Academy Split Tail

Split tail: noun. (informal) 1. A derogatory term for a member of the female species; 2. A vagina or pussy; 3. (nautical slang) A submissive male sailor who takes it up the ass from shipmates. e.g., ‘I’d like to ram my Johnson inside that split tail.’ See: Sea Pussy.

USS Saratoga CV60 secures from evening flight quarters.

Airmen wearing color coded jerseys reposition and secure birds with chocks & chains. A klaxon sounds, elevator 3 activates, and two F-14 Tomcats belonging to the ‘Be-Devilers’ of VF-74 strike below to the hanger bay for overnight maintenance.

Below on the ship’s fantail a silhouette moves cautiously in the dark. Night vision slowly differentiates objects into coherent shapes in shades of gray. Maneuvering around deck fittings Midshipman 4/c Michael Lamb locates the aft mooring bitts.

Securely perched, he’s lost in introspection.

Last week marines aggressively played with him for hours in a weapons magazine. The harrowing experience exhumed a deeply buried truth: he’s not a normal boy. And the illusion of healthy heterosexuality was irreparably shattered.

A warm summer breeze blows a briny mist.

The deck vibrates with the rhythmic pulse of four 25-foot diameter manganese-bronze propellers. Recklessly leaning on wire-rope lifelines, he’s mesmerized by the churning effervescence as the ship’s wake stretches towards the horizon.

Moonlight dances on the ocean’s surface as stars illuminate the atramentous curtain of sky. Lost in sweet oblivion, the ship’s vibration hums an eerie lullaby.

All men are connected to the sea. There’s salt in their blood, their sweat, their tears. Casting a hypnotic spell, the sea beckons and promises freedom from tribulations. Lost in a moment of mortality Lamb feels the seductive pull of serenity into eternal darkness… back home from whence he came.

“You going to jump?” asks a disembodied voice.

“What? N…no,” Lamb whispers unconvincingly.

A marine appears out of the shadows.

Staff Sergeant (SSgt) William Fuchs.

The imposing Teutonic warrior has buzzed-cut blonde hair, piercing saxe blue eyes, and a rugged square jaw. Battle hardened, the scarred coriaceous skin stretched over lean muscle is evidence of unwavering devotion to corps and country.

He’s a keen observer of human nature. Previously stationed aboard several amphibious assault ships, he understands the vicissitudes of nautical life. Some men transcend hardship and meet the daunting challenge; others not as much.

“It’d be a shame to waste prime split tail.”

The moment a boy joins the military his chances of being sexually assaulted increase by a factor of ten. The warrior culture is built upon a tenuous balance of aggression and obedience. And the potential for violent abuse exists whenever there’s too much of either.

Fuchs has surreptitiously watched the midshipman since the subjugation. Having expended time and energy the marines are looking for a reasonable return on their investment. They eagerly anticipate indulging many more perverse predilections.

Lamb, not quite as much.

A midshipman never forgets his first Marine Corps gangbang.

The searing pain of penetration. The stretching and wrecking of the defenseless ring. Brutal thrusting. Aggressive advancement with reckless abandon. And, of course the haunting laughter, overwhelming humiliation, and obliteration of self-esteem and masculine identity.

Shadows move on the fantail.

Nocturnal predators hunting.

Fuchs provocatively rubs his protuberant cock. Housed inside camouflage utility trousers it’s ready for deployment at a moment’s notice. Retracting the brass zipper, reaching inside, with difficulty he extracts the weapon. Unconstrained it twitches with anticipation.

The attraction is undeniable.

And Lamb fights the instinctive urge to fall to his knees.

Although enveloped in darkness they are fully exposed on the fantail. A popular sanctuary from military madness, sailors frequent the aft weather deck at night to decompress, connect with nature, and smoke the day’s last cigarette. Dangerous liaisons are also sought.

Navigating between desire and disaster, outlaws and renegades search for drugs and sex. There’s a robust underground marketplace for both. With 5,200 swinging dicks aboard there’s an insatiable demand for cannabis and cock suckers.

Fuchs proudly parades his masculinity.

