A Ride Built For Two

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half-crazy all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage. But you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.

Billy, Billy, give me your answer true. I love riding, do you love it too? Slow or fast or faster. You lead, I’ll follow after. The path flies by as you and I ride a bicycle built for two”

USS Saipan LHA 2

The Tarawa-class amphibious assault ship is named in honor of the World War II Battle of Saipan, part of the Mariana Island campaign of the Pacific Theater in 1944. Her mission is to embark, deploy, and launch a 2,000 marine landing force by helicopter and amphibious craft.

Life at sea is unimaginably boring for marines. Nothing to raid, rape, or repudiate. Immersed in the mundane, it’s the same endless cycle governed by rules, regulations, and routines. Performing PT. Lifting weights. Dismantling and cleaning weapons.

So opportunities to vent aggression are always appreciated.

“It’s time,” Staff Sergeant (SSgt.) Decker announces.

His men have enjoyed Midshipman 4/c Davy Bell’s hospitality.

Reporting aboard six weeks ago for summer cruise, the Duke University NROTC midshipman received a warm Fleet welcome. Immersed in a sea of testosterone, the defenseless blue-devil was easily subjugated by the formidable marines and transformed into sea-pussy.

After weeks of continued use, the men have wrecked the accommodations. Disintegrating in quality, the boy’s sweet hole is rendered un-serviceable for single tenancy. Alas, the impermanence of flesh. Swept along in the entropic current of disorder, it’s destruction was inevitable.

Fortunately, the marines have a viable contingency plan.

Double occupancy.

* * * *

Lance Corporal (LCpl) Anthony Russo lies supine on a wrestling mat. 

Rugged and powerful, the handsome marine’s chiseled musculature is sheathed in smooth olive-hued skin. Anticipating his turn with Bell, he runs a purposeful hand up-and-down his oversized mortadella… ensuring maximum tumescence.

“Damn it’s fucking huge!” exclaims an envious PFC. 

Russo is a modern-day Priapus.

Raised in Canarsie, an Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn NY, rampant rumors of his extraordinary endowment spread throughout high school. Like metal shavings to a magnet, curious girls are inexorably drawn to him by an invisible force of nature.

Taking advantage of every opportunity to rupture hymen and stretch vaginal canals, he eagerly plant potent seed. Often to deleterious effect. Proudly bragging of his conquests… because that’s what big-cocked boys do, he earns the respect and admiration of his peers.

Pregnant girls’ livid fathers have a different perspective.

Facing repercussions Russo hastily enlists in the Marines.

Reporting to MCRD Parris Island he enters a maelstrom of unimagined ferocity. The intense 12-week indoctrination far exceeds advertised rigor. Not the first time a motivated recruiter is economical with the truth to meet a monthly quota.

Enlistees are subjected to carefully calibrated brutality. Screaming sergeants. Suffocating regimentation. Spartan barracks. Strenuous exercise. Sleep deprivation. The time-tested process breaks down individuality, establishes esprit de corps, and validates membership worthiness.

They eat, breathe, and think the USMC way or are severely punished.

Memorizing reams of arcane military information, performing exhaustive physical drills, crawling through mud amid screaming instructors, and being caged naked to learn about surviving as a prisoner of war are all considered effective training methods approved by senior leadership.

Some are despondent. Russo is ebullient. He loves the culture, customs, camaraderie. Experiencing a glorious transformation, with the scarlet and gold coursing through his veins, he’s bound to the brotherhood… a small part of a great institution.

Semper Fidelis!

Everywhere are young men flaunting the quiddity of masculinity. Like a North Korean military parade in Pyongyang’s Kim Il Sung Square with banners, bombs, and ballistic missiles, they proudly strut and display their impressive weaponry.

They compulsively scrutinize each other’s hardware. Because that’s what males do. Especially in the military. Sizing up the competition, the pack’s pecking order is firmly establish.

Alphas. Betas. Omegas. And Gammas.

The diminutive equipped inherently lack confidence and swagger. With the scythe of death casting a persistent shadow, they’re unsuitable to lead marines in combat. Exuding authority and invincibility, leadership is reserved for big-dicked alphas who fuck the enemy with steely resolve.

Even in repose Russo’s pendulous cock garners attention. Its true magnificence, however, is only revealed when fully inflated. Proudly showing it off, he entertains enthralled recruits with vivid stories of his many exploits. And who doesn’t enjoy a good impregnation tale?

Painfully erect, the recruits seek opportunities to vent sexual energy.

Engaging in roughhousing and grab-ass play, they eagerly explore sexual boundaries. Young, dumb, and full of cum, they’re amenable to trying anything once. Or twice. After all, how do you know you don’t like something if you’ve never tried it?

Marines have a cacoethes for embracing pain.

Looking to demonstrate toughness and endurance, bold dares and questionable challenges are exchanged. Stakes escalate. After all the bravado it’s impossible to back down. Reputations are in the balance. With peers watching several bend over to prove their mettle.

Of critical importance is how well a recruit absorbs pain. Style matters. He must take it like a real man. No hysterics. No crying. No begging for mercy. Mentally and physically tough, he must transcend the agony… giving his all for Nation and Corps.

Bruised and battered, recruits bask in hard-earned respect.

And improve their standing in the pack’s hierarchy.

* * * *

Two marines effortlessly lift Midshipman Bell.

“Is this going to work?” asks a skeptical PFC.

Manipulated like a marionette, the undersized boy is positioned astride Russo. Eyes meet and the LCpl smirks in confident superiority. Satisfied with reasonable alignment, the kid is unceremoniously forced down and impaled on the thick Italian sausage.

“Oh fuck,” Bell groans.

He’s shoved forward against Russo’s muscular chest.

Another young marine, PFC Banashefski, has plane-guard duty. He enlisted in the Marine Corps after high school to escape a suffocating existence in an isolated mid-west farming community. Drowning in tedium he craves adventure and new experiences.

He’s never had a piece of midshipman sea-pussy.

It’s his first time taking one for a ride.

Of course he’s heard the stories: truth larded with legends, superstition, and diablerie. The pleasure. The wonder. And how, when properly prepared, it’s often better than the real thing. Best yet, inveigling efforts and coercion are completely unnecessary.

Banashefski shudders from the excitement of exploring a new sexual frontier. With sails lofted he strides forward with unbridled appetency. Standing behind Bell, the marine slowly strokes his impressive kielbasa with both hands… accentuating length and girth.

His perspiring body exudes a deeply evocative woodsy scent. Polo by Ralph Lauren. The alluring fragrance is a carefully constructed blend of masculine notes. Leather. Tobacco. Wood with moss undertones. Just right for a casual evening with shipmates.

The mesmerized audience watches the unfolding spectacle.

Banashefski confidently approaches from astern.

Bell glances over his shoulder. Gaining situational awareness way too late he panics and struggles for freedom - an instinctual reaction for self-preservation. But escape is impossible. Skewed on Russo, he’s helpless to prevent the imminent incursion.

“Oh god no,” Bell cries. “Please!”

“Hey kid SITFU (suck it the fuck up),” advises a PFC.

Marines with soulless eyes imbedded in granite faces laugh at the helpless boy. They’re harbingers of death and destruction… not Molly Pitcher at the Battle of Monmouth offering comfort. Most have never fucked a hole with a buddy.

And they can’t wait to take the two-seater for a ride.

Flexing hips, Russo retracts his imbedded shaft a few inches down the taper. The cranberry glove twitches and opens a fraction. Just enough for Banashefski to visually confirm the target. Significant stretching will be required to accommodate both marines.

But that’s the whole point.

The out-of-commission hole will once again be operational.

Steaming in restricted waters with limited navigational aids, Banashefski maintains constant bearing with decreasing range. Poised on the precipice of pleasure, his extended bow approaches the midshipman’s stern. Collision is imminent. Sound the alarm.

Bell is hard aground upon Russo. Red over red. In extremis, with no maneuverability, his hull integrity is imperiled. Damage control systems standby to shore breached bulkheads and dewater internal compartments. Contracting core muscles, he braces for impact.

“Wait one,” barks Decker.

Time stops. Russo and Banashefski stand fast.

A ripped and ruined receptacle too early in the evening spoils the fun for everyone. Reaching into his pocket the staff sergeant produces a small amber glass bottle. Amyl nitrite. The vasodilator will facilitate the double ride.

“Inhale deeply,” orders the SSgt.

