoenicians inspecting and interpreting the entrails of votive offerings for auspicious omens, the sailors stare with discerning eyes at the midshipman's prophetic rose. The flawless orifice, revealed in all its glorious splendor, foretells of a voyage replete with good fortune.
In a moment of wonder, transfixed by the exquisite sight, mesmerized by the fierce beauty and symbolic significance, the sailors are suddenly quiet, filling the berthing compartment with silence. The focus of profound adulation, the flower is the enlisted sailors' Holy Grail.
"Damn, look at that sweet fucking hole," a sailor whispers respectfully.
"Oh my god... it's even more beautiful than I dreamed."
All sailors fantasizing about shafting a young academy midshipman. Overpowering the sentinel guarding paradise, smashing through the helpless ring, they dream of defiling hallowed ground, and polluting the pristine vessel with potent enlisted seed.
Unfortunately for Klodaski, many of the sailor's dreams will soon be realized.
"Those pussy lips are going to feel amazing stretched around my cock," declares a sailor, raping the midshipman with licentious eyes.
Aching with desire, brazenly stroking their erections, many sailors agree as each envision ramming unmercifully up inside, breeding the boy aggressively and planting seed.
With practiced efficiency the ass and legs are quickly shaved.
A terrifying sailor covered in tattoos - with more skulls on his torso than a country graveyard, secures a black leather dog collar around the midshipman's neck. Smiling satanically, he hands the leash to Jackson.
"Let's go," as HT1 Jackson yanks on the leash.
Tethered, Klodaski is led like a helpless puppy toward the adjoining head and into a stainless-steel shower stall with a brown terrazzo deck. An excited pack of sea dogs gather around the stall, several with 35mm film and Polaroid Instamatic cameras.
"Sit. Spread your legs," Jackson orders in a tone that demands compliance.
Devoid of emotions, eyes distant and unblinking, the beleaguered midshipman obeys each command. Showing respect like a domesticated pet, shamefully compliant, Klodaski bows his head, signaling submission to the dominant animals in the military pack.
Then, not entirely unexpected, his insignificant appendage stiffens.
Twitching with undisciplined excitement, a small glistening pearl emerges from the gland's slit, clings tantalizingly, and falls onto the terrazzo deck. Not surprisingly, many midshipmen have sexual fantasies where they are forcibly stripped and publicly humiliated.
Laughing, the sailors are amazed the balls can produce the watery discharge.
"Good boy," as Jackson rubs the kid's crew-cut head.
Standing in front of Klodaski, Jackson holds up his hands and quells the shivaree, commanding silence from his excited shipmates. Forty sailors with desperate erections grin with knowledge of the events about to transpire.
Looking up, Klodaski cringes with fear.
A cornucopia of enlisted cocks vie for his attention.
His gaze, however, is riveted upon Jackson's freakishly large black appendage. Hanging pendulously, the magnificent shaft and plum-sized head seductively whispers Klodaski's name. The midshipman is mesmerized as the cock gently sways like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
HT1 Jackson commences the transformative ceremony.
"Since the dawn of time sailors have been protected by Aeolus, god and ruler of the winds, his mistress Eos, goddess of the dawn, and their progeny the Anemori. We pray this humble offering finds favor and brings fair winds. We beseech the Four Winds - Boreas the north wind, Notus the south wind, Zephyrus the west wind, and Eurus the east wind to grant safe passage and good fortune on this voyage."
With the power vested in him as a First Class Petty Officer, Jackson incants undecipherable ancient verses, communicating with the gods, interceding on Klodaski's behalf. Obtaining a favorable outcome, absolved of transgressions, the boy is now a member of the mystery cult of Aeolus - the obedient servant of wind and wave.
"Congratulations. Welcome to the Fleet Midshipman Klodaski."
Completing the metamorphoses, Jackson suddenly unleashes a strong golden stream. Symbolically baptizing Klodaski, he anoints the shocked midshipman's face, soaking his hair.
Laughter erupts from the congregation of sailors as cameras flash.
"What do you say, midshipman? Thank me for providing you with the blessing," Jackson demands while aiming the searing ceremonial stream at his forehead.
"Um... thank you," the midshipman mumbles through clenched lips, trapped in misery, clearly unhappy as liquid gold runs down his face.
"What? I didn't hear you. Louder!"
"Thank you!" Klodaski quickly shouts. Despite his best efforts, the strong bitter taste of the warm holy water resonates on his tongue.
"Hmm... for what, midshipman? Say the whole damn thing," prods Jackson, jerking on the kid's leash, ensuring his face is up for the cameras.
"Ugh... thank you HT1 Jackson... thank you for baptizing me and welcoming me into the Fleet," responds the midshipman to thundering applause. Broken and devastated, the midshipman's tears mix with the pungent enlisted essence.
"You're welcome. We're delighted to have you aboard."
And it's true... the HTs are blessed. As government property, exclusively owned by R Division for the next six weeks, they don't have to share the boy with other divisions.
Klodaski keeps his eyes tightly secured as additional sailors contribute to the consecration. Stepping up to the stall, waving their cocks around indiscriminately, they take turns at the ritual anointment, releasing a deluge, drenching the boy's distraught face.
Undeniably, there is something profoundly satisfying in pissing on an inferior male. Primal and instinctive, like carnivores marking their territory on the African plains with potent urine, the sailors proclaim their superiority and symbolically take ownership of the midshipman.
The procession continues unabated for 10 glorious minutes.
Once the baptism is complete, the brackish holy water is washed away under the steaming mist of the special Navy low-flow showerhead... recently installed to control water consumption. Completing the cleansing ritual, soapy enlisted hands wash Klodaski, roaming over every inch of his vulnerable body.
Paying particular attention to the inviting crevice between the midshipman's legs, an excited sailor rubs calloused fingers enthusiastically around the boy's sphincter. Breaching the defenseless aperture, meticulously cleaning the chute, methodically working back and forth, in-and-out, stroking the sensitive membranes, the sailor is having a wonderful evening.
Klodaski, not so much.
Shampooed and washed, erect and ashamed, subjugated and emasculated, Klodaski is escorted by jubilant sailors back to the berthing compartment and to his doom - commencement of the Nautical Mile Certification process.
In the Navy, rank is everything.
And life as sailor can sometimes be sweet.
For a midshipman about to be fed enlisted cock, not as much.
The voyage aboard Independence continues in Chapter 11: Nautical Mile.
Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com