A Feeding Frenzy

Summer training aboard USS Independence CV62 nears completion.

Prior to debarkation, midshipmen undergo physicals to assess damage wrought by the crew. A detailed report will be provided to the Executive Officer (XO), and cognizant junior officers held accountable if collegiate assets are wrecked beyond reasonable limits.

Midshipmen report to 2-114-0-L, Medical Ward 2.

Similarly equipped, group physicals expedite the evolution.

Hospital Corpsmen (HM) are eager to commence comprehensive physical surveys. Bisexual at best, naturally drawn to be pecker-checkers, the dedicated practitioners possess the necessary inclinations and enthusiasm for the job.

Midshipmen methodically strip. Psychologically numb, repeatedly fucked and fed enlisted cuisine for six weeks, they’ve lost the capacity to feel any embarrassment, humiliation, or shame. And they stand naked at parade rest awaiting further instructions.

It’s a sublime sea of swinging cocks and bruised asses.

Something to suit every corpsmen’s taste.

Divvying up the boys, inquisitive hands readily explore sensual landscapes. Appendage and torso abrasions, contusions, lacerations and blunt trauma hematoma are documented. Thumping and pressing, internal organs are checked for deformities, tenderness, and pulsations.

Progressing downward, short-arm inspections commence.

Sliding hands up and down shafts, they ensure erections are still achievable; nothing broken. Cylindrical corpora cavernosa engorge with blood and a variety of sizes and geometries are on parade.

Testing structural integrity, orbs ensconced in floppy sacks are firmly pressed between knowledgeable fingers and thumb. Pained murmurings from ministrations fill the ward.

Aggressive play by the crew typically results in bruised fruit. And sure enough several sacks house squishy pulp. Despondent owners are led to another compartment for rectification. A few corpsmen, having never seen the procedure, follow to watch and learn.

Meanwhile it’s time for digital rectal examinations.

Damaged plumbing is common at sea.

Designed for unimpeded unidirectional flow, delicate pink membranes can only absorb so much back-pressure from over-exuberant shipmates. Fortunately, it’s a simple procedure to check the rectum, sigmoid, and descending colon for fissures.

Highly anticipated by corpsmen, it’s the ultimate conquest - taking control and violating another male’s most private inner space. Feeling the sting of concupiscence, they unabashedly reposition their inflating shafts… providing room for unencumbered expansion.

“Okay boys, bend over and spread them,” orders an HM1.

Midshipmen collectively groan. Between induction and yearly physicals, they’ve been invasively inspected several times. There’s something about collegiate ass that corpsmen find irresistible.

Having no choice, physical property of the Navy, they assume the position. Spreading feet shoulder width apart, bending over and rotating hips, they reach back and fully expose themselves. Obscenely on display, totally vulnerable, they await exploration.

Smirking corpsmen take station astern.

In a moment of wonder they’re transfixed by the exquisite sight.

Battered and bruised, gaped holes cloistered in deep indentations are encircled by stunning palettes of crimson, carmine, and perse. Enjoyed by countless revelers, once pristine pink sphincters are now inflamed distended lips redder than a Chinese New Year celebration.

“Damn, look at this fucking hole,” exclaims an HM3, “it’s ruined.”

“This one’s wrecked too,” asserts another.

Surrendering to primitive compulsions, voyeuristic corpsmen wander the ward like tourists in an art gallery. Surveying the carnage, eyes limning contours, indelible images of destroyed assholes are filed away for delectation and masturbatory fodder.

* * * Flashback Six Weeks * * *

Norfolk Naval Base pier 12 is a flurry of activity.

USS Independence is making preparations for getting underway.

She’ll conduct Type Commander training for the next three months. Long hours. Endless drills. And man and machinery will be exhaustively tested. Only after passing the rigorous Operational Readiness Exam will ship & crew be certified for a 7-month Mediterranean deployment.

Fresh enlisted seafood from RTC Great Lakes report aboard.

Midshipmen are also vectored for training.

