Pump Room 4

Imposing sailors surround Midshipman 4/c John Hoffman. Wearing conspiratorial grins, the salivating sea dogs rape the boy with lascivious eyes.

“Be in pump room 4. Midnight,” orders an HT2.

Reporting aboard USS Independence CV62 two weeks ago for at-sea training, Hoffman was enthusiastically welcomed by Hull Maintenance Technicians (HT) in Repair Division. Initiated and provided a Fleet education, in short order he was subjugated and taught to service the men.

Nothing personal - just sailors enjoying the sea’s bounty.

* * *

Throughout the ship oncoming midwatch standers are roused.

“Mosconi, shake a leg… it’s 2330,” informs a shipmate.

The carrier requires constant vigilance to ensure safe operations. A highly synchronized system of watches is employed per OPNAV 3120.32, Navy Standard Organization and Regulations Manual. And every sailor fills a billet with prescribed duties and watch standing responsibilities.

Engineering Department Repair Division’s forward berthing is home to the sailors assigned to the Shipfitter Shop, Carpenter Shop, and AFFF Light Water Shop. The smoking lamp is out, and the compartment’s nighttime red-globed lights are energized.

Stirring in a bottom rack HTFA Mosconi awakens.

Dream interrupted, he’s painfully erect.

Being of Northern Italian and German extraction, the alabaster skinned sailor is slender with a narrow waist and flat stomach. Possessing arresting facial features, the elfin boy has flaxen blonde hair and shimmering azure eyes. And his adorable ass attracts considerable attention.

Residing in an all-male environment, sailors naturally sleep naked. Parting curtains without a second thought, vacating the coffin-sized rack, the somnolent sailor strikes his skull and stumbles over boondockers adrift on the deck.

“Fuck!” swearing like a sailor.

The miserable black leather footwear, standard Navy issue since World War II, is heavy, clunky, and causes blisters and calluses. Virtually unwearable, impossible to shine, the ankle-high shoes have tormented sailors for decades.

Mosconi massages his sore head and stiff cock.

Familiar sounds fill the compartment.

Sailors are well attuned to the ambient consonance: humming machinery, whirling HVAC motors, groaning aircraft elevator cables, fluid rushing through pipes, squeaking racks, conspiratorial whispers, labored breathing, and squelching lubricants.

Cloistered in racks, men are immersed in a timeless ritual.

Slave to the undeniable biological imperative to expel seed, ship-wide 5,200 cocks are aggressively manhandled. All sailors choke-the-chicken, prime the pump, spank the monkey, shuck the corn, crank the handle, punch the clown, beat the meat.

And 4 gallons of jam are discharged every day.

Reading materials facilitate the endeavor.

Catering to the corporeal needs of servicemen, patriotic publishers produce a plethora of prurient periodicals. Supply Department S-3 Division stocks the ship’s store with a generous assortment: Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Forum, Oui, Asian Dolls, and Black Bitches.

A boon to morale, thousands of issues are sold every month. And extensive libraries can be found in every work center and berthing compartment.

Shameless exhibitionists, sailors have no qualms if shipmates watch daily ministrations. Not exclusively a solitary endeavor, helping hands are always appreciated. Forging strong bonds, the men routinely assist each other and share scandalous stories of sordid soirees.

Time’s running short; Mosconi needs to report for watch.

No time to bust a nut.

He’ll take care of that in a pump room.

With practiced efficiency he gets dressed in the dark. Avoiding needless complications, he pulls on blue engineering coveralls sans underwear. Providing no support for his swollen gear, the well-worn cotton coveralls leave little to the imagination.

 * * *

Mosconi makes for Damage Control Central.

Heading aft, traversing the 2nd deck port passageway, he opens a gray Ellison door.

Breaking the pressure boundary, entering the access trunk, oppressive heat and noise radiate upward from No. 2 Auxiliary Machinery Room (2AMR), 7-132-0-E.  Descending to the 4th deck via inclined vertical ladders, he undogs a quick-acting ballistic door.

Located amidships and on centerline above 2AMR is Engineering Main Control and Damage Control Central, 4-132-0-C. Steaming the propulsion plant, the command center is continuously manned by Engineering Department officers and enlisted watchstanders.

Pulsing with activity the watch is changing.

Sailors in Repair Division stand the Sounding & Security Patrol.

Walking bow to stern, descending & ascending ladders, six 7th deck pump rooms are inspected for fire or flooding. Soundings of 80 remote tanks, accessed via tubes located throughout the 2nd deck, are also accomplished with a brass weighted 100-foot coiled steel tape.

