USS Independence CV62 - Ch3: Guilty

By Ensign James Rozo, USN


Chapter 3

“I am a United States Sailor. I will support and defend the Constitution and obey the orders of those appointed over me. I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world. I proudly serve my country’s Navy combat team with honor, courage and commitment. I am committed to excellence and the fair treatment of all.” ~ Sailor’s Creed ~


Upon arrival at the master-at-arms shack, 2-216-2-Q, Ensign Rozo observes the duty section senior chief and four imposing sailors, one being MA2 Beberdick, surrounding airman Wetter.

Facing a bulkhead, inclined with extremities spread wide, Wetter is being aggressively searched for contraband. The senior chief, taking advantage of the teaching opportunity, instructs his sailors in proper frisking techniques, and under his watchful eye they all take turns honing their skills.

Providing no quarter, they grope every inch of Wetter’s body.

Patting down his legs, investigating his inviting ass, and repeatedly thumping his ball bag, the sailors have growing smiles and erections. Empowered as the ship’s police force, they relish exercising authority over shipmates, and without hesitation, take full advantage of the opportunity to physically abuse Wetter.

“Who’s the sailor?” asks the Command Duty Officer.

“ABEAN Wetter, V2 Division,” Rozo responds, glancing at the kid’s identification card.

As an E-3 aviation boatswain's mate - equipment, Wetter maintains and operates the ship’s steam catapults, hydraulic arresting gear engines, water-cooled jet blast deflectors, and miscellaneous support equipment associated with the launch and recovery of combat aircraft.

“Sir, I believe there’s accelerant residue on the sailor’s uniform. Since we’re looking at arson, Article 126, I recommend we confiscate Wetter’s clothing as evidence,” Rozo advises.

“Very well,” responds the CDO. Turning to the Senior Chief, “take custody of Wetter’s clothing.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

“Ok Wetter, we know you’re guilty, you soaked the fan room mattresses with naphtha, and the residue is on your uniform. Now strip…CDO’s orders. Do it, or we’ll do it for you,” MA2 Beberdick demands in an aggressive tone.

Stunned but having no choice, Wetter stoically pulls out his short-sleeve blue chambray shirt, unbuttons it, and slides it slowly from his arms. A ragged tee shirt follows, revealing a well-toned chest, small elliptical areolae surrounding erect brown nipples, and tight abdominal and oblique muscles. A treasure trail of black hair leads from his navel down into the bell-bottom trousers.

Everyone is grinning, enjoying the unexpected but welcomed spectacle.

There’s something tremendously exhilarating about watching a sailor being forced to strip in public. Transpiring in the outboard passageway alcove, across from the crew’s library, 2-221-0-L, any curious shipmate can participate in unabashed voyeurism.

With a passive expression, eyes distant and unblinking, Wetter unfastens the web belt’s buckle, unbuttons and unzips his dungarees, and pushes them to the deck. An excellent high school track and soccer athlete, he has long, powerful, heavily corded quadriceps.

Standing in worn skivvies, looking up questioningly, Wetter silently pleads with sorrowful eyes.

“Take them off,” Beberdick demands.

Although it’s really unnecessary to strip the sailor completely, why spoil the fun? Everyone wants the act completed - the public stripping and humiliation of Wetter.

The Ensign briefly tries to look away, but like a moth fatally attracted to a flame, he is helpless. Surrendering to primitive compulsions, he watches with unprecedented acuity, takes a mental movie and files away the indelible erotic images for future masturbatory fodder.

Complying with the direct order, Wetter’s hands shake as unsteady fingers slide under the elastic waistband and slowly retract the skivvies over his substantial gear. Sliding off his hips and down muscular legs, the fabric pools suggestively around his feet.

Surrendering all clothing, the naked sailor is defenseless and utterly humiliated.

Establishing a chain of custody, the master-at-arms efficiently processes the uniform articles for shipment to the Norfolk Navy Safety Center for chemical analysis. There is little doubt that accelerant residue will be found, connecting Wetter to the fire, confirming his guilt.

