HT3 Timothee LeMaire, USN

Dedicated to HT3 LeMaire. Serving together in Repair Division there was instant affinity, an unexplainable connection - the recognition and unification of one soul abiding in two bodies. Friend, lover, part of me, I valued him as my own life.

There’s nothing like being attached to a sea-going command.

Arduous 14-hour workdays. Three section watch standing. Long chow lines. Restricted water-hours. Ceaseless training, drills, and tactical exercises. Between flight quarters, general quarters, and underway replenishment evolutions, the crew doesn’t sleep for 24 to 36 hours at a time.

An exhausted Ensign Rozo retires to his stateroom.

Waiting inside is his favorite sailor.

HT3 Timothee LeMaire.

A pulchritudinous sailor of dazzling perfection, LeMaire has curly chestnut-brown hair, high cheekbones, expressive wide eyes, and an infectious smile with inviting voluptuous lips. Snapping to attention, he’s freshly showered, naked, and draped in youthful perfection.

“Standing-by as ordered, sir.”

“At ease sailor.”

Shedding khaki coveralls the officer embraces LeMaire from behind. Pressing their bodies together, affectionately kissing the sailor’s neck, licking his ear, he reaches around and gently plays with the erect nipples - miniature mouth-watering morsels.

Experienced fingers tease the sensitive points, traverse the taut abdomen, and terminate in a trimmed tuft. Tugging on the tumid tool he thrusts his tongue in the sailor’s ear.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers.

Rozo’s body radiates the alluring scent of British Sterling cologne, an intoxicating blend of bright citrus, warm woods, amber, and lush moss. Suffusing the stateroom, the rich, full-bodied, and complex earthy fragrance with sophisticated warmth accentuates his masculinity.

“Oh sir you smell amazing!”

Emotionally bonded, LeMaire breathes deeply and absorbs the enticing cologne and pheromones - igniting a profound yearning for physical intimacy. Simmering with desire he feels the officer’s tumescence pressing against him.

Bludgeoned by childhood trauma, craving acceptance and affection, the sailor is searching for love in the Navy. In a moment of clarity, looking to consummate their relationship and fend off shipmates, LeMaire musters considerable courage and makes a seminal decision.

“Sir, you… you can have me.”

“W… what?”

LeMaire presses his ass against the officer.

“You know.”

As government property LeMaire understands he belongs to the Navy. And any officer has the right to utilize him in the best interest of national defense. Fortunately he’s Rozo’s boy, and therefore per naval etiquette off-limits to the crew and other gentlemen.

“Oh… umm, really?”

“Yes sir. If you want.”

Surprised by the unexpected offer, Rozo contemplates the sailor’s gorgeous ass - soft and sensuous, enticing and inviting. In truth he should have already exercised his congressionally bestowed prerogative as a Naval Officer and forcibly taken the boy.

Harboring intense feelings for the sailor, however, he resists baser predatory urges. Safeguarding LeMaire’s innocence, he’s redirected aggression towards insignificant bottom dwellers… using them for release from the hardwired biological imperative to implant seed.

If he wants?

That’s ridiculous. Of course he wants.

He’s envisioned an idyllic setting for their union.

Entwined on a secluded Caribbean beach, a seductive ultramarine surf caresses their naked bodies as sunset’s last golden rays reflect in LeMaire’s expressive eyes. Lost in passionate desire Rozo presses up inside the sailor and takes possession of the boy… unifying their fractured souls.

Unfortunately the next port of call isn’t scheduled for another four weeks. And LeMaire’s offer is irresistible. Being only human, beholden to fortune and fate, the officer is consumed by the undeniable offer. And his resolve to wait rapidly weakens and suddenly evaporates.

“Have you taken it before?”

“No sir. Never.”

Virgin sea-pussy. Unadulterated. Unsullied.

How’s that possible?

“I’ve been saving myself.”

Ascending the dizzy peak of anticipatory wanting, with elevated heart rate Rozo grows lightheaded - trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen. Eager to explore the pristine territory, he imagines the intense pleasure of claiming the boy’s irreplaceable virginity.

“You know it will hurt some, right?”

“I do.”

During his stint in the Navy LeMaire has observed predators subjugate and utilize new sailors and midshipmen. Dominant alpha males with little thought or concern for their quarry’s discomfort delight in showing-off for appreciative audiences.

Establishing new or confirming existing reputations, they violently thrust balls deep inside inadequately prepared orifices, leaving a wake of devastated and distraught punks. Once fucked communal holes are passed around and enjoyed by shipmates.

The preponderance of sailors fight to protect their most precious possession… hoping to finish their enlistment without getting brutally stuffed up the ass.

“I’ve dreamed about taking it from you, sir.”

LeMaire isn’t the only dreamer on this desperate voyage. Rozo has been plagued with wild imaginings and nightly phantasmagoric visions of the sailor - Freudian manifestations of desperate subconscious desires to merge flesh and spirit.

