A Brig Rat

The Navy thrives on conformity. Rules, regulations, and requirements govern everything. Unfortunately, some sailors do not readily submit to regimentation and enlisted servitude. And a vigor of discipline is required to make them compliant and perform reasonable work.

When benevolent leadership tools fail to achieve desired results, the next option is a robust ass beating followed by non-judicial punishment. Repeat offenders are also provided re-education opportunities in the ship’s brig where they’re affectionately known as brig rats.

USS Forrestal CV-59

Ensign Rozo approaches a 2nd deck hatch.

A red-and-white striped ‘RESTRICTED AREA’ placard is mounted on the adjacent transverse bulkhead. Conducting official business, the officer confidently descends the vertical inclined ladder and enters the vestibule of the ship’s brig, 3-185-8-L.

“Attention on deck!” orders the duty marine corps corporal.

Incarcerated rats snap to attention.

“Carry on,” responds Rozo.

The spartan brig consists of an administrative alcove, two individual isolation cells, and a 15-man general population holding cell. Exposed racks are stacked 3 high. Against the starboard bulkhead is an open stainless steel shower, commode, and sink.

No privacy. Rats shit, shower, and shave with an audience.

And two close circuit security cameras capture everything.

Aircraft carriers are the Fleet’s dumping grounds for recalcitrant sailors. So the brig is always full. Confined in close quarters, a distinctive perfume permeates the air - an amalgamation of pheromones, sweat, desperation, despair, and lemon scented bleach.

“Good morning sir.”

“Corporal Rodriquez, how are the rats today?”

“Contemplative and sore.”

“Sounds like they absorbed some hard lessons.”

“Definitely. Repetition is the key. Pounding it home.”

The Navy provides so much. Pay. Food. Shelter. Travel. Order and structure. Camaraderie and adventure. A life filled with meaning and purpose. And all it asks in return is compliance and reasonable work. Regrettably, refractory rats require regular reminders. Ass beatings often help the distracted refocus. When you have one by the balls, his heart and mind will follow if you squeeze hard enough.

“The service you provide is invaluable.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s rewarding helping rats.”

Guardians of regulations, marines delight in providing dirt-bag sailors with valuable lessons. A liberal amount of physical abuse is a vital component of the overall corrective re-education process. And what rat doesn’t benefit from individualized hands-on instruction?

Navy Regulations require division officers to visit the ship’s brig once a week if they own an incarcerated sailor. As the Repair Division Officer with 110 men, Ensign Rozo almost always has one. His current resident is Fireman Apprentice (FA) Andrew Cramer.

“My rat cooperating yet?”

“Making some progress. He’s not too bright.”

“That’s true. Feel free to educate him as necessary.”

“Yes sir,” grinning while rubbing his tumid shaft.

Eventually Cramer will understand the fundamental relationship between actions and consequences, and acquire respect for rules and regulations. Meanwhile, daily motivational beatings and ass fuckings will continue until his poor attitude improves.

The rats are clad in skivvies.

They’ve lost the privilege to wear a Navy uniform.

Surveying the landscape of inferior males, the Ensign swells with pride at being a commissioned officer and gentleman by an act of Congress. His khaki uniform with gold insignia, his symbolic power, imbues him with unquestionable authority over all enlisted men.

Taking inventory, he recognizes most of the rats. Gorging on the sumptuous visual feast of enlisted flesh, he studies them the way a lion surveys a herd of gazelle.

“Rat Cramer front and center!” the corporal barks.

Without hesitation the FA approaches the iron-bar cell door and smartly snaps to attention with toes behind a white line painted on the deck.

The marine unlocks the cell door.

“Request permission to cross the line,” Cramer shouts.

“Permission granted.”

Marching double-time, his substantial gear bounces around in worn discolored skivvies. Knowing the routine, he quickly crosses the line and exits the cell. Taking station by another white line, he stands at attention awaiting further orders.

“Parade rest,” Rozo orders, taking charge of his rat.

Cramer assumes the military position. The marines have beaten some semblance of compliance into him. Submissive with arms behind his back, hands interlocked, feet spread shoulder width apart, head straightforward with eyes unfocused gazing at destiny, he’s a pathetic sight.

Despite a contemptuous attitude towards authority he enlisted to avoid prison after impregnating a 14-year old girl. His disproportionally large cock and balls constantly get him in trouble. And Rozo can’t help but think everyone would be better off if the rat was castrated.

At sea accidents happen all the time.

Battered & shattered enlisted balls are an occupational hazard on a carrier.

A small price for defending democracy.

Demonstrating disdain for rules, regulations, and authority, bringing nothing but discredit to the Navy, Cramer has been awarded NJP on countless occasions. Impulsive and immature, lacking discipline and military temperament, he’s an unreliable shipmate.

Three months ago Rozo authorized a performance review down in 4 Main Machinery Room, 7-119-0-E. Conveying the message that dirt-bags are a detriment to Engineering, the FA was relentlessly beaten and transformed into a serviceable cock sucker. Packed with grease too.

Traumatized, he deserted the Navy.

Hitching a ride out of Norfolk, he was picked up by a trucker - a retired Navy Master Chief. Taking advantage of the pre-lubricated sailor, exercising inherent rights after 30 years of dedicated service to his country, the trucker vigorously fucked the little sea urchin.

Persistently pounded and passed around by alpha males, riding Peterbilts up and down the east coast, Cramer was quickly ruined and discarded. Left naked and battered by the side of I-95, he was discovered by the local police, and returned to Forrestal for disposition.

Smiling with satisfaction, Rozo inspects his rat.

5 foot 4 inches. 120 lbs. Head sheared to within a quarter-inch of shaven. No defining musculature. Tiny nipples. Smooth pink skin. He looks like a pre-pubescent boy. Shattering the illusion, oversized gear is clearly discernible inside the tattered skivvies.

“Oh sir, please help me,” beseeches the sailor.

“What’s the problem now?”

“The marines… they keep fucking me.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They think I’m sea-pussy.”

“A reasonable conclusion considering your exploits. I’m sure it’s nothing personal. You’re just a convenient hole. Besides, it’s not like you aren’t experienced taking it up the ass.”

Unbeknownst to Cramer, the Ensign authorized enhanced re-education. Nobody likes a deserter; especially honor bound marines. Greenlighted, the brig’s Gunnery Sergeant is more than happy to have his men provide the rat with extra educational opportunities.

“I didn’t have a choice, sir.”

“Perhaps. But you didn’t offer much resistance either. No real man would ever surrender his ass and masculine birth-right so easily. Would they, Cramer?”

“No sir, I guess not,” the sailor shamefully admits.

* * * Flashback * * *

Cramer is returned to Forrestal.

Charged with desertion, UCMJ Article 85, he’s escorted to the ship’s brig. It’s his home until disposition arrangements are made with the Norfolk Naval Base brig. Verifying pre-trial confinement authorization orders, Marines take custody of his worthless ass.

“Strip,” orders a Staff Sergeant.

Having no choice the FA complies and stands at attention.

Guards study the little rat from every angle like pool-hall hustlers calculating options. Feasting on the alluring ass, concupiscence stirs inside olive-green camouflage utility trousers. Gang raping him with licentious eyes they envision unspeakable acts of depravity.

“We’re going to instruct you on rules and regulations, rat.”

“Fun for us; not as much for you,” adds a LCpl.

Unquestionably, the ultimate pleasure resides in conquering a rat… shattering his confidence, obliterating his pride, domesticating his spirit, and stealing his masculinity. There’s no time to waste. Everyone wants to ‘help’ before he’s transferred off Forrestal in a few weeks.

Exchanging conspiratorial nods, they escort Cramer through a quick-acting water-tight hatch and down an inclined ladder to the 4th deck. Navigating a short passageway, they enter a secluded outboard compartment converted into a makeshift classroom.

It’s stocked with all the essential educational tools one would expect to find in an exclusive all-boy’s boarding school: restraints, cuffs, collars, alligator clamps, spreader bars, impact implements, dildos & speculums, ball stretchers & crushers, and urethral sounds.

Dogging the water-tight door, privacy is assured.

The whirl of an adjacent HVAC fan-room masks all sounds.

A small metal table is strategically positioned in the center of the compartment. Bolted to the deck, it’s held fast against the ship’s linear motions and rotational forces. Prodded and pushed down, no match for the motivated marines, the rat descends without protest.

Bent over the interrogation table, wrists and ankles are cuffed, spread apart, and firmly secured to padeyes. The rat’s bruised and battered anus, perineum, perineal raphe, and swollen orbs housed inside the floppy sack are perfectly framed between skinny legs.

“Damn, that’s beautiful,” exclaims an enthralled carnivore.

“Can’t wait to scramble those eggs.”

No stranger to being dominated by alpha males, Cramer knows abhorrent fetishes and perverse predilections will be freely indulged. Being beaten and fucked, however, is the least of his concerns. He’ll be lucky if both balls survive the lesson.

Trained in enhanced interrogation methods, Marines are justifiably proud of their ability to extract cooperation and information from prisoners. Focusing on latent fears and inherent vulnerabilities, ball bags with precious cargo are natural targets.

Unable to resist, several guards take turns aggressively clutching and punching the sack. Manhandling the helpless eggs, it’s tremendously exciting contemplating their destruction.

They’ll be doing the Navy a favor, unmanning another worthless rat.

A Latino sergeant with silky-smooth cognac complexion strides forward. Taking station inches from Cramer’s face, he extracts a magnificent uncut cock. Rapidly growing, with a mind of its own, it sways back-and-forth like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.

“You want this, rat?”

Mesmerized, Cramer is unresponsive.

Running hands provocatively down the shaft, the marine accentuates its length and girth. Massaging the foreskin, he retracts the fleshy hood over the blood-engorged glans. Positioning it against the rat’s lips, he spreads the leaking juices like lip balm.

The sweet salty taste of masculinity resonates on Cramer’s lips. Intoxicated, he willingly kisses it and demonstrates respect to the superior male. Rolling his tongue around the flared contours, he savors the amazing taste and texture.

“Open wide,” the marine commands.

Cramer obediently takes the broad crimson crown and several inches inside his mouth. Displaying more skill than a straight sailor should, he takes suction.

Insistently pushing forward, the tumid shaft steadily advances, twisting and slithering deeper until perched upon the throat’s precipice. Ensuring proper alignment, applying increasing pressure, bucking forward, the marine demands entrance.

Instinctively Cramer swallows hard and it pops inside his throat.

Tunneling down, stretching the esophagus, the thick shaft disappears inch-by-inch until two-blocked. With balls pressed against Cramer’s chin, it’s prevented from proceeding any deeper. Securing quarters inside the convulsing tube, the shaft is protruding obscenely in the sailor’s neck.

Luxuriating in the convulsing conduit, the sergeant breathes deeply and savors the amazing sensation. Enjoying the many privileges of rank, he loves being in the Marine Corps… the amazing adventures and opportunities, rewarding and satisfying.

“Awk… ugh,” Cramer babbles incoherently.

Savagely thrusting in and out, impaling the throat, the marine’s balls lift inside the tightening bag. Trembling involuntarily, he explodes and feeds the rat his custard - a molten decadence of white chocolate ganache, cinnamon, vanilla, and exotic spices.

“Take my load, rat.”

“Swallow, swallow,” the enthralled audience chants.

As if he had any choice.

Feasting on the substantial meal, nutritious and delicious, he quaffs the creamy goodness. Breathing slowly, milking the deflating cock, he savors the amazingly addictive jam. Containing cadherin, a protein involved in learning, it strengthens the neural connections in the brain’s reward circuits.

And he craves another dose of the potent drug.

Descending from the euphoric high, the expended marine vacates the rat’s mouth without a glance or any acknowledgement. Stepping aside, he makes way for the next feeding.

Cramer glances around the compartment and notices all the marines have extracted impressive erections from camouflage utility trousers. Twitching with anticipation, most are standard issue… but one is freakishly large… elongating to epic proportions.

Its owner, of course, is a big black marine.

Radiating power, it commands immediate respect.

Shamelessly displaying their masculinity, proudly stroking bloated shafts, the jubilant guards celebrate the rat’s debasement. Taking pictures and documenting the proceedings, they exercise impressive discipline… queuing up and patiently waiting for a turn.

The feedings continue and three marines use the rat in rapid succession.

A PFC deliberately pulls out of the rat’s mouth, unloads, and glazes the startled face like a cinnamon bun with sticky white icing. To great applause, the gelatinous jam slowly rolls down Cramer’s cheeks, across his bruised lips, and falls into his stunned mouth.

Meanwhile his ass attracts justifiable attention.

Feasting on the beautifully proportioned posterior, everyone admires its innate perfection. Welcoming and inviting, the wide-open hole beckons all seafarers like Neapolitan trollops working waterfront bars.

“You’re so getting fucked.”

“Please… I don’t want it up the ass.”

As if anyone cares what a rat wants.

Combating the tribulations of life at sea without woman, men naturally seek alternative outlets. Entrenched in a dangerous environment where predators and prey cohabitate, alphas feast on bottom dwellers. And who doesn’t enjoy a nice piece of rat sea pussy?

As the senior marine present, the first fuck is the Staff Sergeant’s inherent right. Smiling confidently, his weapon reaches maximum tumescence… nine thick inches of destruction. A veteran at ‘helping’ rats, he knows substantial force will be required to stuff it all in.

With restricted maneuverability Cramer is in extremis.

The guards delight in seeing the range of emotions playing over the rat’s face: panic, dread, dismay. Quivering in terror, he’s consumed with the horrific knowledge that he’s going to get gang fucked yet again. And he’s utterly powerless to prevent it.

The Staff Sergeant inspects the defenseless hole and runs a calloused finger around the enflamed rosebud. It’s already well stretched by previous explorers. Dispensing with needless preparations, employing only a modest amount of spit, he positions his hand.

And brutally drives two thick fingers up inside the slot.

Confirming unrestricted access, he explores the rat’s conduit.

There’s something immensely satisfying about playing with a rat. The thrill of violently violating another male’s most private space. Knowing the rat is utterly powerless to prevent the assault. Sanctioned by leadership, there are no ramifications nor reasons to show any mercy.

Exploring deeper, he investigates each crimson fold and undulation.

Like an archeologist searching for hidden treasure.

Moving on, vacating the chute, he repositions the rat’s hips to ensure proper alignment for maximum penetration. Exhilarated by the thrill of conquest, unable to contain his enthusiasm any longer, he positions his bulbous cockhead on the quivering ring.

Grabbing hips, without warning or requesting permission to come aboard, he savagely lunges forward. Slamming inside, he drives deep inside the convulsing chute in one continuous fluid motion. And Cramer is unceremoniously impaled on marine corps cock.

“Aggggghhhhhh!”

“Oh yeah. So fucking good.”

Bottoming-out in the quivering passageway, rearranging internal organs, he enjoys undeniable perfection. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it… being balls deep inside a rat, stealing his masculinity, destroying his tenuous claim on manhood.

“Plow that pussy. Rip him a new one,” encourages a PFC.

“Charlie Mike,” cheers another. (continue the mission)

Unconcerned for Cramer’s discomfort, providing no time for acclimation, smirking with satisfaction, he pulls roughly out and punches back into the devastated chute. His audience, vociferously cheering the endeavor, watch the carnage like patrons at an imperial roman spectacle.

“Oh god, please no more,” Cramer implores, tears streaming down his face.

“Shut up and take it like a man.”

But of course Cramer isn’t a man; just a pathetic rat.

The marine unexpectedly advances and suddenly retreats like Charlie fighting US servicemen in the jungles of Vietnam. Everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Changing angles, dragging the devastated ring along on his rapacious beer-can thick shaft, he rips the rat a new one.

Elated, intently watching the breeding, the spectators grin, applaud every thrust and groan, and exchange congratulatory high-fives. Documenting the proceedings, dozens of excellent pictures are taken of the rat’s battered ass and grimacing face.

“Getting close.”

Withdrawing completely from the battered hole, the staff sergeant clutches the rat’s hips in a warrior’s death grip, and savagely slams forward extra deep. Convulsing, a torrent of jam suddenly explodes.

Inseminating the rat’s womb, he floods it with 500 million sperm frantically searching for an egg to fertilize. A few minutes later, descending the euphoric high, breathing hard, totally drained but satisfied, he withdraws and makes way for an eager mate.

“I’m next,” a corporal announces.

“No… no more, please,” Cramer pleads.

“We’re just getting started, rat. Everyone wants a turn. Or two.”

Rising to the occasion, the corporal steps forward and commences the assault. With the additional enhancement of the previous marine’s lubricating jam, he easily breaches the ripped ring and storms inside the wrecked chute. Delivering powerful thrust, he plows the rat mercilessly.

Over several hours everyone has a good time.

Well, not the rat.

* * *  Return To Present * * *

Searching Ensign Rozo’s face for compassion, Cramer finds none. Broken and despondent, he has endured the relentless humiliation and pain of being brutally stuffed up the ass by the marines. Against all odds, he begs for his Division Officer’s help.

“Please sir, don’t let them fuck me anymore.”

“Don’t worry Cramer, they’ll eventually lose interest.”

“But… but… I’m not gay.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to rethink that.”

The sailor’s future is assured.

Incarcerated in a military prison, he’ll be aggressively utilized for two years until dishonorably discharged. Accommodating even the most demanding military-grade hardware, with a wrecked asshole and shattered testicles he’ll learn respect for authority, rules, & regulations.

And the Navy will finally get some usefulness out of the brig rat.

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