Although possessing impressive oversized gear, after seeing thousands of naked sailors at boot camp, aboard ship in berthing compartments, heads and showers, at the Fleet Recreation Center, during yearly group physicals, etc., it’s surprising that anyone would give Wetter a second glance.

But like most things in life, location and circumstance is everything.

In the secluded confines of a locker room or berthing compartment, naked sailors abound in staggering quantities, and everyone nonchalantly parades their masculinity, proudly advertising their genetic inheritance. Indifferent to the spectacle, nobody stares too much, or for too long.

But when only one sailor is forcibly stripped by fully clothed authoritative men, it’s altogether another matter. All eyes are automatically drawn downward as they instinctively assess their competition. Everyone stares, compares, and measures the inferior sailor’s gear. Mental pictures are taken, nuances remembered, every ball-bag wrinkle committed to memory.

The master-at-arms are excited but also relieved, thankful that it’s not them standing naked on display like filet mignon in a butcher’s meat case being scrutinized by Old Italian women for Sunday’s dinner.

Excitement and fear - it’s a phenomenon well documented by psychologist.

“Stand at parade rest,” Beberdick orders with excessive exuberance.

Wetter complies submissively, standing still as a statue, resembling the Apollo Belvedere - a marble sculpture from antiquity housed in the Vatican Museum. And like tourists, everyone gathers around the sailor, appreciating the masculine form and relishing his precipitous fall from Mount Olympus.

Self-conscious, a range of emotions plays over the hapless sailor’s face - embarrassment, humiliation, and shame. Surrounded by smirking shipmates and amused officers, Wetter couldn’t be more naked, psychologically stripped of his dignity.

Wetter’s generous foreskin is slightly retracted, affording everyone a glimpse of the large flared gland underneath. The most prominent feature, however, is his impressive ball bag. The lolling key-lime sized testicles hang like fruit on a tree, swaying gently in their velvety-smooth floppy sack.

Ensign Rozo studies Wetter closely. Standing impassively, surrendering all of himself, knowing the officer is perving on his body, he doesn’t dare raise his head or meet his superior’s gaze.

“Why did you set the fire, Wetter?”

“I didn’t sir, honestly,” the sailor replies, protesting his innocence, almost crying.

“What were you doing on the 03-level with naphtha?”

“I was performing maintenance in the arresting gear machinery room, 03-202-0-Q, degreasing engine cables with the naphtha when I smelled smoke through the ventilation system. Investigating, I located the fan room, called the quarterdeck, and came to repair 7-alpha to lend assistance.”

“Bullshit,” MA2 Beberdick interrupts, “you started the fire and then offered assistance…hoping to be the hero. You did it, everyone knows you’re guilty!”

Berberdick’s aggressiveness is starting to annoy Rozo.

Like Javert in Victor Hugo’s classic ‘Le Miserable’, the watchdog of law and order, the MA2 is consumed with self-righteousness. His reputation as an unmitigated asshole is giving way to delusional psychosis that his opinion is of any significance. It’s not.

Reaching out, tilting Wetter’s head up, the Ensign looks into the sailor’s eyes and recognizes shock, despair, and hopelessness…but not guilt. It’s a convincing performance. As a division officer, he has counseled hundreds of sailors and is an astute observer of human nature and foibles.

Still, Wetter is hiding something.

And then, not entirely unexpected, Wetter’s cock starts expanding, getting longer and thicker, reaching its full potential, standing at attention. The testicles begin their migration - the cremasteric reflex, ascending inside the bag…seeking protection in a fight or just prior to ejaculation.

Many sailors have sexual fantasies where they are forcibly stripped and publicly humiliated. Although hugely embarrassed, Wetter is unmistakably sexually excited. Growing impressively, bending slightly left, a prominent blue vein is visible running the entire length of the tumid shaft.