Shamelessly stroking the shaft, accentuating length and girth, it reaches maximum tumescence: nine solid inches of devastation. Deployed to deleterious effect, taking no prisoners, it has wrecked many cunts, crewmen, and college boys.

The marine is saying something but Lamb can’t hear anything over the pounding heart beat reverberating in his ears. Trembling involuntarily, the weapon of mass destruction suffuses his senses.

“I said show it respect.”

“Umm… oh, ok, but not here,” as Lamb nervously glances around.

“Bullshit. Here. Now,” Fuchs demands.

The risk of discovery elevates his pleasure. Trained to be aggressive on the battlefield, he seeks danger and high-sensation adrenaline fueled exploits. Confronting mortality, looking over the edge, the thrill of danger rejuvenates the spirit and makes him feel alive.

Moving towards the paralyzed midshipman he places calloused hands upon the boy’s slender shoulders. Insistent downward pressure is applied. Clearly in charge, he decisively settles the issue… reaffirming Lamb’s insignificant position in the hierarchy.

“P… please.”

But the midshipman’s will and knees are already buckling.

Breathing rapidly, perspiring profusely, his body radiates the unforgettable scent of English Leather cologne. A rich and complex fragrance of citrus, wood, moss, and leather, the enticing scent is ideal for enjoying special times with shipmates.

The air is charged with expectancy.

Lamb experiences conflicting emotions from the opportunity to service the superior male. Well trained at Annapolis, it’s the fulfilment of his military purpose. With desire coursing through his veins he trembles with almost unbearable anticipation.

Fuchs rubs the leaking head across Lamb’s lips. Every male presents a unique tasting experience. Intensely flavored, the distinctive piquancy resonates: crisp black cherry, semi-sweet chocolate, a spicy peppery note. Delicious. Irresistible.

“Suck it.”

And Lamb obediently leans forward.

Opening wide, taking suction, he engulfs the glans. Drawn into the purely sensual moment, appreciating the warm silky mouthfeel, wrapping his tongue around perfection, he instinctively welcomes the thickening shaft as it relentlessly advances deeper.

Continuing the assault Fuchs stuffs more inside until perched upon the throat’s precipice. Tilting the boy’s head back to ensure proper alignment, lunging forward, he disappears down the ballooning throat. Grinning with satisfaction the last few inches are pressed home until two-blocked.

A shaft of moonlight illuminates Lamb’s bulging neck.

The endeavor’s distinctive sounds attract attention.

The soft susurrations of sailors in shadows surround them. Carefully maneuvering for unobstructed views, they stroke awakening shafts through worn bellbottom dungarees. Seasoned salts and sea dogs know the cock sucker will soon be available for communal use.

Sucking in public is an open invitation.

“Fuck yeah… feed him,” encourages a sailor.

Pumping hard, mercilessly assaulting the boy with long deliberate strokes, the marine rapidly builds momentum towards a cataclysmic climax. Driving balls deep, stiffening, he explodes and delivers a generous portion of Marine Corps jam.

A quality meal.

And Lamb swallows for all he’s worth.

Several chunks trickle over his battered lips and dribble down his chin. Milking every last drop as the marine extracts the deflating shaft, he greedily consumes the saporous custard.

Fuchs studies the boy with an enigmatic smile.

“Report to MarDet berthing tomorrow. Twenty-hundred.”

Lamb understands he’ll be sodomized. Repeatedly. But what else might ensue? Marines are predictably unpredictable. Sea stories of unconventional rituals and debauchery are well known. But with pictures and video from the previous encounter he has no choice.

The devil-dogs own his ass; he’s their sea bitch.

Their split tail.

With Fuchs’ immediate requirements satisfied the surrounding sailors encircle the docile midshipman. After a difficult day at sea conducting flight operations and damage control drills the men need to relax and blow a load before turning-in for the night.

“He’s all yours,” addressing the throng of sailors, “but his tail is off-limits.”

The sailors understand the terms of utilization.

