112a Violation

UCMJ Article 112a: Wrongful Use or Possession of Controlled Substances

(a) Any person subject to this chapter who wrongfully uses, possesses, manufactures, distributes, imports into the customs territory of the United States, exports form the United States, or introduces into an installation, vessel, vehicle, or aircraft used by or under the control of the armed forces a substance described in subsection (b) shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.

(b) The substances referred to in subsection (a) are the following: opium, heroin, cocaine, amphetamine, lysergic acid diethylamide, methamphetamine, phencyclidine, barbituric acid, and marijuana, and any compound or derivative of any such substance.

USS Independence CV-62.

Ensign Rozo’s presence is requested by the ship’s Chief Master-At-Arms.

As Repair Division Officer for 110 Hull Maintenance Technicians (HT), a troublesome collection of impulsive young men, he expends significant time addressing regulation infractions and UCMJ violations. One of his sailors was just apprehended for something.

Walking briskly down the port passageway, he passes through dozens of quick-acting watertight doors. Past Wardroom 2 and Squadron Ready Rooms 7 & 8. Through crew’s mess decks 5 and 6. Around the aft scullery, butcher, and bakery shops. Approximately 350 feet.

And arrives at 2-216-2-Q.

The MAA Shack.

Master-at-Arms (MA) are the ship’s internal police and security force. They enforce rules and regulations, maintain good order and discipline, protect life and property, conduct criminal investigations, and run correctional and rehabilitative programs.

Petty Officers with badges are gathered around a sailor.

HTFN John Locastro.

The sailor is assigned to Repair Division’s Pipe Shop… a notorious den of iniquity. Mandated by the XO to instill some semblance of order and discipline, Rozo has taken six sailors to Captain’s Mast and court-martialed two others in the last four months.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, young MAs hone their frisking skills. Providing no quarter, they aggressively pat down arms, torso, groin, ass, and legs. Sporting growing smiles and erections, they relish exercising authority over shipmates.

“Ensign Rozo, thank you for coming,” greets  MACS Philips.

“No problem Senior Chief. Let me guess… Locastro caught smoking dope again?”

“Yes sir. We also found 1 lb. 8 oz. in his locker.”

“Oh, so selling too?”

“Distributing for someone in Deck Department.”

Locastro’s curly blond hair, blue eyes, light complexion, and surname ending in ‘o’ are indicative of his Northern Italian ancestry. Southern Italians tend to end in ‘i’. He can trace his roots back to Genoa, a prosperous city in Piedmont which rivaled Venice for commerce and trade.

Living up to his entrepreneurial heritage, the sailor is being busted for a 112a violation: the wrongful use, possession, or distribution of drugs.

With feet shoulder width apart and arms up and out parallel to the deck, he’s being searched for contraband and drug paraphernalia. Shirt and trouser pockets are emptied. Contents bagged and tagged. Marijuana cigarettes. Rolling paper. Roach clip.

“Good luck rooting it out.”

“We have some leads. Should pay dividends soon. I suspect some of your men will get caught up in it. Meanwhile, I need your concurrence to conduct a cavity search on Locastro.”

Navy Regs permit the strip search of E-6 and below if there’s reasonable expectation of the wrongful possession of contraband. Per Legal Department, while the procedure can be approved and witnessed by any commissioned officer, the cognizant division officer is preferable.

“Yes, of course,” signing the authorization form. “Proceed.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

“Ok Locastro strip,” orders Philips.

He’ll be beaten and forcibly stripped if uncooperative. And charged with additional UCMJ violations: Article 91 - Insubordinate conduct toward a petty officer; Article 92 - Failure to obey an order or regulation; and Article 95 - Resistance, breach of arrest, and escape.

They’ve got him firmly by the balls. And he knows it.

Reluctantly, he obeys the lawful order. Sitting on the deck, he unlaces and removes boondockers. Socks follow. Standing up, buttons on the blue chambray shirt are undone, and it slides from his arms. A ragged off-white tee shirt follows.

A well-toned hairless chest, small elliptical areolae surrounding erect brown nipples, and tight abdominal muscles are revealed. And a tantalizing treasure trail travels into the trousers.

Everyone is grinning, enjoying the spectacle.

There’s something exhilarating about watching a sailor being forced to strip in public. Transpiring in the Shack’s alcove across from the crew’s library, 2-221-0-L, any curious shipmate can wander by and participate in unabashed voyeurism. And a steady stream does.

With an insolent scowl and eyes radiating contempt, Locastro unfastens the black web belt’s buckle. Unzipping, bell-bottom dungarees fall to the deck. Stepping out of them, standing in worn skivvies, looking up defiantly, he stops undressing.

“Everything, dirt-bag,” demands an adamant MA3.

“Fuck you,” he utters under his breath.

A swift punch in the kidneys encourages him to shut up and comply.

