A Shipboard Sacrifice

Ancient mariners led a perilous existence. Sailing with only simple navigational instruments, voyages frequently ended in disaster. Profoundly superstitious, legends and myths of sea creatures lurking in the deep haunted their imaginations. Nautical charts reflected these fears - portraying a menagerie of multi-armed leviathans, seductive sirens, and vengeful deities.

To propitiate the gods, offerings were made in elaborate ceremonies. Although cultural practices differed, ancient Phoenicians and Carthaginians believed human sacrifices were particularly efficacious. And they routinely proffered young boys in exchange for safe passage.

 * * *

There are lucky and unlucky ships.

Omens good and bad.

Women, especially redheads, are Jonahs. They distract all-male crews, anger jealous gods, and are responsible for disastrous voyages and shipwrecks. Paradoxically, bow mounted bare breasted feminine figureheads distract the evil eye… offering a measure of mitigation.

The albatross is the unluckiest of birds.

Crows and ravens are also ill omens… their croaking garrulity portending calamity.

Whistling at sea is forbidden. Challenging the wind, raging squalls and stormy seas are predictable consequences. Additionally, every able seaman worth his salt knows only homosexuals whistle - drawing the attention of horned shipmates to inverted acts of desperation.

Flowers, bananas, and the color green are also bad luck.

And are prohibited aboard by chary captains.

Sailors believe that certain days are cursed: Thursdays (Thor’s day - God of storms), Fridays (the day Jesus was executed), the 1st Monday in April (Cain killed Abel), the 2nd Monday in August (Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed), and December 31 (Judas Iscariot hanged himself).

Hence, a voyage will never commence on those unlucky days.

* * *

USS Nitro AE 23 gets underway.

Departing Naval Weapons Station Earle, NJ on Monday’s high tide, steaming south to the Virginia Capes Operating Area, she’ll rendezvous with USS Nimitz CVN 68 and resupply the aircraft carrier with ammunition, ordnance, and special weapons.

Laid down at Bethlehem Steel Corporation’s Sparrows Point Shipyard in Baltimore, MD, displacing 17,450 tons (full load), the 512-foot vessel is among the first specialized auxiliary replenishment ships built after World War II to carry munitions.

The ship’s 1MC general announcing system comes alive: “Standby for the evening prayer.”

Provided for in the law that established the Navy, prayer was reinforced by Thomas Jefferson in 1802 Navy Regulations. A brief non-denominational entreaty connects sailors to ancient seafaring traditions practiced since men ventured upon the great unknown.

1MC: “Eternal Father grant us strength to successfully accomplish our replenishment mission. Watch over your servants, especially the young midshipmen. Guide them in the pursuit of qualifications while revealing your wonders at sea. We humbly ask these things in your name. Amen.”

“Amen,” echo Machinist’s Mates (MM).

The sailors are especially thankful for Midshipman Ryan Fitzpatrick.

Aboard for summer training, the Cornell ROTC 4/c is assigned to the Machinery Division. The sailors own his privileged Ivy League ass for the next six weeks. They’ll provide a robust fleet education and impart important lessons not found in any Ithaca NY syllabus.

Adrift in a sea of masculinity, the 4/c surreptitiously observes the sailors - their virility suffusing his senses. Taking inventory, everywhere he looks are trim, attractive, physically desirable young men strutting and hooting like randy peacocks searching for a peahen.

1MC: “Taps, taps, lights out, the smoking lamp is out, all-hands turn into their racks. Now taps.” The berthing compartment’s ballistic watertight hatch is dogged, white florescent overheads secured, and nighttime red-globed lights energized.

Scandalous conversations, conspiracies, and collaborations abound.

Fitzpatrick’s alluring ass has attracted abundant anticipatory attention.

It’s squarely in the motivated men’s crosshairs. They’re obviously planning something. And that isn’t good. At Cornell troublesome stories circulate Barton Hall about 4/c’s being ritualistically sacrificed at sea. Surely just frightening fables fabricated for fainthearted freshmen.

MM1 Washington is the compartment’s leading petty officer. Like all good leaders, he takes care of his men. Underway small diversions provide a break from the monotony of the mundane. And he knows that sailors’ fears, frustrations, and desires are not often satisfied in conventional ways.

“Can we do the 4/c tonight, MM1?” asks a hopeful sailor.

“Sure. Go get him.”

* * *

Sailors subsist at the mercy of the sea.

Inherently superstitious, their beliefs are an amalgamation of ancient legends and myths. They know the deep is densely populated by a menagerie of entities - capricious, vindictive, jealous creatures that constantly thwart human aspirations for power and knowledge.

For millennia sacrificial offerings were made to honor and placate the gods and their minions before venturing into uncharted waters. Although evolved, prudent sailors in modern navies still offer shelem to secure favorable seas and ensure safe passage.

Why take unnecessary chances?

* * *

Shouts reverberate off bulkheads.

Infectious excitement floods the compartment. Machinist’s Mates have anxiously anticipated the ritualistic sacrifice of Fitzpatrick. And the moment of reckoning finally arrives. Empowered, they converge, grab, and forcibly extract the trapped 4/c from his bottom rack.

“Hey! W… what… what are you doing? Leave me alone.”

“Cooperate or we’ll beat the fuck out of you,” demands a sailor.

A scrum ensues. A lively entanglement of appendages. A minacious melody of mayhem. No match for motivated men, a punch knocks the wind out of the boy. Subdued and secured, order quickly re-emerges as sailors gambol around the evening’s entertainment.

Hauled to the lounge table, he’s unceremoniously placed atop and pulled apart - splayed like a deer carcass. Powerful hands hold wrists and ankles securely. He’s not going anywhere. Congregating around the makeshift altar, two dozen salivating seadogs survey the sacrifice.

“Please let me go,” begs Fitzpatrick.

The boy’s eyes dart from face to face... his pleas met with obdurate laughter. With looming dread, he desperately searches for an intercessor - one good petty officer to help him. But like Jeremiah searching Jerusalem to preclude the Lord’s destruction, not one just and honest sailor can be found.

A sailor wearing a demonic grin unsheathes a 6-inch rigger’s knife.

Terrified, Fitzpatrick shivers with fear.

“Hold still!” demands the knife-wielder. Flicking the blade, attacking the carnelian and white tee shirt emblazed with the university’s name and great seal - Cornell University Founded A.D.1865 encircling a profile of Ezra Cornell - the sailor slices through the cotton material.

Focusing on the gym shorts, sliding the razor-sharp blade under the waistband, he cuts out and downward on both sides. Delivering a riveting performance, waving hands like a carnival magician, with a flourish he liberates Fitzpatrick from all clothing.

A choir of conflated voices cheer the unveiling.

“Damn, that’s the smallest dick I’ve ever seen!” exclaims a sailor.

Amazed by the insignificant appendage barely noticeable in an outcrop of dense pubic hair, shriveled like a two-week-old party balloon, the men laugh hysterically. Even young boys on the cusp of adolescence proudly parade more prodigious packages.

“Fuck, that’s pathetic… more clit than cock.”

It’s the Irish Curse - a genetic affliction manifested in full force.

A low meat-to-potato ratio.

On full display, humiliated by the embarrassment between his legs, the despondent midshipman’s last ounce of courage evaporates and shame consumes him.

* * *

“I’ve got the scissors.”

An MM3 eagerly takes station with stainless-steel cutlery.

Running trembling fingers through the pubic hair, enjoying the erotic tactile sensation, he’s excited to add the curly trophy to his growing collection. Skillfully cutting the tufts, he harvests the tangible manifestation of manhood that’s taken a lifetime to grow.

Collecting the clippings in a plastic bag, it’s labeled with the date, time, and midshipman’s name. The unconventional trichophilia is harmless compared to other sailors’ more extreme paraphilia and disquieting sexual predilections.

Moving away, clutching treasure, the MM3 seeks solitude.

Securing rack curtains, caressing a throbbing erection, a hand rubs up-and-down over the ridge and across the leaking head. Shamelessly shearing midshipmen, a half-dozen to date, there’s nothing like procuring and owning another boy’s private badge of manhood.

Opening the plastic bag, taking a deep breath, he savors the distinctive scent of the evening’s acquisition. The pheromone-imbued filamentous trophy, containing the volatilized steroid androsterone, has a strong attractant effect. And he beats his meat faster… quickly reaching a shattering climax.

Licking fingers, he devours the delicious discharge.

* * *

The depilation ceremony continues.

“Here’s the Barbasol,” states a smirking squid.

Generously slathered in thick menthol shaving cream, Fitzpatrick cringes as the emulsion of oils, surfactants, and alcohol cover and sting his gear. Surrounded by an encouraging audience, the confident knife-wielder takes position between splayed legs.

“Don’t cut off his little pee-pee by mistake,” jokes a sailor. It’s a real concern, however, considering its diminutive size and the reduced redlight illumination. “Yeah, then he’ll really be sea-pussy,” adds a shipmate, invoking riotous laughter.

“Move and your ruined,” warns the knife-wielder.

Paralyzed by preservation, Fitzpatrick is afraid to breathe.

One slip could unman him. Sporting erections and grins, mesmerized sailors envision tantalizing possibilities. Deriving tremendous pleasure from the subjugation, fearful of their own innate vulnerability, they imagine the kid’s gear being irrevocably damaged.

Applying firm pressure, scraping the mons pubis, around the insignificant shaft, and across the taut nut sack, he eradicates all proof of the kid’s hard-earned virility. With final flicks of the blade, he transforms Fitzpatrick into a pre-pubescent boy.

And shipmates cheer the metamorphosis.

Performing a procedure perfected on previous prey, they flip Fitzpatrick over. With ass perched up, hips rotated, and legs spread wide apart, a small opalescing star is revealed. Looking to satiate prurient curiosity, sailors maneuver for unobstructed views.

Like ancient diviners interpreting omens, haruspicy and augury, sailors stare with discerning eyes at the prophetic ass for message & meaning. In a moment of wonder, ensorcelled by the untrammeled beauty, the men are suddenly quiet - filling the compartment with silence.

“Damn, look at that,” an MMFN whispers reverentially.

“Oh my god… it’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” adds another.

The twinkling star foretells a voyage replete with good fortune.

Concupiscence naturally stirs. And every sailor simultaneously imagines the same thing: how incredible it’s going to feel breaching the fleshy sentinel guarding the inner sanctum, defiling hallowed ground, and impregnating the pristine sea-pussy with potent enlisted seed.

Unfortunately for Fitzpatrick, their dreams will soon be realized. 

* * *

While shipmates are wishing on the star, an MM3 takes station near the midshipman’s head. Leaning down, studying the boy, he delights in the range of emotions playing over the miserable face. In plaintive eyes, windows of the soul, he finds shock, despair, hopelessness.

“How does it feel… everyone staring at your ass?”

“Embarrassing… humiliating,” Fitzpatrick stammers, fighting for breath.

“Awesome. You know everyone gets to fuck it, right?”

“W… what?”

“Yeah, it’s the best part of the tradition.”

“W… why?”

“We have no choice… the gods demand a sacrifice.”

It’s the fortuitous convergence of superstition, tradition, and opportunity. At sea, there’s something inherently natural about sailors initiating, fucking, and breeding midshipmen. And every seadog wants to dump a few loads up inside the kid.

Nauseous, the overwhelmed 4/c drowns in a sea of despair. Stripped of his dignity, he’s fully exposed and on display for their viewing pleasure. Surrounded by obscurantists, his masculinity and innocence will be voraciously consumed like immolate Carthaginian boys by Cronos.

“Definitely sucks to be you.”

The MM3 smacks his tumid shaft across Fitzpatrick’s face. Manipulating the leaking cock head, he rubs it up-and-down rubescent cheeks and across quivering lips. Pungent masculinity saturates the midshipman’s senses. Intoxicating. At once familiar yet distinctive.

An inquisitive tongue reflexively emerges and caresses the sensitive ridge and bulbous glans - tasting the sailor’s juices. Intense piquancy resonates. Full bodied, refined, and sensuous, it’s a bold cordial with ripe tannins and spicy cassis, blackberry, and cherry notes.

“Blow me,” the sailor demands.

Fitzpatrick submissively opens wide and welcomes the sailor inside. A trained cock sucker, he was taught proper methodology in ‘An Introduction to The Navy’ by his Cornell ROTC Naval Science Professor. And he practiced relentlessly on 1/c and 2/c upperclassmen.

Enjoying the power of supremacy, subjugating the inferior male, the MM3 persistently pushes inside the pliant mouth. Feeding the kid progressively larger portions, there’s something immensely satisfying about stuffing an enlisted cock down the convulsing throat of a midshipman.

“You crave cock, don’t you?”

Fitzpatrick blinks affirmative - unwilling to stop sucking to provide a proper reply.

All too soon the moment of release approaches. Stiffening, gripping the boy’s ears, the sailor unleashes a briny torrent of bluejacket jam. Abrupt powerful streams. An overabundant delicious creamy load. And the cocksucker swallows repeatedly to keep from drowning.

Meanwhile more Barbasol is applied.

With practiced efficiency perineum and ass get shaved. Fully exposed, the miniature genitalia look even more ridiculous; the star more inviting and glorious. Cameras click continuously… capturing the celebratory conquest of the chagrined Cornellian.

An escalation of desire courses through the sailors’ veins. An onslaught of inquisitive hands, rough and unrelenting, aggressively run reconnaissance. Grabbing, clutching, fighting over the portentous ass, bald pubis, and small egg sack, the men delight in feeling the baby-smooth skin.

Who doesn’t appreciate well-groomed sea-pussy?

* * *

Fitzpatrick isn’t the only 4/c aboard Nitro.

Superstitious sailors are busy sacrificing other midshipmen. Enjoying shackled fates, ceremonies are conducted in confined compartments throughout the ship. While details and practices differ, all embrace the general themes of humility, exploration, and sacrifice.

Sailors provide the essential ingredients: enthusiasm and cock.

And neither is in short supply.

- Aviation Ordnance Men have a Penn State 4/c in a weapons magazine. Stripped and secured across a bomb-build table, the Nittany Lion is introduced to enlisted ordnance. Repeatedly stuffed, the anfractuous rear passageway struggles to accommodate weapons without triggering premature detonations.

- A Rutgers 4/c is in Medical. Stripped and strapped in stirrups, the Scarlet Knight’s cock, anus, and perineum are closely examined. Enjoying unfettered access, corpsmen eagerly explore the boy’s deep recesses. Massaging silky smooth interior walls, they luxuriate inside the velutinous glove.

- Master-at-Arms take advantage of a Princeton 4/c. Inclined against a bulkhead with extremities spread wide, the Tiger assist MAs perfecting their cavity search skills. Taking turns, forcing hands up inside the defenseless ass, probing as deep as possible, they delight in wrecking the kid’s ring.

The gods must be placated.

And the midshipmen purchase Nitro safe passage.

* * *

Laughter and lechery fill the compartment.

A terrifying sailor with black eyes and covered in tattoos - more skulls on his torso than in a country graveyard - secures a leather collar around Fitzpatrick’s neck. Tethered, he’s led to the duty mattress positioned on the deck by the aft transverse bulkhead.

Emasculated, the beleaguered boy shamefully obeys a series of commands like a domesticated pet. Guided by experienced enlisted hands - on knees and forearms, with back arched, hips rotated, and legs splayed wide apart, ass open and inviting - he awaits destiny.

Obstreperous merriment surrounds the sacrifice.

Grinning with the knowledge of events about to transpire, sailors extract their cocks. An impressive collection of sizes and geometries, indicative of the Navy’s diverse ethnic composition, is on parade. Swaying languorously with the ship’s motion, they vie for Fitzpatrick’s attention.

His gaze, however, is riveted upon Washington’s gear.

Massive and disproportional.

Although he’s observed hundreds of cocks at Boy Scout summer camp - Wauwepex and Onteora Scout Reservation, in the East Meadow High School locker room, and Cornell’s Tegal Hall showers, he’s never seen anything approaching the sailor’s magnitude.

Slowly swaying, mesmerizing, and menacing, it possesses the ability to create and destroy. Radiating immense power, it’s the impregnator of life and brutal slayer of innocence. And Fitzpatrick shakes with uncontrollable trepidation.

A pewter bottle engraved with a trident is retrieved from a nearby ambry.

The MM1 quells the shivaree and commands silence. As the division’s senior and most experienced petty officer, like a Carthaginian high priest, he preserves traditions, recounts ancient myths & legends, interprets gods’ demands, and conducts sacred rites & rituals.

Entering a trance-like state, cantillating undecipherable ancient intonations, he communicates directly with the gods. Opening the bottle’s stopper, he pours blessed oil of the catechumens on the offering. Warding off evil spirits, its protection is necessary to sail the high seas.

Knowledgeable hands anoint every inch of flesh.

Ass and genitalia receive requisite attention. Caressing smooth pillows, warm and tender, Washington savors the luxurious supple flesh. Following the penile, scrotal, and perineal raphe, focused on the portentous star, he rubs calloused digits along its luminous corona.

Methodically working back-and-forth, emphasizing the indentation, probing, he breaches the shimmering chromosphere. Delving inexorably deeper and deeper, fingers twist inside… sending shockwaves through the boy’s radiative zone and inner core.

Groans of pain emanate with each increment of insertion.

Glistening with sacred oil, sublimely beautiful, it demands devotion. And like Magi following the star of Bethlehem, entranced sailors cannot deny its mesmeric, beckoning call.

* * *

The Navy is a hierarchical organization.

Clearly defined levels of authority and privilege are based upon rate and time in grade. Of vital practical importance, all sailors are acutely aware of precedence and their relative standing. In proper military fashion, the men quickly queue up by seniority.

Thankfully, MM1 Washington declines his right-of-first-fuck. A good leader sacrifices personal pleasures… always putting his men’s needs first.

So, Fitzpatrick isn’t ruined right out of the gate.

Feverish sailors are painfully aroused as a flood of neurotransmitters and hormones release. Nitrogen oxide and norepinephrine increase heart rates, blood pressure, and flow to erections. Stroked to maximum tumescence, impressive cocks throb with indecorous intent.

The defloration of innocence commences.

A senior MM2 takes station.

Shipmates lean forward to watch the unfolding spectacle. With unbridled desire the MM2 positions his broad crimson crown. Pressing forward, increasing pressure slowly expands the star’s circumference. And initial resistance suddenly yields catastrophically to the inevitable.

“Aaarrrggghhh!”

An obbligato scream. Abrupt and piercing.

Involuntary rectal convulsions impede the journey.

Undeterred, employing overwhelming force, without concern for deleterious consequences, the MM2 pulls the wailing boy backwards while callously thrusting forward… driving thickening inches deeper and deeper, penetrating down into the star’s red-hot molten core.

“Fuck yeah… take it all.”

As if Fitzpatrick has a choice.

Rapturous spectators cheer the full entrenchment inside the blubbering boy. A beautiful sight. And there’s no doubt about it, there’s nothing like it, watching a traditional at-sea ceremony… savagely sacrificing a boy’s irreplaceable innocence to placate demanding gods.

Fitzpatrick vocalizes anguished howls.

Painfilled poignant poetry. 

Yelling, cursing, pleading… all to no avail. Fully impaled, eyes squeeze tightly as tears stream down cheeks. Consciousness wavers, and only the searing pain and overwhelming humiliation of being brutally shanked up the ass registers.

Furious testosterone-fueled fucking follows.

An inspiring performance executed with exuberance.

Ass muscles flex with every brutal thrust. Powerful. Purposeful. Sizable sperm laden balls swing fore-and-aft, slapping out a timeless rhythmic beat. And everyone enjoys the sweet music with a choral accompaniment of involuntary grunts and groans of pain and pleasure.

Ascending dizzying heights, panting and gasping, the sailor is precariously perched on pleasure’s precipice. Surrendering to profligacy’s pull, urgent and necessary, he stiffens and with a shout of utter ecstasy violently ejaculates… four, five voluminous jets.

Dopamine, oxytocin, and endogenous morphine surge.

T.N.T. for the brain.

* * *

Over the next six weeks sailors take turns utilizing Fitzpatrick and the other 4/c midshipmen for the purpose they were intended. Seduced by the sea, sharing its bounty, experiencing pleasures that eclipse lustful fantasies, crewmen consume captivating collegiate cuisine.

Accommodating an incomprehensible number of insatiable sailors, wrecked boys limp back to college campuses with priceless memories, expanded horizons, and a new appreciation for the shipboard sacrifices required to ensure a safe voyage on the high seas.

The gods are placated… for now.

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