Pressed into Service

You Know What Sailors Are!

The old Dot (HMAS Dorothy when she’s on duty), was in dry dock for a few weeks in Sydney, getting a new coat of paint and a fair few barnacles removed from her nether regions; we’ve all been there before! 

The big brass had decided that the time had come for her dazzle camouflage to be painted over with something a little more sedate, battleship grey to be precise. I rather liked the geometric lines and zig-zags that had covered her from stem to stern, supposedly to make enemy targeting more difficult, but in these post-war years such considerations were deemed a little outré, as my queer old uncle used to say. 

Uncle Thomas (that’s right, I was named after him) had been a naval man as well, and it was his influence that had decided my own career at sea, for which I would be eternally grateful. He’d also recognised a little something queer in me, and had quietly and subtly gone about making sure that I didn’t feel bad about it and was properly equipped to deal with it when the time came, which it did at a fairly early age. But more of that another time, perhaps.

While the naval shipyards were busy dealing with the Dot’s makeover, my new best mate, Leading Seaman Blake (Trader Horn to most of his shipmates), had suggested a short trip down to Melbourne to visit his folks who lived in Fitzroy, one of the oldest parts of that grand city. He’d been unable to see them during the Dot’s recent stopover as he’d been confined to sickbay under my tender care, and now wanted to make amends. 

Not having any special commitments in Sydney (apart from a handful of very obliging lads who were always pleased to see me), I happily agreed to the plan, and that very night we were onboard the Spirit of Progress steaming our way down South, sitting up in a 2nd class carriage, as our naval wages didn’t quite extend to a sleeper. 

That didn’t worry me though, as I dozed with my head on Traders shoulder for most of the trip. The friendly conductor clearly took a liking to us in our “jolly-tar” uniforms and gave us a couple of blankets against the chill of the evening, under the cover of which I was able to work my hand down into Traders bell-bottoms and fondle his very familiar and stiff cock. 

When I woke up the next morning just minutes away from Spencer Street Station, my hand was still holding his dick and he was fast asleep with his head resting against mine, my fingers decidedly slippery and the look on Trader’s face one of total satisfaction. The very picture of naval camaraderie. 

Humping our duffel bags off the train while we rubbed the sleep from our eyes (and I licked the stickiness from my fingers), we made a quick detour into the men’s loo at the station, which was as interesting as I’d expected it to be, despite the early hour. Needing to splash our boots, we found ourselves at the urinal surrounded by men of all shapes and sizes, including many business types on the way to the office, most of them spending a lot more time standing there with their old fellas out than even the fullest bladder could justify. 

Trader gave me a wink as we jostled for space, and making a show of unbuttoning the flap on his pants he pulled out his beautiful todger, gave it a good wake-up shake and let rip with a torrent of hot, yellow water that splashed against the porcelain with impressive force. Taking my cue I did the same, putting on a show by bringing out my big hairy balls as well for a bit of ventilation, before releasing a similarly pent up and impressive flood of piss, steaming in the cold morning air. 

Feigning indifference to the attention we were receiving, we chatted amiably about this and that; I even folded my arms to ensure that my appreciative onlookers had an uninterrupted view of the proceedings. When we’d both finished we made another show of shaking the remaining drips from our old boys before ostentatiously tucking them back into our pants and slowly buttoning up, leaving behind a silent but appreciative audience.

Coming out into the crisp air of a frosty Melbourne morning, we located a decent looking cafe and grabbed some breakfast before heading off to find the nearest tram stop. 

We were at his parent’s small double fronted cottage in the heart of Fitzroy in no time, being welcomed into the cosy kitchen at the back of the house like returning war heroes. His lovely mum (Madge) was all over him (and me!) as if we were a recently married couple, while his dad (Brian) was less overtly effusive but nonetheless full of  bonhomie and genuine delight to see us both. 

Our duffels were quickly dispatched into the spare room, and we were planted at the kitchen table and presented with tea and cake as if it had been awaiting our long expected arrival all night, which it probably had.

While Trader and his folks talked nonstop about family matters, I took the time to study both parents, paying particular attention to Brian who was a startlingly good looking mature gentleman of solid physique; muscular no doubt in his younger days, and now comfortably fleshy and solid.  I could see echoes of his son in his face, and mused that if this was Trader’s future it was no bad thing. 

He was a retired policeman, which worried me slightly, but Trader had reassured me that his outlook was benign, and that he had always been at odds with the puritanical nature of Melbourne society. This comforted me enough to allow myself to relax and enjoy his genuine warmth.