Wetter’s humiliation increases when a pearl of natural lubricant emerge from the piss slit, clings precariously, loses its perch, falls, and splatters onto the terrazzo deck. Several sailors snicker while the sailor’s face burns red with immense shame.

“You going to blow your load for us, fag?” Beberdick sneers.

“Enough! Shut up or I’ll charge you with interfering with the investigation,” Rozo orders.

The CDO nods his concurrence, impressed with the young officer’s strong leadership. Looking at Wetter, the senior officer sees nothing. With the veneer of humanity stripped away, wearing an expression of inexpression, Wetter has mentally retreated inward, his eyes distant and unfocused. He’s gone.

“Senior Chief, can you confine Wetter for the night?” asks the CDO.

“Yes, sir, but per CO’s standing orders, prior to incarceration he must undergo a physical survey by medical department.”

The survey is to document preexisting physical conditions. Recently, sailors under custody have suffered significant damage - the result of Beberdick and his jackboots no doubt. The CO’s standing order mitigates the abuse, removing contentions that the sailor came to them already bruised and beaten.

“Very well, take Wetter to Medical,” the CDO orders.

“Sir, there aren’t any medical officers aboard tonight. A direct order is required to authorize the duty hospital corpsman to perform the survey, and it must be witnessed by a commissioned officer.”

Sensing an opportunity, Ensign Rozo offers to witness the physical and countersign the corpsman’s findings. Something is gnawing at his subconscious and he’s not ready to relinquish the issue just yet.

“Senior Chief, annotate an official log entry: at 2317 I, as CDO, hereby issue a direct order for Airman Wetter to undergo a physical, to be conducted by the duty corpsman, witnessed by Ensign Rozo. Upon completion of the physical, Wetter is to be remanded, awaiting disposition in the morning.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

Taking charge, the authoritative Ensign quickly determines the composition of the escort detail. Naked and subjugated, Wetter isn’t a flight risk, reducing the requirement for master-at-arms.

“I only need one MA,” pointing to a third class petty officer, “you come with me.”

Beberdick, radiating hatred, is furious that he’s been excluded from the evening’s festivities. Envisioning the lost opportunity, precariously near insubordination, he stares at Ensign Rozo with wide feral eyes. Unimpressed, Ensign Rozo delights in derailing Beberdick’s plans. Fuck him.

“Senior Chief, inform Medical we’re on our way.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

The procession to Medical, approximately 100 frames forward, roughly 400 feet, commences with the MA3 leading Wetter, followed by Ensign Rozo. Admiring Wetter’s sweet enlisted ass, the officer’s gear grows in his khaki trousers as he envisions taking liberties and sampling a piece.

Marching athwartship, they proceed to the starboard passageway via the crew’s mess deck. As Wetter strides, his cock swings back-and-forth like a clock’s pendulum while his balls dance rhythmically up and down. Although late, some sailors are playing cards or engaged in serious disquisitions. Most look up, turn, and stare at the procession.

“Hey look, it’s a parade with a one dick float!” a wide-eyed sailor notes with delight.

“All that’s missing is a marching band,” laughs his shipmate.

“Damn, hate to be that poor fucker,” a third sailor adds.

Walking forward through several large quick-acting watertight doors, they pass the ship’s store and engineering log room, 2-141-0-Q and 2-123-1-A respectively. Reaching Medical, HM1 Coyne, the duty hospital corpsman, standing outside the ward awaiting their arrival, greets the Ensign.

“Good evening Ensign Rozo. Please follow me to patient consulting room 1.”

Petty Officer Coyne leads them through a maze of compartments to 2-97-4-L.

Featured prominently in the center of the space is a sturdy stainless steel examination bench upholstered in black leather. Along the bulkheads are cabinets containing diagnostic implements, phlebotomy equipment, and various medical paraphernalia. Suspended from the overhead is a maneuverable-arm, maximum intensity, focusable flood-type diagnostic light.