Mosconi takes custody of the sounding tape, clipboard, and data sheets.

And he assumes the watch.

 * * *

Pump rooms are reached via 40-foot vertical ladders in access trunks.

Striking below to the three forward pump rooms in succession, Mosconi measures the brackish liquid level in the bilges below the deck gratings and records the readings on the data sheets.

Heading down the port passageway, abaft the beam and through quick-acting water-tight doors, he enters mess deck 5. Operating continuously, Supply Department’s S-2 Division is feeding the Air Wing, Air Department, and men coming off watch.

Located on centerline is the access trunk for pump room 4.

The watertight hatch with raised coaming has an 18-inch diameter quick-acting escape scuttle in the middle. A ‘circle yoke’ placard on the scuttle permits the fitting to be opened without first requesting permission from Damage Control Central.

Turning the hand wheel, engaging the spindle, he undogs and opens the scuttle. Shimmying through the orifice, climbing down the trunk, he hears unexpected sounds. An observant watchstander, he knows the rhythm and vibration of pumps pulsing below.

This is something different.

Faint phonations. Staccato moans and groans.

And there’s no doubt about it… someone’s getting fucked.

* * * Flashback 30 Minutes * * *

Midshipman Hoffman descends into the ship’s bowels.

Reaching the bottom of the access trunk, he enters 7-183-0-E. Pump room 4. Pale light from an overhead explosive-proof fixture provides sparse illumination, casting tenebrific shadows. The overpowering stench of JP-5 aviation fuel permeates the stale air.

Painted in shades of gray, figures emerge from the shadows… the gritty interplay of light and dark obscuring all but glowing eyes. Moving deliberately like a pack of feral dogs, skilled predators quickly converge and surround the midshipman.

Glancing at tented coveralls he knows what they want.

It’s what all the sailors have wanted since he reported aboard.

Remote and isolated, disconnected from activities five decks above, the pump room is an ideal location for sampling young midshipmen. Bearing minatory grins and sharp teeth, the pack’s excitement is palpable as they anticipate scrumptious midrats.

Hoffman is a meal they might not otherwise enjoy. A rare and wondrous delicacy, there’s nothing quite like succulent Naval Academy sea-pussy. Plump and primed, pliable plebes picked, packaged, and provided to the Fleet at the peak of perfection.

And who doesn’t want a piece?

Blanketed by the din of motors, pumps, gurgling pipes, and sloshing liquids in the bilges, extended conversation is difficult and completely unnecessary. Everyone knows the agenda.

Accepting his subservient position in the food-chain, Hoffman doesn’t offer resistance. Escorted to a large fuel oil transfer manifold, feeling the unmistakable hardness of enlisted tumescence pressing against him, the midshipman’s heart accelerates.

He’s stripped and positioned over the manifold.

Working with practiced efficiency, sailors secure his hands to an 18-inch valve hand-wheel with rough hemp line. Another repositions the ass at the perfect height, spreads the legs, and rotates the hips to the correct angle to facilitate deep penetration.

Removing a portable emergency battle lantern from the forward stanchion, a sailor illuminates the academy ass. Spreading the boy open, boondockers pound on metal deck plates as pack members gather around and maneuver for unobstructed views.

Attention is riveted on the sweet hole.

Beautifully exposed, a trichroic hue… bluish-blackish-purple, surrounds the battered orifice. Agape, the puffy ring of muscle, having lost numerous recent battles, valiantly stands watch but ineffectively guards the entrance to the circuitous crimson canal.

“We got to it just in time,” notes a pack mate.

Reflecting on the transient nature of beauty, they lament the fleeting magnificence of the once pristine sea pussy. Rapidly degrading, it will soon be stretched beyond mil-specifications for optimum pleasure. Once rendered unserviceable for routine shafting they’ll repurpose the fitting… teaming-up with buddies to experience some double-dipping.

At sea, no midshipman’s hole goes unused.

A sailor stuffs a dollop of grease inside the bruised opening.

The pack’s breeding Alpha moves into position. Possessing an overabundance of swagger, his cock is longer, thicker, more powerful than most shipmates.

Dispensing with needless formalities, grabbing hips, he presses against swollen lips. Slamming forward, encountering only token resistance, he impales Hoffman balls deep in one smooth fluid motion. And the velvet chute convulses around the visitor.