Having no choice, fingers slide under the stretched elastic waistband. Slowly the skivvies retract off the hips, over his gear, and slide down his legs. Pooling provocatively around his feet, he steps out of them, surrendering all modesty to expedience.

Rozo’s seen him naked many times in the aft berthing compartment. A pedestrian package. The officer derives a small measure of perverse pleasure watching Locastro’s subjugation… the skillful management of government property by trained professionals.

“Stand at parade rest,” the MA3 orders.

Locastro assumes the position. With arms behind his back and feet shoulder width apart, he’s defenseless, defeated, and on display for everyone’s delight.

All eyes are instinctively drawn downward as they scrutinize the gear hanging between his legs. Nothing to write home about. Still, the amused audience takes mental pictures - memorizing every detail, nuance, protruding vein, and ball-bag wrinkle.

Location and circumstance are everything.

In the confines of a locker room or berthing compartment naked sailors abound in staggering quantities. Everyone nonchalantly parades their masculinity, proudly advertising genetic inheritances. Indifferent to the spectacle, nobody stares too much. Or for too long.

But when only one sailor is forcibly stripped by authoritative men, it’s altogether another matter. The MA’s are excited but also thankful it’s not them standing naked on display like filet mignon in a butcher’s meat case being scrutinized for Sunday’s dinner.

Excitement and fear - it’s a phenomenon well documented by psychologists.

Surprisingly, Locastro’s shaft starts to inflate.

Possessing a slight paraphilia, he’s stimulated by the subservient situation. Memory harkens back to earlier days as a young boy scout. As a Tenderfoot at summer camp he was initiated - stripped, paraded around, and introduced to cock sucking. Igniting a lifelong infatuation.

He’s definitely a grower; and it stands proudly at attention.

“Damn. Who would have guessed?” exclaims a spectator.

Not Rozo. No idea the kid had so much potential.

A range of emotions plays over the sailor’s face - embarrassment, humiliation, and shame. But also sexual excitement. Surrounded by smirking shipmates and his amused division officer, he couldn’t be more naked, psychologically stripped of his dignity.

But it’s about to get worse. Much worse.

And he knows it.

* * *

“Let’s go… we don’t have all day,” barks Philips.

An up-and-coming MA2 takes charge.

“Hands up against the cage. Step back. Bend over. Spread your feet.”

Inclined with extremities spread wide, Locastro is positioned for an invasive search. Drugs and related paraphernalia can easily be hidden. So a comprehensive cavity search is standard procedure for a 112a violation. Besides, they’re immensely fun to perform.

And everyone has a good time.

Well, mostly.

The sailor’s hands are cuffed and secured to the holding cage’s iron bars.

He’s not going anywhere.

Donning latex examination gloves, the MA2 takes station off Locastro’s port quarter. Grasping the prisoner’s waist, rotating the hips, he spreads him open and shatters the illusion of innocence.

“Will you look at that!”

“Fuck. Someone’s been tapping that shit,” notes a bystander.

Exchanging wolfish grins, looking to satiate prurient curiosity, a scrum ensues as sailors maneuver for unobstructed views of the battered oculus. Centered in a deep indentation, showing signs of intensive use, the plum colored pussy lips look like a little mouth wearing lipstick.

Clearly Locastro is no stranger to housing unauthorized objects. Undoubtedly, he’s not the only sailor taking it up the ass. Probably a hundred more on Indy routinely bend over for shipmates.

The excitement is electric.

The pungent perfume of testosterone intoxicating.

And everyone envisions fucking the hole.

Commencing the search, applying Mil Standard grease, the MA2 probes the pliant slot and easily inserts two fingers. Working in-and-out, up-and-down, probing deeper inside the succulent hole, learning the landscape, the curious digits investigate every fold, pocket, and undulation.

Encountering no resistance, he aggressively stuffs two more digits up inside the squid. Underway, making way, he explores deeper inside the whimpering boy. Excited and impatient, pushing relentlessly forward in the throbbing channel, he feels Locastro’s internal heat.

“I can’t believe they let us do this,” exclaims a MA3.

“Amazing, right?” responds another, adjusting his erection.

Twisting his hand, massaging the silky smooth interior walls, the MA2 luxuriates inside the velvet chute. It’s the ultimate conquest. There’s nothing like it. Controlling an inferior shipmate. Forcing calloused digits up inside a defenseless ass. Violating another male’s most private inner space.

The rapturous sailor is grateful to be in the Navy.

Locastro, not so much.

With his disgraceful secret exposed and a hand halfway up his ass, his face is a portrait of misery and shame. Surrounded by lewdly laughing shipmates, the devastated sailor drowns in a sea of humiliation as he is abused with impunity.

Watching the performance, sailors’ erections struggle for quarters inside tight trousers. Constrained at sea, hidden desires of desperate men are amplified. Living fragmented lives, embracing fate, sailors inevitably become prisoners to their own perverse fantasies.

