Sea Pussy

Inport, where trollops gravitate towards sailors like barnacles to a hull, and pussy is readily obtainable at every Norfolk bar and street corner, sailors rarely fuck shipmates. That would be gay. And everyone knows there are no gay sailors in the US Navy.

Underway, however, the rules of engagement are substantially altered. Combating the tribulations of nautical life, cloistered for long durations without officially sanctioned releases, young men naturally seek alternative outlets. Entrenched in a competitive environment where predators and prey cohabitate, sailors… some willingly, others not as much, provide essential services.

And honestly, who doesn’t enjoy an occasional piece of sea pussy?

BMSA Andersson traverses Hanger Bay 1.

Heading forward, ascending two starboard inclined vertical ladders, navigating through passageways and watertight hatches, he enters the ship’s fo’c’sle, 02-H-0-Q. Fastidiously clean, it’s maintained by Deck Department’s 1st Division Boatswain’s Mates (BM).

Decorated with nautical iconography and brightwork, the space is a traditional ceremonial area for reenlistment, retirement, and award presentations. Its primary function, however, is for mooring and anchoring the ship - housing capstans, anchor chains, line, and various bits and chocks.

Secluded in the aft port quarter is the division’s office.

The sailor apprehensively knocks on the non-watertight door.

“Enter,” responds LT Howard.

Unadorned and austere, the office is formed by the conjunction of longitudinal frames, a non-watertight transverse bulkhead, and shell plating. A ubiquitous double bulb fluorescent fixture, flickering off-white light, is suspended above a gray Steelcase double pedestal metal desk.

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Ah, yes Andersson…”

Relatively fresh seafood, he resides at the bottom of the military food chain.

The sailor performs repetitive manual labor: heaving mooring lines, connecting shots of anchor chain, working with 350 lb. detachable links, swivels, and other ground tackle, and stowing hundreds of 5-gallon paint cans in the aft 01 level boatswain’s locker.

Muscle with a low attention span and the IQ of a bollard, the ginger boy has broad shoulders, massive biceps and triceps, a wide muscular chest with solid smooth pectorals, rippling abdominals, powerful legs, and a swole ass all wrapped in pretty pink-white skin.

“…stand at parade rest sailor.”

With a snap of deference in the submission, hands behind back and feet spread shoulder width apart, Andersson is on display for his superior. The sailor’s well-worn paint-splattered dungarees conform to the contours of the prominent package and alluring ass.

And little is left to the imagination.

“I’ve received a report chit initiated by BM1 Sanders.”

“Fuck,” the sailor reflexively utters.

It’s the first step in the military judicial system.

By signing an enlistment contract, sailors surrender their civil law rights and voluntarily accept military authority and jurisdiction delineated under Navy Regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. The report chit, NAVPERS 1626/7, delineates violations.

“You’re being charged with an article 91 infraction.”

UCMJ Art. 91. Insubordinate Conduct Toward a Noncommissioned Officer or Petty Officer.

Any enlisted member who (1) strikes or assaults a warrant officer, noncommissioned officer, or petty officer, while that officer is in the execution of his office; (2) willfully disobeys the lawful order of a warrant officer, noncommissioned officer, or petty officer; or (3) treats with contempt or is disrespectful in language or deportment toward a warrant officer, noncommissioned officer, or petty officer while that officer is in the execution of his office; shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.

Division Officers are responsible for investigating alleged offenses by their subordinates. Determining disposition, wielding absolute power, LT Howard can either squelch or forward the report chit to Legal for processing, XO review, and CO’s Non-Judicial Punishment.

“Were you disrespectful towards the BM1?”

“Umm… there might have been a misunderstanding,” prevaricates the cautious sailor.

Two days ago the ship conducted an underway replenishment with Mount Baker AE-34. Working at CONREP Station 7, Andersson was under the direct supervision of BM1 Sanders. Manipulating circumstances per LT Howard’s direction, he virtually ensured the BMSA’s insubordination.

Interrogating Andersson, confronting him with inconsistencies, eyewitness reports, and irrefutable evidence, the LT enjoys watching the hapless squid squirm. An appreciative spectator, he applies additional pressure upon the miserable cephalopod.

“Did you call the BM1 a fucking faggot?”

“Umm… I might have. He’s gay. And everyone knows it!”

The truth being inconsequential, as the division’s Leading Petty Officer, the BM1 is entitled to all the respect, rights, and privileges associate with his pay grade and position. It’s a military aphorism - respect the uniform, if not the man.

“Well that’s most unfortunate.”

An Officer’s first obligation is to maintain good order and discipline.

And respect for rank is essential.

“Please sir, don’t process the chit. I’ll do anything you want. I swear!”

Unfolding as planned, the authoritative officer delights in the possibilities presented by the desperate sailor. He enjoys hunting, subjugating, and emasculating unsuspecting straight sailors - especially ginger boys… his favorite meal, transforming them into sea-pussy.

“Perhaps we can reach an understanding,” the LT offers with a sly smile.

Underway, many unofficial punishments exist.