Bell takes several hits. Reality blurs. Venturing into uncharted waters, a kaleidoscope of sublime images whirl around his mind. Glimpsing the transcendent he smiles in silent lucidity. And resistance recedes with celerity like the outbound tide at the Bay of Fundy.

He’s ready to ride tandem.

“Carry on,” orders Decker.

* * * *

“Fuck him already,” demands a spectator.

Anxiously squirming, barely understanding what’s happening, Bell can’t easily accommodate both marines. Russo’s thick shaft already occupies most of the available real estate. Taking a deep breath, the midshipman tries to regain his composure.

Banashefski applies more Mil-G-23549 all-purpose grease. Well lubricated, inching relentlessly forward, pressure builds. Straining to gain entrance, testing elastic limits to the ripping point, he is singularly focused on climbing aboard.

More pressure.

Another hit of poppers.

A sigh and momentary unclenching.

Thrusting with powerful legs and thighs, the resolute marine lunges and breaches the barrier. Storming the entrance, the first couple of inches are buried inside the convulsing glove. Jousting for position with Russo, he acquires significant territory.

“Arrghhhhh fuck!” Bell screams.

Writhing in excruciating agony, he’s overwhelmed by the combined size. Inconceivable pain rips through his core. Perched upon their combined destructive power, he’s being torn a new one.

Riding a two-seater for the first time, Banashefski quickly finds his balance. Driving relentlessly forward, spreading and stretching the protesting ring and walls to accommodate the combined girth, he sinks deeper and deeper into the hyper-ventilating midshipman.

“Almost there.”

“Oh god… please, no more!”

But of course there’s more. Much more.

Solely focused on their own pleasure, working in tandem, thrusting with brutal coordinated strokes, navigating malleable bends, both men are finally embedded to the hilt. And the calescent passageway is better than advertised.

Banashefski grabs the midshipman’s shoulders for leverage.

Leaning forward with muscles contracted and nostrils flared, he rotates hips, twists and flexes the shaft, and pounds the hole. Rubbing against the velveteen walls, enjoying undeniable pleasure, he gains insight and understands the universal appeal of midshipman sea-pussy.

It’s a wonderous repetitious pageant of inches dragged out and slammed back in. Rising and pressed back down, the boy is a carnival ride at Coney Island. Galloping with heavy exertion up-and-down the poles, the carousel horse whisks the riders round and round.

An old legend says there’s a lead horse on every carousel.

It’s the biggest, most beautifully decorated… typically a war or military steed. Pole mounted, with all four feet in the air, Bell is a jumper. Not the herd leader. Carousels symbolize youth and innocence… and Russo cherishes memories as he fucks Bell with abandon.

Changing the rhythm, synchronizing diametric movement, the marines enjoy the extra friction of rubbing against each other within the packed hole. Skin on skin. Breathing heavily, sweaty flesh pressed together, groaning in pleasure, desperate for release, they ascend the pinnacle of ecstasy.

Dozens of marines watch the awe-inspiring performance.

Who doesn’t enjoy seeing a midshipman taken for a ride?

Russo strokes Bell’s face and spreads salty tears across his lips. Looking into his eyes, deep pools of liquid submission, he recognizes pain and pleasure. Pressing his lips against the boy’s mouth, steeling the breath, he violently rapes the midshipman with his tongue.

Bell emits an inarticulate rumble from his soul. Penetrated to unfathomable depths, he is acutely aware that he exists solely to service superior men. His inner sanctum is nothing but a receptacle for their masculinity. A vessel to be filled with enlisted seed.

Banashefski’s balls rise and tighten in their sack. He’s close.

“Oh fuck… I’m going to blow.”

Quivering in unison the marines detonate and flood the convulsing pussy. The intense blasts are followed by four more as the marines discharged their weapons. Running out of ammunition, the exhausted but exhilarated men reluctantly dismount.

And they admire the ravaged hole with pride.

“Thanks for sharing the ride with me Russo,” said Banashefski.

“Anytime,” exchanging congratulatory high-fives.

Quickly maneuvering into position, the next pair slot inside Bell. Degenerating into a strepitous saturnalia, marines queue up two-by-two for a ride. Double plugged for hours the blue-devil is irreparably ruined. But not until all-hands get a turn.

And another certified two-seater joins the Fleet.

Oohrah!

Comments and readers’ experiences with marines and midshipmen are always of interest.