The air is charged with expectancy as the officer’s blood engorged authority presses insistently against the plush gift, impatiently demanding consummation of the union.

“Who owns this enlisted ass, sailor?”

“You sir.”

Addressing the matter of lubrication, Rozo applies MIL-L-46017 oil to his fingers. The high quality machine tool lubricating oil prevents slide way stick-slip and facilitates smooth and precise drilling, milling, and grinding operations.

Reaching down, navigating in restricted waters, inquisitive fingers carefully explore the channel. Slowly spreading the sailor open, reaching his destination, toying with and cajoling the reluctant ring, he lubricates, manipulates, and dilates the opening.

“How does that feel?”

“Umm… strange, but good.”

Spreading the lubrication he massages the boy’s silky-smooth sacristy. His other hand gently strokes the sailor’s shaft, rubbing the leaking juices around the swollen head.

“Oh sir I’m close. Request permission to blow tubes.”

“Negative. Permission denied.”

Blowing tubes is the engineering procedure for removing soot from main propulsion boilers utilizing 300-psi steam through rotary blowers. A messy process. Producing clouds of fine black soot covering the flight deck and everything downwind, permission is required before accomplishment.

Euphemistically the term also refers to a sailor jettisoning jam.

Tugging firmly downward on LeMaire’s heavily laden balls to prevent premature ejaculation, Rozo brings the sailor back from the dangerous precipice. Marching him to the officer’s rack he presses downward and the sailor willingly descends.

Rozo admires the boy’s vivacious eyes, inviting voluptuous lips, and smooth creamy skin stretched over taut muscles. Reminiscent of the reclining marble statue of the Greek youth Hyacinth, sculptured by François Joseph Bosio, housed in the Musée du Louvre.

“You look amazing,” as he examines the ephebe.

According to Greek mythology Hyacinth, a beautiful young boy and lover of Apollo, the radiant archery god, was also greatly admired by Zephyr, the god of the West Wind. Jealous that the boy preferred Apollo, Zephyr blew Apollo’s discus with force, striking and killing the boy. Grief stricken Apollo made the flower hyacinth (modern day iris) from the boy’s spilled blood, his tears staining the delicate petals.

With clarity of purpose Rozo positions the sailor and takes residence atop his beloved boy, chest-to-chest, heart-to-heart, like Apollo upon Hyacinth as tears of joy fall, wetting his face.

Staring into LeMaire’s eyes, penetrating the boy’s soul, impaling him with his power, the officer leans forward and presses against the parted lips. Entwined, kissing passionately, stealing his breath, thrusting his tongue inside, he rapes the boy’s willing mouth.

“Mmm…,” the sailor moans, flush with desire.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You know sir.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I… I want you inside.”

Taking command, he lifts LeMaire’s compliant legs, presses down on muscular thighs, spreads him open, rotates hips, and folds the sailor in half… knees pressed to chest.

“Ask for it like a sailor.”

Gathering courage, LeMaire trembles involuntarily with unbearable anticipation, betraying excited helplessness. He knew this moment was inevitable… but never envisioned begging for its accomplishment, happily offering his masculinity for consumption.

“Respectfully request permission to be fucked, sir!”

“Very well. Standby to be boarded.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

* * *

5,200 swinging dicks aboard the aircraft carrier.

The preponderance 18 to 22 years old.

Concupiscence stirs and countless clandestine collaborations of convenience commence. At any given moment dozens of sea dogs align eductors (a liquid jet pump), pump bilges, and discharge the quintessence of masculinity into submissive bottom dwellers.

Down convulsing two-blocked throats.

Up spasming sphincters into succulent sea-pussy.

And who doesn’t enjoy sailing the high seas with shipmates?

* * *

“This might sting a little.”

Rozo takes charge of the nervous sailor, shifts colors, and gets underway.

Held tightly, LeMaire moans uncontrollably as the officer assaults him with kindness and pushes carefully but insistently against the intractable orifice. Responding to the relentless pressure it struggles valiantly to retain structural integrity.

The lubricating oil, however, performs per military specifications. And the aperture slowly yields to superior force. Silently asking for forgiveness, the officer suddenly stiffens, thrusts forward, and bursts through… entering elysian-fields.

“Aauggghh,” LeMaire cries, stunned by the violent breaching.

Locking mouths they share the glorious pain.

The sailor’s countenance conveys intense agony as tears stream down his contorted face. Clutching muscles instinctively spasm and squeeze, vainly trying to expel the unexpected visitor.

“That wasn’t too bad. You okay?”

“Y… yes sir,” the brave sailor responds, clearly lying.

The involuntary contractions feel wonderful for Rozo; for the sailor, not as much. Shocked, struggling to accommodate the blood-engorged glans, the undeniable truth immediately registers on LeMaire: getting fucked hurts like all hell!

“Ok. Now relax and push out.”

Rozo forces the first few thick inches up inside the boy.

“Oh god. Please go slow, sir.”

Focused, grunting, and gritting his teeth, clutching the sheets in his hands, spreading his legs wider to facilitate penetration, LeMaire’s determined to transcend the excruciating pain. Absorbing the initial agony he’s hoping for ensuing pleasure.

Pain and pleasure, primordial contrary forces… complementary, interconnected, and interdependent, give rise to each other’s quiddity. Providing meaning and structure, it’s impossible to speak of one without simultaneously acknowledging the other.

“Take deep breaths. It will pass.”

“Yes, sir. Please, give me a moment.”

Resisting the imperative to drive balls deep inside, fighting strong undeniable urges to slam fuck the sailor, Rozo provides LeMaire time for acclimation. Licking the sailor’s tears, the saltiness resonating on his tongue, he luxuriates in the intense tightness.

“Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After a few minutes the sailor pushes back gingerly, signaling he’s prepared to recommence the deflowering. Locked in the physical joining, flames of desire consume the Ensign as drops of perspiration descend upon the sailor’s heaving chest.

Rocking gently fore and aft, displaying commendable compassion, more of the avaricious shaft advances through the aperture. Around several bends and constrictions. Stretching and straightening the malleable passageway.

“You got most of it. Just a few inches more.”

The thickest most challenging part at the base remain.

“I… I don’t think I can take it,” LeMaire panics.

“Of course you can. You’re a US Navy sailor.”

Exceptionally well trained, disciplined, and determined, enlisted men of the United States Navy can accomplish even the most arduous assignments. The envy of other nations, their professionalism, skill, and indomitable spirit is legendary.

Exceeding perceived limitations, breathing rhythmically, LeMaire pushes outward, momentarily releasing the death grip. Sensing an opportunity, gravity lends assistance as the officer descends the last few inches, bottoming out inside the sailor, utterly filling him.

“Oh fuck!” LeMaire cries, shocked by the fullness.

“That’s it… you’ve got it all.”

The triumphant officer savors the moment’s perfection. Moist and tight, an indescribable delight, there’s nothing like it… the overwhelming pleasure of owning an irreplaceable enlisted cherry and being fully sheathed inside the glorious glove.

“So full. Like I’ve got the main mast stuffed up my ass.”

Placing his hand upon the boy’s lower abdomen, rubbing the extended tummy, Rozo feels himself protruding from inside the sailor. Amazingly the outline of the thick 8-incher with prominent mushroom head is discernable under LeMaire’s stretched skin.

He places the boy’s hand on the swollen abdomen.

“You feel that?”

“Yes sir,” responds the shocked sailor.

“That’s me inside you,” said Rozo with immense pride.

Underway, making way, Rozo slowly traverses back and forth inside the serpentine passageway. Savoring the amazing feeling, it’s the tangible expression of their special relationship. United in ecstasy the initial searing pain slowly transforms into exquisite pleasure.

Dancing in the dark, waltzing in the wonder, LeMaire closes his eyes as the Ensign serenades him with long deep strokes. Penetrated to unfathomable depths, experiencing unimagined desire, panting with excitement, the sailor begins to understand the profound pleasure of submission.

“Mmm…. fuck me. Fuck me.”

And the officer rings-up all ahead full.

Physically bonded, locked in a passionate intertwining of limbs, immersed in a wondrous erotic rapture, intensity heightens as heartbeats synchronize. Consuming each other’s desire, acting and acted upon, the dancers are indistinguishable from the dance.

A hypnotic symphony of moans, groans, labored breathing, squelching lubricant, and rhythmic collision of sweaty flesh reverberates off the stateroom’s bulkheads and propagates down the passageway.

Inspired by the ‘Magic Fire Music’ in Richard Wagner’s ‘The Valkyries’, the second opera in the mighty ‘Ring Cycle’, the rising horns, piercing piccolos, plangent cellos, frantic flutes, and brutal violins throw up sparks, blazing, and menacing.

Officer and sailor are consumed in the conflagration.

Individuality ceases to exist. Like the profound connection between Alexander the Great and Hephaestion, Achilles and Patroclus, Rozo and LeMaire share one soul abiding in two bodies. Fused, reborn, their spirit soars like a mythological Phoenix.

From the heights they see the other as an integral part of the whole.

“Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine,” whispers Rozo.

Breathing faster, lurching forward, thrusting deeper, Rozo climaxes and inseminates the sailor - shooting sacred seed inside the sanctuary. Simultaneously LeMaire uncontrollably blows tubes - violently jettisoning chunky white jam between them.

Slowly descending the pinnacle of pleasure, gently brushing the hair from LeMaire’s adoring eyes, smiling tenderly, Rozo kisses his beloved sailor.

“That was amazing.”

“Thank you sir for having me.”

Physically and emotionally exhausted, the serene sailor breathes deeply and within minutes contently falls asleep and dreams of spending eternity with his officer. Made whole, Timothee LeMaire has found love and an essential part of himself in the Navy.

Amor Vincit Omnia.

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