Besides Extra Military Instruction (EMI), many junior sailors willingly provide special services to their superiors to preclude Mast and the associated deleterious consequences. Demonstrating contrition, cock sucking is a particularly efficacious concession.

“Yes… yes… anything!”

The shrewd officer smiles with satisfaction.

Walking slowly around the sailor, examining him from every angle, savoring the erotic potential, he confidently imagines taking extensive liberties with the boy’s ass. Aroused, his erection expands and struggles for quarters inside the constricting khaki trousers.

“You sure Andersson?”

“Yes sir.”

The relieved sailor is completely unaware he’s trapped.

“You have an amazing ass, boy.”

Profound silence fills the compartment.

Suddenly sailing in dangerous waters, the grin evaporates from Andersson’s face. He understands the officer’s calculated comment. The implicit offer - his ass for favorable report chit adjudication - is an unexpectedly high price for resolution of his transgression.

“Oh fuck. Perhaps I could perform EMI, or… another service sir?” he desperately begs, attempting to avoid the terrible consequences of his indiscretion.

Floundering, his fate hanging precariously in the balance, Andersson perspires profusely and exudes the alluring scent of Old Spice Cologne. Rich and classic, the timeless fragrance is a blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood.

“Service? What do you mean?”

Although fully anticipating the counteroffer, Howard nevertheless feigns ignorance, enjoying the sailor’s rapidly increasing distress. Partial to groveling white boys, the authoritative officer forces the chagrinned sailor to explicitly beg for the privilege of sucking his superior.

“You know, could I umm…,” the flushed sailor stammers.

Completing a required turn over-the-barrel, obediently performing his duty, Andersson has serviced shipmates. At sea, sucking isn’t considered gay. Just a way to get stuff done. Although a consumer of pedestrian enlisted jam, he’s never sucked a commissioned officer.

“…oh fuck, could I suck your cock?” the sailor implores.

Allegiant to the military chain-of-command, functioning through work center supervisors, junior sailors infrequently speak directly with officers. Inexperienced, trampling over proper protocol, Andersson unprofessionally employs the vernacular of enlisted men.

Accustomed to respectful articulation with a subservient disposition, the LT is irritated by Andersson’s temerity and crude informality. An officer and gentleman, accorded a privileged status by an act of Congress, he insists on being addressed accordingly.

Overstepping the bounds of punctilio, the consequences are immediate.

“What did you say sailor?” excoriates the LT.

Immediately realizing his error, chastened by the officer’s rebuke, desperately hoping to defuse the perilous situation, Andersson begs for the privilege of blowing the authoritative Lieutenant.
“Please sir, very respectfully request permission to service you, sir!”

Searching the officer’s face for compassion, finding none, he’s filled with hopelessness. Having observed numerous dominant alpha males subjugate inferior shipmates, he recognizes the aggressive hunger in the Lieutenant’s eyes - like a predator staring down prey.

“Permission denied. That’s insufficient for insubordination.”

“But… but… I’m not gay sir,” the shocked sailor whimpers.

At sea, sexual interactions take many forms. Contextual instead of universal, gender identification is fluid, defined more by desire than biology… where one sailor becomes the object of affection and property of another more dominant sailor or officer, transforming the strict male/ female paradigm.

Aggressively hunted, receiving salacious solicitations, Andersson’s natural inclination is to relentlessly defend his masculinity. Fighting off persistent shipmates, he hopes to complete his enlistment without enduring the humiliation of being brutally stuffed up the ass.

A laudable but unrealistic goal.

Especially aboard Independence with its predatory officers.

Every sailor understands that actions have consequences. Disobedience, insubordination, and other UCMJ indiscretions must be aggressively resolved to maintain good order and discipline. Naval life isn’t for the faint hearted. And significant sacrifices are frequently required.

“Of course you’re not gay, Andersson.”

Enjoying carnal familiarity with Norfolk’s best, he’s a healthy heterosexual.

If gay, Howard would have no interest in him. After all, who wants to traverse a well-trodden path? Unquestionably, the ultimate pleasure resides in conquering a straight sailor, shattering his confidence, obliterating his pride, domesticating his spirit, stealing his masculinity.

“It’s your choice,” advises the obdurate LT.

Andersson is lost in thought weighing the alternatives.

The ship’s Captain is a strict disciplinarian.

He routinely awards the maximum combination of penalties allowable by law. It teaches perpetrator and crew that improper actions have consequences. And the results of Mast are always published in the Plan of The Day and read aloud at quarters.

Not wanting to face the Old Man again, already serving under a suspended reduction in paygrade for indulging in recreational cannabis, Andersson is without any viable alternatives.

Negotiations are over.

Poised at the edge of the abyss, the distraught sailor makes a terrible life-altering decision and takes the unavoidable plunge. Consummating a Faustian Bargain, unconditionally surrendering his most valuable commodity, he accepts emasculation and the ancillary ramifications.

“Oh fuck … okay sir,” the devastated sailor whispers.

“Excellent choice.”