Perhaps it’s an unofficial BUMED requirement that sailors striking for the corpsman rating must be gay or bisexual. Or perhaps gay boys are just naturally drawn to be pecker-checkers. Either way, most of the corpsmen aboard Indy possess the necessary enthusiasm and predilections for servicing the crew.

HM1 James Coyne, a compassionate and empathetic shipmate, is no exception.

Trim and athletic, the sailor has mixed Irish Anglo-Saxon features, thick wavy black hair, pale clear skin, intense cerulean-blue eyes, and a prominent jaw line with a strong chin.

The Staff of Asclepius, the traditional symbol of medicine - a roughhewn rod with a single snake twined around it, is tattooed on Coyne’s right forearm. On the left arm is the Caduceus, the symbol of the power to harm or to heal - a staff entwined with twin serpents, topped with a pair of wings.

Awhile back, while on liberty in Norfolk, the Ensign helped Coyne through a difficult situation involving an under aged street urchin. The boy, plying his trade on Granby Street, underestimating the sailor’s tumescence and intentions, regretted the transaction after being stuffed balls deep.

The responding ex-military police officer, sympathetic to sailors’ unconventional sexual proclivities, released Coyne into the Ensign’s custody without MP involvement.

In gratitude, the fortunate sailor provides the Ensign with medical intelligence on the crew’s yearly physicals - including the names of shipmates with bruised or gapping assholes, unusual or prodigious gear, and any sexually transmitted diseases.

So much for physician-patient confidentiality.

“I’ll be conducting a comprehensive head-to-toe survey,” Coyne explains.

Any existing abrasions, contusions, erythema, or lacerations will be fully documented on a SF 88, Report of Medical Examination. The corpsman will also feel internal organs for deformities, tenderness, pulsations, or abnormal texture. Ensign Rozo will confirm all findings and countersign in block 80.

“Very well, commence the examination,” directs the Ensign.

Donning latex examination gloves, Coyne positions Wetter under the bright lights. With feet shoulder width apart, arms up and out parallel to the deck he looks like a prisoner of war being interrogated.

Caressing the sailor’s musculature, the skillful corpsman quickly identifies multiple appendage lacerations and burns, minor back epidermal erythema, right ribcage scare tissue, lower abdominal intradermal contusions, and blunt trauma hematomas.

Essentially, Wetter is in great shape - nothing but the typical damage government property experiences while working aboard an aircraft carrier, a dangerous operational environment.

Examining Wetter’s substantial gear, Coyne lifts the weighty organ, and checks the root, shaft, and gland for physical abnormalities and urologic problems. Sliding his hand up and down the shaft, squeezing the appendage, a solid erection is quickly achieved.

Manipulating the sailor’s foreskin, the corpsman’s secret fascination and fetish, he struggles to completely retract the protective bonnet. Determined, employing judicious persuasion, he eventually coaxes the loath flesh to stretch over the large flared gland, revealing a sensitive purple cockhead.

“It’s too tight…it needs to be clipped,” said Coyne.

“Oh no…please don’t,” Wetter begs.

The airman knows that as government property, essentially federal livestock, the Navy can unilaterally fix him in the best interest of national defense - protecting their capital investment.

“I can initiate manual stretching therapy, but if that doesn’t work it gets trimmed.”

“That seems reasonable,” adds the insouciant officer.

Circumcision, the prudent course of action, is the simplest surgical resolution for phimosis. Besides alleviating discomfort, precluding urinary obstructions, and minimizing infections, it also greatly enhances the aesthetic appearance of the military weapon.

Excited at the prospect of performing the procedure, the HM1 envisions adding the fleshy trophy to his growing collection. Over the past year, several dozen Independence sailors have been tightly pruned, enjoying the many benefits of the corpsman’s skillful handiwork.

Running his finger around the sensitive ridge and head, Coyne squeezes the gland and examines the opening of the urethra. A small pearl suddenly appears, rolls across the head, and drips onto the deck.

“Any abnormal discharges, burning sensations, or painful urination?”

“No.”

Progressing downward, tracing the shaft’s visible midline ridge, the corpsman examines Wetter’s generous floppy sack and the scrotal raphe. Weighing the testicles in the palm of his hand, Coyne lifts and rolls each large ellipsoid egg ensconced inside the dual-chambered bag.

Deftly squeezing the orbs between knowledge fingers and thumb, he searches for lumps and growths. Ensuring each is attached to the scrotal wall and not rotating freely on the spermatic cord, Coyne pulls and twists, tugs the pouch downward, and presses his fingers into the scrotum.

“Cough. Again. Any pain or discomfort?”

“No.”

The sailor grunts and groans as each sensitive egg is aggressively examined. Coyne, exchanging a puckish grin with the Ensign, is having awesome fun. Wetter, not as much.

“Ok Wetter, we’re almost done. Lay down on the examination table for the DRE.”

The digital rectal examination is one of life’s great indignities.

Positioning and securing Wetter’s legs in stirrups, Coyne rotates the hips and spreads the sailor wide open…leaving the wretched boy in an extremely exposed and humiliating position.

Helpless, Wetter looks like a sacrificial offering to appease the pagan idol Baal. The low hanging ball bag, clearly displaying its substantial contents, is perfectly framed between muscular thighs.

Worshiped by ancient Semitic agrarian peoples, Baal the god of sun and rain was principally a fertility god. In times of great turbulence - droughts, plagues, and other calamities, ardent worshipers offered human sacrifices, especially young boys, to appease their god.

Satisfied with the boy’s position, Coyne in his medical garb, his symbolic power, like Baal’s high priests adorned in special vestments for offering ritualistic sacrifices, takes position between the legs to examine the anus, perineum, and perineal raphe for abnormalities.

The MA3 and Ensign approach the sacrificial alter for unobstructed views.

Immediately shattering the illusion of purity is a deep indentation, busing around the anus, and irregular extended puffy lips redder than a Chinese New Year celebration. No mystery here. Obviously this path has been well tread upon by numerous revelers.

Baal will not be pleased.

“Wow, someone’s been tapping that shit,” MA3 exclaims.

Coyne nods in agreement. Applying benzocaine topical, an anesthetic lubricant, he inserts a thick finger inside the pliant slot as the sphincter instinctively dilates, welcoming the visitor.

The gloved finger, working in-and-out, up-and-down, emphasizing the indentation, is soon joined by a second digit. Probing deeper inside the succulent hole, knowing their way around, the fingers twist and stretch Wetter open.

“I need to inspect the rectal lining for tears and abrasions,” Coyne explains after determining a more thorough inspection is warranted.

Sorting through medical implements on a nearby tray, he selects a large stainless speculum.

After applying additional lubricant, Coyne touches the cold steel instrument against the swollen ring. With practiced efficiency, pressing slowly but insistently, the corpsman forces the instrument up inside Wetter, twisting slightly as it’s driven completely home.

“You may feel a little discomfort.”

The corpsman spins the ratchet wildly and the jaws start separating, stretching the chute open. Looking towards the Ensign, he grins impishly and continues turning the ratchet around and around. The hole is stretched and dilated two inches before Wetter cries out with some discomfort.

“Oh…that’s starting to hurt.”

“Just relax and concentrate on opening up that sweet hole.”

A prodigious erection is snaking down the left leg of Coyne’s dungaree trousers. The thick shaft and flared head struggle to expand under the confining fabric. With an elevated pulse, the corpsman’s body radiates a subtle yet noticeable aroma of leather, herbs, and citrus. The distinguished fragrance of Chaps cologne, recently introduced by Ralph Lauren, makes an instant impression on Rozo.

“Ok, we’re almost there,” as Coyne mischievously gives the device another few spins.

“Please…no more,” Wetter begs.