After tea and cake we were bundled into the spare room (“I do hope you won’t mind sharing the bed….”), and invited to freshen up in the bathroom, which was located in a lean-to attachment at the back of the house. After a quick wash-down over a basin of warm water, we donned our civvies and launched ourselves into the perils of Fitzroy, Trader keen to revisit some of his old haunts and show me the sights of his greatest childhood triumphs.

It was most definitely a working-class suburb, full of factories and warehouses, riddled with small, evil smelling laneways, pubs on every corner, and men and women who all looked ready for a fight if you gave them the wrong kind of look. But they all knew Trader, and the warmth with which he was greeted and feted turned this grimy place into the most friendly kingdom, and I have nothing but fond and affectionate memories of the all too short time I spent there with him.

On our return to the cottage in the early evening, following a pub-crawl of epic proportions, Madge bundled us into our bedroom and encouraged us to “freshen up” while she got dinner ready. Brian was having a drink with a few mates at The Standard, but was expected back any minute. I desperately wanted to fuck Trader’s arse, but with his mother in the next room cooking up a sweet smelling braise, I felt this was neither the time nor the place. Maybe later.

We had just appeared from our room when we heard the front door slam shut and a somewhat flushed Brian entered the kitchen, none the worse for a few pints and full of his oats as he wrapped Madge in his arms and planted a sweet kiss on her bare cheek. She giggled, told him not be an “old fool”, and went on with her cooking.

Dinner was a delight, Trader full of reminiscences which both parents confirmed and enlarged upon, while I was plied with questions about life at sea, my own family and how I had become such a good friend to their beloved son. With Trader on one side of me at the table and Brian on the other, and Madge up and down fidgeting and fussing with every conceivable detail, I felt as if I was enveloped in this loving family and their history.

So it was a surprise when I felt a hand land very solidly on the front of my pants and squeeze my groin, making me start visibly, which I hastily covered with a fit of coughing. Looking at Trader sitting beside me with a look of such innocence on his face, I gave him a warning glare and hurriedly removed his hand, swearing to myself that he would be getting such a spanking once we were alone. I wasn’t really upset, but the thought of the retired policeman sitting next to me was enough to induce caution into my otherwise careless nature.

Things progressed happily enough for a while until Trader’s hand unexpectedly launched a second assault on my pants, this time showing no sign of being summarily dismissed as it expertly unbuttoned my fly and insinuated itself into my shorts. I was pissed enough from our pub visits to find the whole thing rather amusing, and carried on my conversation with Madge while her son pulled my cock from my pants and started wanking me under the table. I didn’t dare look at Brian sitting happily sozzled on my other side, and only hoped that his own inebriation had left him similarly carefree, and unobservant.

Madge meanwhile fussed about, clearing plates, serving up bowls of delicious vanilla ice-cream, insisting on tea for everyone, and generally being totally unaware of the perversity occurring just underneath her floral tablecloth.

With such expert handling it didn’t take me long to reach the point of no return. Pretending to blow my nose and stifle a sneeze, I hastily pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and held it up to my face, just as my cock spasmed and I let out a low moan, which I successfully turned into a loud cough. 

I could feel myself spurting again and again under the table as Trader’s experienced hand milked me of every last drop. I could only imagine the mess that was going on under there, and had no idea how I’d clean it up before either Madge or Brian discovered it.

It was a relief to feel him finally release my spent dick, just in time for a cup of tea. Madge hoped that I wasn’t coming down with a cold, which I assured her I wasn’t, maybe just a touch of hayfever. Putting the hanky back in my pocket I fumbled my sloppy penis back into my pants and hastily did up the buttons on my fly, happy to have the old boy back under cover once more. I managed a quick glance under the table and was relieved to see few traces of my spunk, figuring that Trader had managed to catch most of it in his hand, possibly to enjoy later on.

Back in our bedroom I didn’t know whether to to be angry or amused by the little adventure. When Trader came up behind me and pressed his boner against my bum, whispering in my ear that he was ready for that fuck now, I laughed out loud and told him that having already drained my balls during dinner, he’d have to wait a while. I turned to face him and the look of genuine bewilderment on his face took me by surprise.

“You mean you didn’t just give me a handjob under the table?” 

His look of bewilderment changed to shock, before his face lit up and he burst out laughing, like I’d never seen him laugh before.

“That old bugger” he gasped, in between guffaws. “Like father like son, huh?”