And they envision unspeakable acts of depravity.

* * *

The inspection yields nothing of interest.

“Should I explore deeper, Senior Chief? ” asks the MA2. “I think somethings in here.”

“What do you think, Ensign Rozo?”

Perhaps a more thorough inspection is warranted. Having already expended valuable time, there’s no harm in pursuing the endeavor to conclusion. It’s important to get to the bottom of this drug problem. Besides, everyone wants more. Why stop now and spoil the fun?

“Definitely. Proceed.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

Greenlighted, the MA2 tucks his thumb into the palm of his hand and pushes forward. He’s been wanting to perform a deep search since enlisting in the MA rating. He knows significant force and persistence will be required to secure quarters up inside the ass.

Fortunately, neither is in short supply.

A pronounced erection is snaking down the left leg of his trousers.

The thick shaft and flared head struggle to expand under the confining fabric. With an elevated pulse, his body radiates the enticing scent of Old Spice cologne - its masculine greatness from a near-perfect blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood.

“C’mon… open your fucking hole already.”

“Wait one,” barks Philips.

The Senior Chief does his devoir as the responsible LCPO, ensuring Locastro’s asshole isn’t destroyed beyond a reasonable level. Reaching into his pocket, he produces a small amber glass bottle. Amyl nitrite. The vasodilator isn’t a prohibited substance, and it facilitates invasive investigations.

“Inhale deeply.”

Locastro takes several hits.

He feels an immediate rush of euphoric wooziness. Smooth muscles throughout his body relax. Heat, excitement, and heart rate increase as blood surges through dilated vessels. Dizziness hits. Blood pressure drops and he feels suddenly intoxicated.

And his ass opens wide to greet the Fleet.

“Carry on.”

The MA2 applies pressure.

Relaxed, the sphincter stretches around the thickest part of the hand. It’s still a struggle. But the eventual outcome never in question. With a sudden powerful lunge the hand punches forward, pops inside, and the shocked sphincter snaps shut around the wrist.

“Arrghhhhh!” Locastro screams.

“I’m in,” the MA2 needlessly announces.

As if half the ship didn’t already know.

Pressing relentlessly forward, spreading and stretching the protesting walls, the MA2’s hand sinks deeper and deeper into the anfractuous passageway. Searching. Probing. Excavating the undulating chute like an archaeologists searching for hidden treasure.

Thankfully, someone stuffs a sock in Locastro’s mouth and shuts him up. Writhing in agony, he’s overwhelmed by the pain ripping through his core. Impaled on the arm, he’s being split open… torn asunder like the tectonic plates grinding, sliding, and tearing California apart.

His asshole is stretched on the MA2’s tapered forearm.

Sliding back slowly, mere inches from the elbow.

“Anything?” asks Philips

“Not yet… perhaps I was mistaken,” the MA2 grins mischievously.

“Ok, that’s enough.”

“Yes, Senior Chief.”

On the way out the MA2’s fingers smash Locastro’s prostate. Due to the close proximity of nerves, the stimulation quickly results in an uncontrollable need to ejaculate.

Powerless to stop the proceedings, Locastro moans in shame as his testicles ascend in the floppy sack, visually announcing an impending orgasm. His traitorous cock twitches uncontrollably. Ropes of chunky white jam violently explode onto the deck.

“Oh yeah blow your fucking load,” encourages a sailor.

As if Locastro has any choice.

Making a fist, the MA2 slowly extracts his hand. The ring struggles to expand around the wide knuckles. Just for fun, the petty officer pumps back-and-forth a few times working over the hapless sphincter. Finally, with a huge tug egress is complete.

The hole is wide open.

Ruined.

Adjusting high-intensity flashlights, it’s illuminated like a Broadway marquee. Everyone can see 6 or 7 inches deep inside Locastro’s inner sanctum. Stunning undulating landscape. Inviting and enticing red folds just beckoning more intrepid explorers. 

“Damn, that’s awesome,” exclaims a MA3

Several shipmates agree, adjusting throbbing erections.

“What’s it like inside?” asks a young sailor.

“Amazing. The hole was sucking my arm in! You’ve got to try it.”

“Hey, it’s my turn on the next 112a!”

“Relax, everyone will get a turn,” advises Philips.

“Such enthusiasm,” notes Rozo, “truly dedicated professionals.”

“Yes sir. The men really get into their work.”

The Senior Chief is proud of his sailors. With the increased availability and use of drugs in the Navy, their skills will be in demand. Undoubtedly, aboard Independence there will be plenty of opportunity for all the MAs to be properly trained to conduct invasive inspections.

Escorted to the ship’s brig, Locastro’s ass will receive additional attention.

It’s another fine Navy day for law and order.

And another 112a violation successfully investigated.

Comments and readers’ experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest.