A Brat’s Baptism
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Immersed in a pervasive military culture, the children of military members are endearingly known as brats. Living a transitory lifestyle, speaking in jargon and acronyms, exposed to foreign countries and cultures, the brats are resilient, adaptive, and inquisitive.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
“We must lift the sail and catch the winds of destiny wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, but life without meaning is the torture of restlessness and vague desire. It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.” ~ from the poem ‘George Gray’ by Edgar Lee Masters, ‘Spoon River Anthology’ April 1915
James Peter Hopkins III was born into a privileged life.
Descendant from military officers, his ancestors distinguished themselves in service to the Nation since the war for Independence. The progeny of Annapolis graduates, the boy is immersed in the Navy from birth - imbued with a commitment to duty, honor, and country.
Growing up a brat, his formative years are entwined with sailors and ships.
As his front-runner father rapidly advances in rank, selected for choice billets on frigates, destroyers, and cruisers, the boy receives a very special fleet education.
CDR Hopkins’ first at-sea command is USS Stoddert DDG-22.
Named for the 1798 Secretary of the Navy, the 437-foot guided missile destroyer, with a flank speed of 35 knots, conducts anti-aircraft warfare and naval gunfire support.
Emulating the masculine influences in his life, the gorgeous brat wears a little sailor uniform complete with a 13 button trouser flap, three rows of white piping on the collar and cuffs, and white stars on the tar flap. Astride his profusion of golden locks is an iconic white dixie cup.
Visiting Stoddert, the boy proudly renders salutes to the officers and men.
Known affectionately by the nickname ‘Trip’, reflecting his triple namesake heritage, the crew adopts the irresistible brat as their mascot.
Transcending difficult birth narratives, the sailors live a nautical life filled with camaraderie and glorious adventure. With the Combat Exclusion Law precluding the assignment of sea cows aboard the destroyer, the men forge strong bonds and share an extraordinary intimacy.
Being similarly equipped, they strip without hesitation and proudly parade their masculinity.
Exploring Stoddert, immersed in a sea of masculinity, the impressionable boy is exposed to homoerotic images as the sailors engage in hazing rituals, roughhousing, and grab-ass play. Surrounded, the crew’s distinctive musk, masculine and military, suffuse his senses.
Passing a remote head, the brat recognizes a friendly quartermaster.
“Hey Trip!” the QM2 cheerfully greets the boy.
Harboring unconventional preferences, the predatory sailor struggles for control, fighting his natural inclination to ravage the stunning blonde-haired boy.
Exercising restraint, proceeding with his routine, the sailor approaches a urinal.
Taking station besides him, Trip watches as the petty officer opens his dungarees and extracts a large appendage hanging at parade-rest. Standing evocatively with shameless confidence, shifting hands, the QM2 provides an unobstructed view of his gear.
The allure is undeniable, and like a moth to a flame, the boy is helpless as his vision is drawn inexorably between the sailor’s muscular thighs.
“It’s awesome, right?” asks the sailor brimming with justifiable pride.
Speechless, the boy can only nod in the affirmative. Watching intently as the sailor strokes the growing shaft, he senses the power surging within the awakening cock. An overwhelming presence, startled by the enormous size, it’s way bigger than he ever imagined possible.
“You ever see one that big, Trip?”
“N…no. It’s huge,” whispers the enthralled boy.
The impressive display of potent virility pervades Trip’s senses. Breathing deeply, he inhales the sailor’s intoxicating pheromones and the strong masculine scent of Old Spice Cologne - rich and spicy, manly and inviting.
“All boys are curious,” said the sailor with disarming assurance.
Questioning their own development, young males are inherently interested in the physical progress of their friends and older brothers. At every possible opportunity they instinctively stare, compare, and measure other boy’s gear, and engage in ‘show & tell’ with impunity.
“Go ahead, hold it for me,” directs the manipulative sailor.
“Umm… oh… okay.”
Biting his lip nervously, almost fainting from excitement, the brat grasps the tumid shaft… his trembling little hand unable to enclose half the massive girth. The meaty shaft, warm and smooth, pulses and throbs with life.
“Hold tight and aim straight.”
Unleashing a torrent golden stream, violently splashing the white porcelain, the sailor studies the absorbed brat and smiles with satisfaction. Recognizing the familiar enraptured stare, he knows the boy is destined to worship the pagan idol.
“Let me help you.”
Understanding the discharging hose is too powerful for the young boy to control, he provides a firm hand on the tiller as dewatering operations continue.
Completing the task, shaking twice, he guides the boy’s hand up-and-down the tumescent shaft. Manipulating the appendage, they stroke the sensitive ridge and head. Standing at attention, the magnificent cock realizes its full 9-inch beer-can thick potential.
“You know how to jerk off, Trip?”
“Umm… no,” he hesitates, not fully understanding the question.
“That’s ok… I’ll teach you.”
A sailor’s life is 99% uninspiring boredom punctuated by 1% blinding terror. Underway, the overwhelming loneliness, pervasive and profound, forces them to seek relief in a shipmate’s mouth or in sea-pussy. When resources are scarce, or competition too intense, they take matters into their own hands and contently choke-the-chicken.
Providing instruction, demonstrating proper technique, he guides the boy in the timeless ritual. Working persistently, pumping up-and-down and around, they squeeze the pulsating shaft and rub the sensitive flared head.
“That’s it… keep stroking.”
Spreading a pearl of natural lubricant across the swollen knob, the sailor moans with desire - savoring the sensuous stimulation. Closing his eyes, the QM2 employs one of his favorite sexual fantasies: plowing some tender 3/c midshipman sea-pussy.
A powerful source of solace, young naval academy sea-pussy must be experienced to be fully appreciated. A distinction without a difference, when cleverly prepared there’s nothing quite like a piece of ass… warm and tight, satisfying and gratifying.
“Jerk faster… I’m getting close.”
Speeding up the movements, they pump furiously.
Dangerously close, with adrenaline surging through his veins, endorphins swimming in his brain, the sailor experiences intense euphoria. Swelling, his bloated balls expand as the internal pressure in the magma chambers increases beyond containment.
“Oh fuck, I’m going to blow…”
Ascending the devastating peak of release, molten jam catastrophically explodes out of the blood-engorged cock, followed by five additional scalding spurts.
Disbelieving his eyes, the boy is shocked by the astonishing detonation.
“W… what happened?."
“I shot my load,” explains the drained sailor.
Stunned by the revelation, the wonder is reflected in the brat’s expressive blue eyes. Like all boys discovering the secret and joining the conspiracy, there’s no return to innocence.
“Wow… I didn’t know it could do that.”
“It’s our secret… don’t tell anyone.”
Milking the deflating cock, the sailor makes the sign of the cross on the boy’s forehead with the holy discharge. “I baptize you in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost.”
Cleansed of original sin, it ignites the brat’s lifelong devotion to enlisted cock.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Comments and readers’ experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest.
The author may be reached at [email protected]