An incorrigible sea-pussy enthusiast, he delights in shafting the whimpering boy. Demonstrating superiority, his dominance is arousing. Impressed pack members watch the spectacle, offer encouragement, and applaud the performance.

Hoffman instinctively spreads his legs wider to facilitate penetration.

Vocalizing wordless vowels, he moans and groans… harmonizing with the pump room machinery. Impossible to resist, he’s grown to accept being a sea-bitch for enlisted men. So much so that now a hard cock just feels like it belongs up inside him.

The Alpha relishes the timeless at-sea ritual. Satisfying an ingrained imperative, he pumps in-and-out… maximizing the length of each stroke. Changing angles, widening the hole with every plunge, the sailor is focused solely on his own pleasure.

Taking a heroic shafting, Hoffman is a monument to duty.

* * * Return to The Present * * *

HTFA Mosconi reaches the bottom of the access trunk.

Cautiously entering the pump room, scanning the compartment for danger, he identifies silhouettes clustered around the port JP-5 transfer manifold. Moving as if controlled by one mind, the shapes are distinguishable from one another yet inexorably linked in deed.

Startled by the emergence of the unknown, the pack pivots and instinctively assumes a defensive posture. Like predators guarding a fresh kill, sailors aggressively defend midshipmen assigned to their division and vigorously fight off opportunistic poaches.

The intruder is sized up and evaluated.

Rank is everything.

Scanning for insignia, they quickly ascertain it’s not an officer or chief. Remote and inhospitable, the pump room seldom sees a visitor of their ilk. Dropping anchor in the Officer’s Wardroom or Chief’s Mess, leadership only recently finished the evening’s movie.

Gas Pump Girls for commissioned gentlemen.

Something much saltier for enlisted seadogs and tars.

Another dog & pony presentation with Asian girls & boys. Fatiguing, they can only watch so many hours of holes getting knotted by domesticated friends. Thankfully, a few pigs in the mix provide interest and levity. And it’s debatable who squeals with more joy… the animals or the kids.

Stray light illuminates flaxen blonde hair, shimmering eyes, and the glint of a metal sounding tape… revealing their shipmate making the rounds on sounding & security patrol.

Relaxing, they gesture for him to join the festivities.

An Omega sailor, Mosconi occupies the lowest position in the enlisted hierarchy. During desperate times when resources are scarce, he provides necessary accommodations and satisfies the feeding and breeding requirements of the superior males.

In turn they provide protection from other predators.

Moving closer he notices the bound midshipman.

The Alpha resumes fucking Hoffman. Thrusting forward with jarring force, confidently navigating the dredged and well established channel, he keeps count for entry into the midshipman’s log book - advancing the kid 300 inches closer to certification.

The compulsion to watch is overwhelming. The juxtaposition of circumstances and reversal of superior - inferior rolls is immensely appealing. In three years the midshipman will be commissioned, and the junior officer will routinely fuck over sailors with impunity.

But not today.

So the men enjoy themselves when they can, knowing payback is coming.

Regrettably, Mosconi is on watch and can’t stay long.

He’ll have to hustle to accomplish all the required soundings. While tempted to take a turn with Hoffman, he doesn’t want to gundeck readings, face deleterious consequences, and provide his Division Officer with yet another opportunity to provide him with discipline.

Ensign Rozo’s enlisted ass fetish is well known. Many contrite sailors have been stripped, spanked, spread, and stuffed. Deservedly so, of course. But still, why get shanked up the ass when it’s avoidable? Unless you like that sort of thing; plenty do.

Hoffman’s ass is calling to Mosconi.

Primal and undeniable, the irresistible siren song has captivated and enticed sailors since they set upon the sea with young cabin boys. A symbiotic relationship, men have corporeal needs that only boys can satisfy. And a happy crew makes a more enjoyable voyage.

Capturing his imagination, Mosconi struggles to resist deep-ingrained primal urges. Being only human, his resolve to duty weakens and evaporates. Consequences be damned… he needs a piece. Extracting and stroking his tumid shaft, he joins the queue.

Shouting expletives, the Alpha thrusts deeply into Hoffman, stiffens, and floods the anfractuous chamber with a fusillade of sticky jam. Breathing hard, completely drained, the contented sailor is thankful to be a petty officer in the Unites States Navy.

Descending the climatic high he vacates the fitting.

And the pack’s Beta immediately steps up to the manifold.

Since boot camp he’s heard sea-stories extolling the virtues of midshipman. Desperate to satiate his curiosity, he takes station astern the quivering ring. Although possessing standard girth, the sailor’s mushroom head is unusually large - swollen with blood and desire.

Trembling with anticipation, feeling an overwhelming sense of power, he mounts and impales Hoffman in one brutal thrust. Aggressively advancing down the pervious passageway, pushing internal organs aside, he explores the kid’s inner most reaches.

Running aground in shoal waters, he backs up and grabs Hoffman’s hips. Lunging savagely forward, throwing his whole body weight into the endeavor, unconcerned about tearing the chute’s membranes, he successfully entrenches himself balls deep.

Astonished by the succulent glove, he experiences unimagined pleasure.

Ascending a euphoric pinnacle, the rapturous sailor luxuriates in perfection.

Fully plugged, physically and spiritually bound, Hoffman experiences intense pain and pleasure. Embracing his reality, understanding that sailors are entitled to dominate midshipmen, he experiences the profound joy of total submission.

“Mmm…. fuck me. Fuck me,” he moans.

And the Beta grants the midshipman’s request.

Increasing speed, the collision of hips slamming against muscular glutes reverberates throughout the pump room. Thrusting with powerful legs he fucks Hoffman with reckless abandon.

Maneuvering closer for an unobstructed view, Mosconi leans over a network of fuel transfer valves. Exquisitely handsome, slight of build and boyish in appearance, he looks fifteen. Smooth and almost hairless, his alluring ass draws attention like a navigational beacon on foggy seas.

Mesmerized by the fucking, he barely notices a caressing hand.

A routine occurrence, he’s often the recipient of grab-ass play.

United by a common purpose, men at sea develop strong bonds. Enjoying camaraderie and deep emotional attachments, sailors frequently engage in homoerotic roughhousing. Immersed in a sea of masculinity, physical intimacy is just a reality of life.

Under ordinary circumstances pack members would fuck the Omega over the manifold. But with Hoffman and other midshipmen aboard, non-rates, fresh seafood, and other bottom dwellers are relatively safe from serious predation.

The Beta is nearing completion. Thrusting fast and hard, he punishes the well stretched hole. Stiffening, anticipating the undeniable joyous release, his balls suddenly explode… violently impregnating and flooding the sea-pussy with potent enlisted seed.

And another satisfied sailor is served.

The Navy is a hierarchical organization with clearly defined levels of authority and privileges. And sailors are acutely aware of the order of precedence. Interceding, adjusting the order, the Alpha grants Mosconi access to the midshipman before the boy’s rank would normally permit.

Grateful, barely able to contain his excitement, Mosconi’s eyes sparkle with youthful exuberance and vitality. Pressing his desperate need into the slot, hammering it home with one savage thrust, he dives into the deep waters of depravity.

And instantly understands the attraction.

Infinitely better than jerking-off, it’s exhilarating fucking a midshipman.

Intoxicating, there’s nothing quite like it - physically and psychologically. Aggressively pounding Hoffman, navigating the channel, pushing in and pulling out, quivering with delight, he now understands why shipmates enjoy fucking him so much.

What’s not to love about sea-pussy?

In the Navy nothing is free. Incurring a significant price for advancing in the queue, once all the midshipmen depart Independence in four weeks Mosconi will resume standing the watch. As a popular Omega he’ll be utilized by aggressive shipmates. Repeatedly

But for now he isn’t the low man on the pole. And he takes full advantage of the opportunity. Reaching the pinnacle of pleasure, he stiffens, and blows his load inside the academy tail.

Recovering, vacating the pump room, he quickly resumes his sounding patrol.

An hour later the pack is finished breeding Hoffman.

The exhausted midshipman made good progress toward certification. Unable to clench his sphincter, an oily rag is stuffed up inside the damaged hole to stem the leaking. Moving slowly, he pulls on his uniform and gingerly ascends the pump room ladder.

* * *

Every ship in the Fleet has a unique story.

Bridge wings are decorated with awards: battle ‘E’s, unit citations, and ribbons for Fleet operations, interdiction missions, and power projection deployments - tangible manifestations of the blood, sweat, and tears of countless officers and men who proudly served aboard.

Over 25+ years of commissioned life USS Independence has seen it all.

Witness to history and tens-of-thousands of horny young sailors engaged in cock sucking, ass fucking, gangbangs, circle-jerks, spit-roasts, ring wrecking initiations, and other perpetrated perverse predilections… if only her bulkheads and decks could speak.

Oh, the sea stories they would tell.

Especially Pump Room 4.

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Comments and experiences with midshipmen, shipboard or ashore, are always of interest.