“There, that’s good,” as Coyne opens the sailor obscenely wide.

Adjusting a high-intensity light, the sea-pussy is illuminated, and everyone can see deep inside Wetter’s inner sanctum. The puffy red folds, lit up like a Broadway marquee on opening night, are swollen and enlarged, but appear undamaged.

“Damn, that’s awesome,” as Coyne adjusts his throbbing erection.

Wetter’s head is lying sideways on the examination table. With his deepest secret revealed, he drowns in a wave of shame and hopelessness. It’s common for subservient sailors to be utilized by aggressive alpha males when underway - that’s expected.

But Independence has been in the shipyard for the last five months.

So clearly the sailor is a homosexual, getting routinely shafted by superior males.

With unfettered access, Coyne eagerly explores deeper up inside Wetter. Taking full advantage of the fortuitous opportunity, he traverses the anfractuous passageway, and aggressively excavates the miserable sailor’s undulating chute like an archaeologists searching for hidden treasure.

For the corpsman, it’s the ultimate conquest - taking control of a shipmate, forcing calloused digits deep inside a helpless ass, violating another male’s most private inner space.

“Please Ensign Rozo, don’t discharge me for being gay. I could never go home and face my family and friends. I’ll do anything you want. Please,” Wetter begs.

“Okay…answer me, did you set the fire?” asks the officer.

“No sir I didn’t, I swear.”

“Very well, Wetter. Perhaps we can deal with this privately,” decides the Ensign.

Assuming innocence can be established, it would be a shame to discharge the sailor, wasting experienced sea-pussy. A valuable commodity, boys with skills and the predisposition to service shipmates significantly enhances crew moral and combat readiness while underway.

“Oh, thank you sir…thank you,” sobs the grateful sailor.

“Of course, we need to prove your innocence first.” Turning towards the corpsman, “Petty Officer Coyne, please refrain from documenting Wetter’s posterior condition.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

Addressing the MA3, “…and I expect you to keep your mouth shut. In return, Wetter will show his gratitude by servicing you as required. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” MA3 responds with a huge grin and erection.

Unable to contain his enthusiasm, the MA3 extracts his tumescent cock. A magnificent piece radiating power, the eight-inch beer can thick cock command Wetter’s immediate attention. Taking station by his shipmate’s face, he rubs the large leaking gland across Wetter’s trembling lips.

“You want this cock sucker?”

Licking his lips, the sweet salty taste of masculinity resonates on Wetter’s tongue. Intoxicated, he willingly kisses the cock head, demonstrating respect to the superior male. Rolling his experienced tongue skillfully around the gland’s flared contours, he savors the amazing taste and texture.

“Blow me.”

Well trained, Wetter instinctively opens wide and swallows the whole cock balls deep in one easy fluid motion. Possessing exceptional innate talent, he easily accommodates the massive guest, providing comfortable quarters down his welcoming throat.

“Fuck…he took it all!”

Stuffed, the feeding sailor is driven by pleasure endorphins like a desperate heroin addict searching for his next fix. Placating his addiction to cock, craving a dose of decadent navy jam, the sailor is on a spiritual journey seeking holy communion with his personal god.

Drunk with the power of supremacy, persistently thrusting inside the enraptured airman, the MA3 brutally punishes the faggot’s throat with impunity. Hermetically sealing Wetter’s airway, he relishes the amazing tightness of the convulsing throat.

Working with monomaniacal energy, the moment of reward is rapidly approaching.

“That’s it…I'm almost there.”

Tensing, gripping the boy’s head tightly, trembling violently, he explodes and feeds Wetter a generous serving of thick navy jam. Appreciating the moment, he’s thankful to be a US Navy Master-at-Arms, trained to maintain good order and discipline, addressing the diverse needs of shipmates.

“Swallow it all,” he needlessly instructs with a smile of satisfaction.

Feasting on the substantial meal, Wetter swallows repeatedly to get it all down. Nutritious and delicious, the creamy goodness provides profound satisfaction for the starving sailor.

Descending from the euphoric high, the MA3 vacates the mouth and stows his gear.

“Wetter, you need to take care of Coyne too,” Ensign Rozo instructs. “He’ll need to conduct frequent examinations, inspecting and stretching your chute with his medical toys. And you may have to surrender your foreskin.”

“Yes sir, I understand,” as Wetter consummates the Faustian bargain.

Coyne smiles at the Ensign, grateful that he understands the corpsman’s harmless fetish.

Reaffirming Wetter’s insignificant position in the military hierarchy as a confirmed homosexual, Coyne manipulates and torments the sensitive prostate gland. Due to the close proximity of nerves, the stimulation quickly results in uncontrollable sexual arousal and ejaculation.

Powerless to stop the proceedings, Wetter moans in shame as his testicles ascend and separate in the floppy sack, visually announcing an impending orgasm. The sailor’s traitorous cock twitches uncontrollably and ropes of chunky white enlisted jam violently explode onto his chest.

“Oh yeah…blow your load,” encourages the MA3.

Using a tongue depressor from a nearby counter, the Ensign scrapes together Wetter’s substantial discharge and feeds the creamy custard to the chagrined sailor.

“Open up. You made the mess…now you have to eat it.”

Submissively, the sailor opens wide, consumes the milky opalescence, and licks the tongue depressor clean. Delicious and exquisite, the sweet chantilly cream - an irresistible combination of orange, vanilla, and brandy flavors, is refreshing and satisfying.

Not unexpectedly, Coyne moans incoherently and shivers. Glancing at the corpsman’s flush face and bulging dungarees, the Ensign immediately understands the situation. Suspicions are immediately confirmed by the rapidly growing wet spot and pungent scent of more jam filling the compartment.

With the DRE accomplished, Coyne reluctantly vacates the sea-pussy.

Unable to postpone the inevitable, the corpsman slowly closes the stainless steel speculum, roughly tugs on it, and extracts the medical device. Playfully, he runs his fingers around Wetter’s gaping ring until gradually the lips contract and the cavernous opening starts to close.

Once underway, the corpsman will have many opportunities and hundreds of hours to play with, stretch, and explore the amazing sea-pussy.

Taking charge, the officer addresses the sailors in a conspiratorial tone.

“Ok, I think we’re done here. Remember the agreed upon terms of everyone’s silence. Assuming Wetter isn’t courts martialed for arson, I expect discretion in all future rendezvous. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” the sailors affirm.

Coyne quickly annotates the SF88 and Rozo signs and dates the document. Leaving medical, Wetter is escorted back to the MA Shack without incident.

“Senior Chief, I hereby transfer custody of Wetter to you for the night per CDO’s orders. Find some clothing for the sailor from the lucky-bag.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

MA2 Beberdick and several shipmates, furious from being excluded, have been patiently awaiting Wetter’s return. Undeniably, the airman will now pay the price.

“We’re all happy to see you again, cocksucker. Hope you’re hungry,” as Beberdick rubs his obscenely expanding erection, accentuating its length, while envisioning its residence inside Wetter.


Striking below to his stateroom, 3-146-0-L, Rozo finds HT3 Bepler waiting inside.

Freshly showered, the naked sailor basks in the officer’s privileged accommodations - an eight-inch-thick mattress, 400-count cotton sheets, and other regal accouterments. The luxurious linens are cleaned and pressed daily by the assigned stateroom attendant, a young Filipino sailor from S-5 division.

Quickly undressing, climbing into the rack, the officer snuggles behind the young sailor, pressing their bodies together. Exploring the sensuous landscape, the Ensign runs his experienced hands down the boy’s ripped abdominals and caresses the silky-smooth skin.

“Oh sir, that feels so good,” craving the intimate physical contact.

Trembling in the officer’s embrace, with a racing heart, Bepler’s body radiates soothing warmth and the enticing scent of Old Spice cologne - its masculine greatness from a near-perfect blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood.

“You smell wonderful, sailor.”

Breathing deeply, the Ensign absorbs the boy’s beguiling scent and pheromones. Snaking his arms around the sailor, binding them together, the contented officer falls asleep dreaming of fucking Bepler.

A few REM cycles later, suddenly awake, mentally alert, the Ensign has a revelation.

It sounds counterintuitive, but he often does his best thinking while asleep. The subconscious, relieved of mundane distractions, sorts through the abundant chaff of the quotidian and effectively connects events into a logical coherent picture.

The obscure is seen eventually, the completely apparent takes longer.

And now he knows, Wetter didn’t set the fire…Beberdick did.


Hours later, after physically attacking, verbally assaulting, and resisting arrest, Beberdick is led off the ship in handcuffs and escorted to the Norfolk Navy brig. NIS will deal with him.

“JR, how did you know it was Beberdick and not Wetter?” the CDO inquires.

“It didn’t register initially, but it was something Beberdick said at the very beginning, when Wetter was ordered to strip. He said, ‘…we know you soaked the mattresses...’ Not mattress, but mattresses - more than one.

“After the fire was extinguished, the compartment was secured and I never mentioned anything about mattresses. He couldn’t possibly know what incendiary was in the compartment or how many - unless he was previously there and staged the fire.

“His irrational behavior and insistent ranting that ‘everyone knew Wetter was guilty’ also seemed strange - like he had a vested interest in ensuring we would reach that conclusion. Once I suspected Wetter was innocent, I inspected the 03-level aft arresting gear machinery room engines. They were clean and a half empty naphtha can was on the deck.”

“Good job JR. I’ll make my final report for the CO.”

“Sir, in your report, please extol the actions taken by Wetter in reporting the fire. His quick response mitigated the potential for greater damage. I intend to write Wetter a Letter of Appreciation, for CO’s signature…it’s the least we can do after stripping and publicly humiliating him.”

“Absolutely, that’s an excellent idea. It will be in my report.”


Several days later Ensign Rozo learns that Beberdick, while under intense integration, confessed to not just torching the 03-level compartment, but also initiating several other fires. Psychologically damaged, the MA2 has a pyro fetish, and the fire god Loki has claimed another disciple.

As for Airman Wetter, he receives a Letter of Appreciation from the CO for quick and decisive action. The Ensign also provides him with a special treat, something the sailor never experienced before - the privilege of servicing a US Naval Officer and drinking high-quality nutrient-rich jam.

“Open wide Wetter,” as the Ensign pushes into the enlisted mouth.

Parting his lips, Wetter’s tongue instinctively twirls around the delicious treat. Since enlisting in the Navy, the sailor has only serviced shipmates, consuming prodigious quantities of pedestrian enlisted jam. Savoring the moment, sucking Rozo is unequivocally the highlight of his tour aboard Indy.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good sailor. Keep sucking, I’m close.”

With adrenaline surging, grasping Wetter’s head firmly, the Ensign thrusts forward and delivers his munificent gift. Luscious and satiny, like Crème Brulee, the rich custard with hints of vanilla, caramel and white chocolate is simple perfection. An exceptionally talented cocksucker, the appreciative sailor greedily quaffs the decadent creamy goodness, savoring the unparalleled experience.

Extracting himself, Ensign Rozo splashes the last jet of jam on Wetter’s face, affirming the sailor’s position in the food chain.

Soon Independence will depart the shipyard, accomplish sea trials, and return to Norfolk for several weeks to make preparations for carrier qualifications and refresher training. Once underway, making way, sailors with special skills and submissive proclivities like Wetter will be in great demand.

In the Navy, rank is everything.

And life as an officer is sweet; for a gay sailor it can be pretty awesome too.


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

The author may be reached at [email protected]

 

james rozo

[email protected]

Top


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus