A Fine Navy Day - Part 2

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

“Any member of the armed forces who without authority goes or remains absent from his unit, organization, or place of duty with intent to remain away therefrom permanently is guilty of desertion...and shall be punished, if the offense is committed in time of war, by death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct.” ~ Uniform Code of Military Justice Article 85 ~

FTN. Fuck the Navy.

Sick of the constant military bullshit, Cramer decides he’s leaving for good.

Going ashore without permission, utilizing a stolen liberty card, he debarks the aircraft carrier with a duffel bag containing all his possessions. Walking gingerly down the enlisted brow, traversing the pier, the greased rabbit deserts shipmates, navy, and nation.

Taking station outside the fleet recreation center on Decatur Avenue, he hails a cab. Moving slowly, sitting cautiously inside, agony radiates from his brutalized ass…a painful reminder of the recent events perpetrated below decks in #4 main machinery room.

Beaten and bound, provided with a robust fleet education, the dirt-bag sailor was forced to suck a dozen shipmates and quaff quarts of stomach-churning jam.

Elevating the degradation, the pathetic sailor was also aggressively greased.

Pumping the gun with palpable pride, shipmates dispensed two 16 oz. all-purpose grease cartridges up inside him…painfully filling and packing abdominal recesses.

Looking out the window, Cramer observes two aircraft carriers and several amphibious assault ships. Possessing unparalleled capability, the steel behemoths are compelling instruments of diplomacy.

Hundreds of motivated young sailors in working parties, like worker-ants in a rainforest, scurry around consumed with mission and purpose. Bound in servitude, physical property of the Navy, the sailors are an essential source of manual labor.

“Where you headed, son?” asks the cab driver, a retired navy senior chief.

An excellent judge of human nature, working with sailors for over twenty-five years at numerous shore and sea going commands, it’s apparent that the boy is distressed.

“I only have $20. You know any place where I can hitch a ride north?”

“Yeah, I know just the place.”

Driving down Decatur Avenue, turning left, crossing Gate 1, the cab departs the Norfolk base.

Heading south on Admiral Taussing Boulevard, merging with the Hampton Roads Beltway, the driver looks in the rearview mirror and smiles at Cramer. A fortuitous opportunity, he will deliver the little sailor to his best friend, ex-shipmate, and now trucker, Splitter.

Shipmates aboard several combatants homeported in Pearl Harbor, the two men enjoyed amazing port calls during WESTPAC deployments. Frequenting sordid bars catering to sailors with unconventional predilections, for two dollars they indulge every conceivable sexual perversion.

Exploring a world of wonders, they sample innumerable Filipino and Thai boys.

Deflowered at a tender age, the adolescent boys are managed by entrepreneurial older brothers, uncles, and other purveyors of flesh. Laboring in an industry that values youth above all else, the glabrous kids are a perishable commodity with an expiration date stamped on their asses.

Draped in youthful perfection, flashing wide smiles and advertising availability, they compete for American sailors and dollars. Dancing seductively, accentuating their assets, the boys provide alluring entertainment and the promise of exceptional companionship.

Aroused by unhealthy urges, committing unspeakable acts of depravity, the sailors aggressively utilize the subservient boys…stuffing and inseminating every orifice.

Earning the fearsome nickname ‘splitter’, many overly ambitious boys are irreparably damaged by the well-endowed sailor. Fortunately, the local economy desperately craves American currency, and there is an abundance of boys for the Fleet’s enjoyment.

“It’ll be okay son,” the cab driver lies, knowing the sailor is fucked.

Miserable and alone, Cramer reflects on the tragic path his life has taken.

Closing his eyes, deep in silent thought, the memories of the two-year peregrination flood back: boot camp, reporting aboard USS Independence CV62, life in Engineering Department Repair Division, foreign port calls, and misadventures with shipmates and shore patrol.

Taking the Lake Wright Golf Course exit, the cab turns onto Route 13, travels a few miles, and stops at Big Charlie’s Truck Plaza on Northampton Blvd in Virginia Beach.

“Go inside and ask for Splitter.”

Exiting the cab, drawing immediate attention, the nervous sailor is quickly surrounded by a passel of intimidating truckers and other apex predators. Hoping to hitch a ride home to Maryland and his mother, he mumbles a few insignificant words.

A large brutish man with piercing steel-gray eyes embedded in a weathered face scrutinizes the diminutive sailor. Tattooed on his muscular arm is the traditional CPO emblem.

A gold anchor, emblematic of constancy of purpose amidst the storms of life, is fouled by a length of chain symbolic of life forged day-by-day with honor, morality, and virtue. The silver letters ‘USN’, symbolizing unity, service, and navigation, are superimposed on the anchor’s shank. Two inverted five-point silver stars cap the stock, indicating the rate of master chief petty officer.

Savoring a taste for tender rabbit, rubbing his constricted erection, he quickly shepherds the passive sailor towards an impressive 18-wheeler.

“Get in kid,” he orders in an authoritative tone that expects compliance.

Several truckers exchange wide grins, knowing Splitter’s true intentions for the unsuspecting sailor. Anticipating a glorious adventure, they envision him subjugating and breading the little sailor…freely indulging his perverse sexual fantasies and fetishes.

During his naval career the master chief developed a marked preference for sweet sea-pussy. A distinction without a difference, it must be experienced to be fully appreciated. Eminently practical, readily available, the evolutionary adaptation in the challenging nautical environment benefits all seafarers.

Driving a Peterbilt 352 Pacemaker 84 inch flat top sleeper with a 3406 Caterpillar 400 hp engine, the large man now hauls loads for Old Dominion Freight Line up and down the East Coast.

Heading north on Route 13, traversing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, 120 miles up the Delmarva Peninsula near Salisbury MD, the voracious carnivore has Cramer for lunch.

Pulling over at a rest stop, he easily overpowers and strips the defenseless sailor. Delighted with the smooth body, he can’t wait to plow the boy and plant potent seed.

Inspecting Cramer’s beaten ass, he’s impressed with the beautiful stigmata - stunning striations of crimson, carmine, and burnt sienna. The sailor’s canvas, a hypnotic harmony of wonder, pulsating with the immediacy of life, reminds him of a French impressionist painting.

Spreading him apart, the sublimely gorgeous bluish-purple asshole is gapped open. No longer watertight, grease slowly oozes out of the compromised aperture.

“Will you look at that? You’re already fully greased!”

Inserting several calloused fingers inside the vulnerable sailor’s orifice, he makes excellent headway dredging and widening the restricted passageway.

“It’s a sin to waste properly prepared pussy,” as he rubs his tumid beer-can thick shaft.

“Please sir, I’m not gay,” Cramer desperately explains. “It was a hazing incident aboard ship… I don’t take it up the ass.”

During his stint aboard Independence Cramer has observed many predators subjugate and utilize young sailors and midshipmen. Dominant alpha-males, without thought or concern for their prey’s discomfort, delight in showing-off for appreciative shipmates.

Establishing new or confirming existing reputations, they brutally thrust balls deep inside inadequately prepared orifices, leaving a wake of decimated and distraught pussy-boys.

“That’s nonsense…of course you do.”

Back in the old days, a pretty little slip of a sailor like Cramer would be shafted regularly by his shipmates. At sea, sexual interactions take many forms. Contextual instead of universal, gender identification is fluid, defined more by desire than biology…where one sailor becomes the property of another dominant sailor, transforming the strict male/ female paradigm.

Exercising his inherent right as a retired master chief petty officer, Splitter lifts the protesting boy upon his lap and positions the large flared cockhead on the defenseless hole.

In shock, Cramer feels his traitorous sphincter voluntarily opening to accommodate the invader. Understanding the shattering implications, he knows the transcending violation of his inner sanctum invalidates his last tenuous claim on masculinity.

It’s the ultimate disgrace…to be used like a bitch by a superior male.

Sailors have a saying, ‘I love the fucking Navy and the Navy loves fucking me!’ It captures the full flavor of the total naval experience. The life of a United States sailor isn’t for the faint hearted.

“Please don’t fuck me,” the sailor begs, struggling to escape destiny.

With his fate hanging precariously in the balance, Cramer perspires profusely and exudes pheromones and the alluring scent of Old Spice Cologne. Rich and classic, the timeless fragrance, a perennial favorite among sailors, is a blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood.

Taking a deep breath, Splitter relishes the intoxicating perfume of fear.

“Struggle if you want boy…it’s just more pleasure for me.”

For Splitter the ultimate pleasure resides in conquering a straight sailor, shattering his confidence, obliterating his pride, domesticating his spirit, and stealing his masculinity.

The air is charged with expectancy as the trucker’s blood engorged cock presses insistently against the sailor. Demanding admission, slapping the side of Cramer’s head, grasping the dazed sailor by the hips, he violently slams the hapless rabbit down.

Without requesting permission to come aboard, the broad gland punches through the overwhelmed ring with extraordinary celerity, followed by several thick inches of retired navy cock.

“Oh god…noooooo,” Cramer screams.

Stunned by the violent breaching, the sailor blacks-out from the intense pain.

Providing no time for acclimation, navigating twists and bends, the cock traverses the miserable sailor’s channel, until with one final push it reaches its final destination. Fully embedded, two-blocked and prevented from proceeding any deeper, he packs the grease up inside the overstuffed chute.

“Fuck yeah!” the trucker shouts.

Lost in blissful pleasure, enjoying undeniable perfection, it’s a fine Navy day for Splitter.

For Cramer, not so much.

Intoxicated with the power of supremacy, sodomizing the unconscious sailor, punching in and out of the sea-pussy, the trucker bounces the boy up-and-down like a child on carnival ride. Sighing contently, it’s been way too long since he last shafted a little sea urchin.

Getting underway, twenty miles later, the defeated sailor slowly regains situational awareness.

Impaled and flailing about, Cramer tries to extract himself from the trucker’s carousel pony. Unsuccessful, only sinking inexorably deeper, the devastated sailor surrenders, relinquishes his masculinity, and accepts his fate as the Peterbilt rumbles north towards Dover.

Deliberately hitting potholes, the trucker enjoys the extra tight squeeze the boy’s sphincter involuntarily provides as the rig vibrates.

“Oh yeah, ride that cock.”

Groaning incoherently, mostly undecipherable vowels, Cramer feels the massive cock savagely punch his stomach and rearrange internal organs. Repeatedly pummeled, he’s being ripping a new one.

“You know kid, the Navy will come looking for you in Maryland. After we drop this load in Dover, its best if you ride with me down to Jacksonville,” advises the trucker.

With integrated identification practices, deserters are quickly caught by law enforcement agencies. Facing severe repercussions, disgraced sailors are returned to the Navy, prosecuted, convicted, imprisoned in the Norfolk or San Diego navy brig, and eventually dishonorably discharged.

“Don’t worry, you can earn your keep with your sweet pussy.”

Shocked by the inevitable journey to the seventh circle’s inner ring - joining the other sodomites for all eternity, Cramer cries, knowing he has to choose between two equally abhorrent evils.

Being a deserter, if he surrenders or is captured by the authorities he’ll be imprisoned and gang fucked in the brig by Marine Corps guards. Ferocious predators, devil dogs have a well-earned reputation for dispensing justice and sexually abusing dishonorable sailors.

The other alternative is to become the trucker’s bitch, be passed around by demanding alpha males, and ride rigs up-and-down the east coast until ruined and discarded.

Either way, the sailor is assuredly fucked. Shattered, he mentally retreats inward as the last vestiges of hope and the illusion of choice evaporates.

In the Navy, rank is everything.

And the life of a sailor is brutal…often ending in a ruined sphincter and eternal damnation.

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

The author may be reached at [email protected]


james rozo

[email protected]


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