Inordinately pleased, intoxicated with the pungent perfume of despair suffusing the compartment, the officer trembles with the unbearable pleasure of dominating the defenseless sailor. Savoring the moment, it’s a beautiful thing when a hunting expedition produces tangible results.

“Strip.”

With eyes distant and unblinking, Andersson removes his shirt, unfastens the web belt buckle, and unzips his dungarees. Pushing the worn trousers to the deck, the sailor stands stoically at attention with his meaty pink cock, red velvet ball bag, and plush ass on display for his superior.

“Magnificent.”

On his right arm is a traditional tattoo - two admiralty anchors crossed at 90 degrees, a central shank and crown with flukes at the bottom, and shackle and stock mounted on top. Superstitious, the tattoo ensures safe voyages, stability, and protection from adversity.

“Bend over the desk.”

And the sailor obediently descends across the sacrificial altar.

Exercising imperium, the officer takes possession of his prize. Like an ancient priest arranging an offering to Neptune, he carefully positions Andersson - spreading legs, lifting the ass, arching the back, rotating the hips - ensuring proper alignment for deep penetration.

“Who owns this ass, sailor?”

“You sir,” the disconsolate boy responds.

Maximizing the indignity, he orders Andersson to reach back and spread himself open, revealing the small and defenseless orifice. Exposed and utterly vulnerable, the nauseous sailor is immensely embarrassed… his face burning with a lifetime’s worth of humiliation and shame.

“Awesome… so beautiful.”

Inspecting the defenseless hole, he runs a calloused finger around the perfect little pink rosebud, softer than silk. Disdaining laborious preparations, a minuscule amount of MIL-G-18458 grease is deployed around the quivering ring and pressed inside.

“What do you want me to do, sailor?”

“F… fuck. Fuck me,” he responds, choking back tears.

Departing the realm of normal boys, forfeiting his masculine birthright, the devastated sailor’s exclusive heterosexual world is ending. It was inevitable. Big fish eat little fish. And bottom dwellers never return from sea unchanged by the experience.

“No. That’s not how a sailor asks for it. Try again.”

“Please sir, respectfully request permission to get fucked.”

“Better. And why do you deserve to be fucked?”

“To teach me a lesson, sir. To respect rank.”

“Exactly. This is going to hurt… and not just at the beginning,” he explains. The purpose of punishment is the object lesson - so the offense isn’t repeated. And pain is a great motivator and teacher of young sailors. “Remember this the next time you’re tempted to mouth off.”

Knowledgeable fingers aggressively poke, prod, and tease the terrified sphincter. Dominated like a freshman schoolgirl behind the bleachers by members of the varsity football team, Andersson passively accepts the officer’s exploratory manipulations.

It’s time. And they both know it.

Howard initiates the ultimate act of domination.

And positions his swollen dark-purple crown against the ring.

“You feel my authority over you?”

“Yes sir.”

“And where is it going?”

“Up… up inside me.”

“That’s right,” smiles the delighted officer as he applies a little pressure. Combating the sailor’s natural inclination to resist, he incrementally increases pressure against the clenching ring. Enjoying the thrill of conquest, he savors the challenge.

After all, the greater the effort… the sweeter the victory.

So, he doesn’t want to breach the last line of defense too quickly.  Besides, the utilization of government property must be always be accomplished in the best interest of the Nation.

Teasingly, he advances and retreats.

Eventually the boy’s muscle fatigues. Slowly surrendering to the relentless pressure, the valiant ring can’t hold out forever. And a life altering beaching is imminent. Sensing an impending victory, the sadistic officer backs off, confusing the struggling sailor.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“What? Oh thank you sir!”

Unexpectedly, Howard smacks Andersson’s head against the desk.

The sailor is momentarily dazed.

“Just kidding.”

Lunging forward, the rapacious ebony cock breaches the distracted ring and violently penetrates the stunned sailor. Stretching and destroying the devastated chute, the thickening shaft storms through the convulsing passageway until two-blocked.

“Fuuucccckkkkkkk!!” he screams in agony.

“Oh yeah. So tight.”

Impaled, intense pain radiates throughout his inner core. His undulating chute grips the shaft, futilely fighting the insistent invader as it rearranges internal organs.

Hammering away, brutally thrusting back-and-forth, splitting the ass wide open, the LT ensures the sailor feels every fucking inch. Vitiating the pristine landscape, staking claim to Andersson’s masculinity, he delights in destroying the boy’s identity and self-esteem.

It’s another fine Navy day for good order and discipline.

And valuable lessons are learned.

“What are you sailor?”

“Sea… sea pussy,” acknowledges the sobbing sailor.

Disgracefully fucked, he’ll never be the same again.

And he drowns in the new reality.

BM1 Sanders enters the division office. He’s not alone. Several other petty officers have been invited to watch and participate. Extracting and stroking his cock, the BM1 violently bitch slaps Andersson, and stuffs it inside the devastated sailor’s mouth.

“Who’s the fucking faggot now?” he laughs.

Upon completion, the LT gives Andersson to his petty officers.

A gangbang commences… a long night of debauchery.

1st Division has a new sea pussy.

And word quickly spreads.

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