No right-minded bluejacket would dare risk violating the restriction… or they could end up brutalized and deep-sixed. A dangerous environment, accidents are common at sea and sailors can easily ‘fall’ overboard, never to be recovered.

In the low levels of illumination a plethora of erect cocks materialize with surprising clarity. Strutting, the sailors proudly parade their weapons like a Soviet May-day spectacle in Red Square. Surrendering to primitive compulsions to expel jam they’ll feed Lamb long into the night.

“You want this, cock sucker?” asks an imposing sailor.

Mesmerized, he slowly nods in the affirmative.

The petty officer strokes the shaft and positions the bulbous glans against the midshipman’s swollen lips… spreading the leaking juices like lip balm.

The sweet-salty taste of masculinity resonates. Intoxicated, Lamb willingly kisses the head and demonstrates respect to the superior male. Rolling his tongue around the flared contours of the broad crimson crown he savors the amazing taste and texture.

“Eat me.”

And he dines al fresco long into the night.

* * *

 The next day Midshipman Lamb embraces his destiny.

Traversing the 2nd deck starboard passageway, passing the forward galley and scullery, he enters mess deck 2. Near the forward transverse bulkhead is the hatch for MarDet berthing, 3-69-0-L. It’s given wide berth by prudent sailors.

Territorial predators, marines vigorously defend their domain.

And lines cannot be crossed without dire consequences.

He takes a slow measured breath and approaches the hatch. Sailors watch aghast as the timorous boy descends the vertical inclined ladder.

The 60-man berthing compartment is decorated with traditional USMC iconography. Containing brightwork, fancywork, flags, and pictures of the President, SecDef, SecNav, and CMC, the fastidiously clean area is a shrine to military discipline.

A young sentry in green cammies stands watch.

“State your business,” demands PFC Ramirez.

“Midshipman 4/c Lamb reporting as ordered.”

“Who the fuck ordered you to report?”

“Well, umm… I was told…”

“I did,” interjects SSgt Fuchs, appearing suddenly.

“Oh, staff sergeant I didn’t realize...”

“Now you do Ramirez,” tersely interrupting the young grunt. “The midshipman is tonight’s entertainment… unless you’d like to take his place?”

“Fuck no!” responds the nervous PFC.

“That’s what I thought.”

The marines enjoyed playing with Lamb last week. Possessing an insatiable wanderlust for adventure, craving unconventional sexual experiences, diving deep into the waters of depravity, they want more. Much more. And all desires are centered on the split tail.

“Let’s go, the men are waiting for you.”

Prodded to slaughter, Lamb is led deeper into their lair.

Navigating around racks and lockers they encounter excited marines with conspiratorial grins and obvious erections. The anxious midshipman barely notices that Fuchs’ hand has slid down onto his ass.

Laughter erupts from the overflowing compartment lounge.

The men are enjoying the evening movie.

Stripped to standard issue olive-green skivvies, a profusion of impressive flesh embellished with ‘USMC’, ‘Semper Fidelis’, and ‘bulldog’ tattoos is on display. The ink tells the world who they are, what they stand for, and what they are capable of at a single glance.

Their attention is riveted on a television bolted to a cabinet. It’s connected to a new VHS player. Introduced by the Victor Company of Japan (JVC), the state-of-the-art machine supplements their vintage Bell & Howell 8mm reel-to-reel projector.

Possessing an eclectic adult-film library, their collection rivals the legendary offerings down in the Chief’s Mess. The best entertainment is produced in Asia… where prepubescent girls and boys engage in outrageous activities with a surprising variety of well-trained barnyard denizens.

And who doesn’t enjoy a good dog-and-pony show?

A new film is playing.

A thin teenage boy is on hands and knees.

Holding hips from behind, an imposing alpha with iconic EGA (eagle, globe, and anchor) tattoo positions his blood-engorged weapon. Indifferent to consequences, he lunges savagely forward and drives deep inside his victim’s inner chamber until two-blocked.

The impaled boy screams in agony.

His tail is being split open.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” laughs a LCpl.

The alpha repudiates the boy’s ridiculous claim on masculinity.

Just because he has a pair that doesn’t make him a man. Inherently, masculinity is a state-of-mind. The warrior archetype embodies strength, assertiveness, sexuality, and violence. Acting decisively without hesitation or fear, the warrior channels innate aggressiveness to vanquish rivals.

While a life-altering experience with profound ramifications for the emasculated boy, it’s just another inconsequential fuck for the powerful alpha. Smirking at the camera, persistently pumping and thrusting at different angles, he delights in attacking the defenseless sphincter.

And the kid is cuntified.

Arching his body, stabbing forward as deeply as possible, the alpha swells inside the convulsing chute. Holding his breath, discharging his weapon, he empties his dual chambered magazine. Extracting upon denouement he spreads the boy open for the camera.

Focusing on the distorted ring, puffy crimson folds are visible inside the gaping slit.

“Fuck… you can see everything,” said an impressed PFC.

Admiring his handiwork, the alpha grins with justifiable pride.

Like a saintly stigmata, chunks of blood stained jam slowly ooze out of the wound, trickle over the perineum, across the perineal raphe, and down the thighs. The camera angle shifts. The boy’s tear streaked face is presented.

It’s Midshipman Lamb.

The marines are watching last week’s subjugation.

Copies of the film have already been sent to Quantico. The institution maintains extensive secret archives. Besides providing entertainment for senior officers and valuable training for junior marines, the film affords insurance against the unforetold.

There’s no calculus to predict which midshipman may someday make Admiral or become a member of Congress… and it’s always prudent to have leverage to guide future funding and policy decisions. The Marine Corps always negotiates from a position of strength.

Better to have and not need than to need and not have.

“Make a hole,” Fuchs shouts. “Split tail coming through.”

The men quickly part like the Red Sea.

Lamb is pushed to the front of the lounge. Bashful as a crimson-flushed schoolgirl he realizes everyone has been watching his subjugation and sodomization. Adding a stream of comedic commentary, the men have been enjoying a good laugh at his expense.

His debasement and distended asshole remain frozen on the TV.

Humiliated, his confidence erodes like a sand castle at high tide.

“Here’s your star,” Fuchs announces.

And the appreciative audience ardently applauds. Waiting all week for this night, only one thing is on their minds: fucking the split tail. Sporting erections and grins, they gang rape Lamb with licentious eyes. They’ll fuck him until everyone has their fill.

Marines aren’t queer; just unbelievably horny. They don’t care what hole they shove their cocks into. And unequivocally the best sex is with another military member - marine, midshipman, or swabbie.

Real sex. Rough sex.

Men being men.

Fucking like nature intended.

None of that fag kissing romance shit.

“You’re so getting fucked,” states an excited lance corporal.

A choir of conflated voices vociferously agree.

“Relax. Everyone will get a turn,” Fuchs explains.

Asking marines to remain calm is like telling fire not to burn. Both are uncontrollable elemental forces. An inferno fueled by hormones course through their veins. Breathing rapidly, consuming all the compartment’s oxygen, every marine is coiled to pounce on Lamb.

The men will have to share. Sowing the seeds of destruction, serviceable for only a finite period, individual pleasure must inevitably transition to more practical methodology.

Double penetration.

There’s nothing like stuffing a communal hole with a buddy. It teaches teamwork, builds esprit de corps, and reinforces strong bonds of brotherhood. The ultimate act of domination, it’s exhilarating to transcend perceived limitations and explore new boundaries.

And Lamb will learn what it means to service marines.

* * *

Primal desires smolder.

The pungent perfume of pheromones is palpable.

Lamb gazes around the lounge. Naked marines abound. Gorging on the sumptuous visual feast, he’s dazed by the profusion of perfection. A conflation of ethnicities, young warriors take pride showing-off their annealed musculature and potent masculinity.

Stacked against the starboard longitudinal bulkhead he notices scarlet vinyl covered polyethylene mats, several tubes of MIL-G-23549 all-purpose grease, a box of disposable rubber gloves, and an assortment of restraints, implements, and other paraphernalia.

There’s little doubt about the evening’s agenda.

A swarm of corybantic marines encircle Lamb.

He’s trapped inside a ring of wildfire.

Their eyes, blazing and menacing, radiate a primitive intensity. Intoxicated with an infusion of neuropeptides and a surge of strength from adrenaline swollen muscles, the men have transformed into lethal warriors. And roaring flames of lust devour rationality.

The big-dicked marines make it their mission to fuck as many midshipmen as possible. Mounted on the bulkhead is a large engraved black-walnut plaque that reads: ‘What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Except for Marines; Marines will kill you.’

There’s no sanctuary from the conflagration; no escape from destiny.

So Lamb stoically capitulates without protest.

Proficient in field-dressing midshipmen, they prepare the boy. Without his uniform and insignia Lamb relinquishes his status within the hierarchy. Naked with eyes downcast in submission he’s just another disposable piece of government property.

Running rough reconnaissance, the men aggressively twist his nipples, thump the taut stomach, and knead the curvaceous ass. A scrum breaks out between the quivering legs. Hands maul the ball bag and squeeze the spongy eggs. Tugging downward they laugh as the orbs snap back and retreat inside the scrotum seeking shelter from the storm.

A wave of nausea hits. Lamb groans.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” suggests a sergeant.

Applying insistent pressure they force Lamb down onto the wrestling mat. Adjusting his position on forearms-and-knees, they press his chest down, arch the back, lift the ass, rotate the hips, and spread the legs… revealing his most private place.

Grabbing a portable emergency battle lantern off a nearby stanchion a LCpl illuminates the patulous slit. Looking to satiate prurient curiosity the men maneuver for unobstructed views. In a moment of wonder they are ensorcelled by the breathtaking sight.

A hush of reverence fills the compartment.

Centered in a deep indentation, the swollen pussy lips are encircled by a shimmering aurora of vibrant yellows, greens, and blues. Positioned for their perverse pleasure, the pretty pucker, pink and pristine only last week, is now battered, bruised, and open for business.

“Damn it’s beautiful,” said a mesmerized PFC.

“Can’t wait to tap that,” whispers another.

Trapped in a maelstrom of obsessed marines Lamb couldn’t be more vulnerable. A portrait of obedience, he waits to be bred. Excited by the impending inevitability, his traitorous cock elongates and an iridescent pearl drops onto the mat.

Greased fingers probe.

An unexpected electric shock surges through Lamb as his muscles instinctively try to clench. Damaged from last week’s onslaught, he can’t deter the forward advancement of invading digits as they easily secure a beachhead.

Exploring and frolicking inside, they engage in an impromptu game of tug-of-war… stretching the pliant slot in several directions. Redirecting the battle lantern, a focused bean illuminates the undulating walls six inches deep inside the exquisite pink trench.

The men’s shafts twitch with anticipation.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard,” declares LCpl Jefferson.

Striding forward he walks around Lamb and inspects his reward. Possessing elite fighting skills and fanatical tenacity, he bested other marines yesterday in an intense hand-to-hand competition to win the evening’s right of first-fuck.

Stunningly muscular with a gleaming obsidian complexion, Jefferson has strong Mandinka roots. His hypnotic eyes are ablaze with a seductive intensity that enslaves inferior males. Throwing off sparks, the menacing cock is an inheritance from his West African bloodline.

Lamb is shocked by the turgid appendage.

Fraught with contradictions it represents something to venerate, something to fear, something that creates, something that destroys. The massive girth and length are alarming. Trembling with trepidation he panics and attempts to squirm free. 

But the motivated marines maintain a maniacal grip.

And he’s not going anywhere.

“Please… it’s too big! Don’t fuck me,” implores the terrified boy.

But the desperate plea fails to persuade the implacable marine.

Compassion and mercy aren’t in his repertoire. He’s a cutthroat killer with a heart of stone. Besides, like Odysseus ensnared in the hypnotic Sirens’ song, he’s spellbound by the seductive lure of sea-pussy. And its mesmeric call can’t be denied.

Advancing towards the inevitable Lamb has an epiphany. His last measure of masculinity will be sacrificed. Grasping the irrefutable truth, he’ll be irreversibly transformed into a split tail… a toy for real men to brutally use & abuse without compunction.

Rhapsodic marines gather around the sacrificial altar.

The juxtaposition of Mandinka and midshipman provide a compelling visual contrast: black and white, man and boy, predator and prey. The tumescent ebony spear-of-destiny slides between the creamy white cheeks. Positioned for deep penetration, the moment of metamorphoses is at hand.

“What are you waiting for?” asks a PFC. “Fuck him already.”

“Fuck him… fuck him,” voices incessantly chant.

LCpl Jefferson savors the moment. His worldview is based on pain, passion, and purpose. Holding tightly with calloused hands, driven by primordial forces, he confidently lunges forward and impales the midshipman in one continuous thrust.

 “Aggghh!” Lamb screams in explosive agony.

“Fuck yeah…. take the pain!”

As if he has any choice.

Marines have a well-deserved reputation for rough sex. Their legacy is a trail of bruised, battered, and bloody conquests from the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli. But the hyper-aggressive lance corporal’s inimitable skills elevate the art to another level.

Navigating bends and constrictions, stretching and straightening the malleable chute, the behemoth traverses the rectum until fully embedded inside the descending colon.

Tensing in agony, tears stream down Lamb’s contorted face. Blinded by excruciating pain, overwhelmed by its jarring journey, he momentarily loses situational awareness. And time stops.

It’s not as much fun fucking an unconscious split tail.

No fighting and struggling; no begging and pleading.

No entertaining cries of agony.

Fortunately, a marine pisses on the boy’s face, waking him up.

The impossibly deep cock punches his diaphragm and lungs - knocking the wind out of him. Whimpering incoherently with each thrust, mostly undecipherable vowels, he feels the full force and measure of what it means to take it up the ass from a Marine.

Jefferson savors the moment’s perfection.

Moist and tight, an indescribable delight, there’s nothing like it… the overwhelming pleasure of fucking privileged white midshipman split tail. And he hears the congratulatory voices of his proud African ancestors.

A hypnotic symphony of moans, groans, squelching lubricant, and rhythmic collisions of sweaty flesh reverberate and propagate throughout the sonorous compartment. Flanked by dozens of excited marines, indistinguishable heavy breathing bathes the conjoined alpha and omega.

The squawking audience watches the penetrating performance.

“Fuck that split tail… make him feel every inch!”

“Pound that fucking hole!”

Jefferson pummels the midshipman with ferocious intensity… instinctively grinding and gyrating to an ancient tribal rhythm encoded in his chromosomes. Bound by destiny, yoked by violence, the superior male and boy of immolation writhe together in pain and pleasure.

Filled to unfathomable depths Lamb experiences unimagined sensations as he finally understands the profound wonder of total submission. Gaining a new equanimity, unconditionally surrendering to the pain, he spreads his legs wider content in his inferiority.

“Feels so good,” grunts the marine.

Lurching forward, thrusting deeper, pressing hips tight against the boy, he crams every possible inch inside. Approaching the pinnacle of ecstasy he unleashes a torrent of potent seed and sullies the midshipman with an infusion of Mandinka DNA.

Descending the climatic high Jefferson withdraws and severs the connection. Fluids drip from the wrecked hole and puddle between the kid’s wishbone splayed legs. With his mission completed the satisfied marine gives way to eager platoon mates.

The next devil-dog quickly rams up inside the split tail.

All too quickly he delivers his load.

Soon after another mounts the hole. And another.

They’re insatiable.

Inexhaustible.

As only young marines can be.

Deep in a trance, lost in a catatonic dance, Lamb is vaguely aware of time as the shaftings continue unabated. Ascending into a higher dimension of consciousness, experiencing a spiritual convergence, pleasure and pain are unified through a great act of reconciliation.

Staff Sargent Fuchs watches with an approving grin.

His marines are good men. Just too much energy. He knew exactly what they needed. While there are many arrows in leadership’s quiver, sex is still the best motivator of young marines.

And few things are better than a piece of Academy split tail.

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