Five first class (1/c) and fifteen fourth class (4/c) boys from the US Naval Academy and various Navy ROTC Units - University of Michigan, Villanova, Duke, The Citadel, Cornell, and Holy Cross are seamlessly integrated into the crew.

* * *

Midshipman 1/c Prescott navigates the busy pier.

Sailors are unloading trucks, breaking down pallets, and humping supplies.

Bound in servitude, enlisted men are an essential source of manual labor. Working under the sweltering noonday sun, most are stripped to the waist - displaying arms and torsos emblazed with nautical iconography: anchors, dolphins, mermaids, leviathans.

Beads of perspiration glisten like jewels. Slowly rolling down muscular backs and heaving chests, they collect and soak waistbands of bell-bottom dungarees. Clinging to flexing glutes and quads, the taut trousers provide limited accommodations for the men to stow their gear.

And a plenitude of prodigious packages is proudly on parade.

Taking a deep breath, Prescott inhales intoxicating aromas.

Salt. Sailors. Ships.

Buoyant on a briny bay breeze is the beguiling bouquet of enlisted pheromones and Old Spice Cologne. A perennial favorite of sailors since 1938, it’s a near-perfect blend of bright citrus, fragrant flowers, rich vanilla, and hints of cedar, cinnamon, and amber.

The ship also has a distinctive scent. 

Besides the tincture of JP5 aviation fuel & marine diesel, lubricants & grease, solvents & bleach, paint & non-skid, it’s the accumulated 25 year amalgamation of sweat, tears, and dreams of tens-of-thousands of young men that proudly served aboard.

Prescott’s shaft starts to inflate.

Skylarking supervisory sailors study the schoolboy.

An allurement to carnal delight, they suggestively grope themselves. Blatantly outlining tumid shafts, intentions are unambiguous; there’s nothing subtle about horny squid. And they boldly call out to him… offering a mouthwatering mid-day meal.

Surveying proffered cuisine, Prescott smiles… amused by their salacity.

Once underway he’ll explore dining options.

Moving down the pier towards the officer’s brow, crossing the gangway, he approaches the quarterdeck. Following Naval protocol he faces aft, snaps to attention, salutes the National Ensign, rotates 90 degrees, and salutes the Officer of the Deck.

“Very respectfully request permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted,” responds LT Howard.

Sailors regard it unlucky to embark upon a vessel left foot first. Well versed in shipboard superstitions and customs, Prescott smartly steps aboard with his right.

“Here are my orders, sir.”

“Very well.”

Receiving advance notification from NAVEDTRA, the assignment of Midshipman 1/c Trenton Prescott III, progeny of Vice Admiral Prescott, Jr., USN, Commander Naval Forces Southern Command, Fourth Fleet, has been eagerly anticipated.

The Lieutenant inspects the midshipman.

Blinding sunlight illuminates the immaculate summer white uniform, drawing eyes to his glowing body. Standing on display like Michelangelo’s ‘David’ in white marble, the quarterdeck has transformed into Florence’s Palazzo della Signoria.

Not yet a man but no longer a boy, he’s draped in youthful perfection. Flawless bronzed complexion and refined masculine features -  strong jawline, full lips, confident bright blue eyes, and short-cropped golden curly hair - convey an aristocratic aura.

Enlisted watchstanders - BM1 Sanders (Boatswain Mate-of-the-Watch) and the Messenger - stare in awe, lost in adoration of uniform accentuated magnificence.

“Welcome aboard Midshipman Prescott.”

“Thank you, sir. She’s a beauty.”

The feminine personification of a ship, regardless of its commissioned name, is a longstanding maritime tradition. Endowed with life by her dedicated crew, sailed with pride, female pronouns are used affectionately by the men who call her home. Living aboard a vessel, forever changed by the experience, sailors forge deep emotional bonds with their ships.

“You’ve been assigned to Engineering. The Messenger will escort you below.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

In Engineering he’ll be under the tutelage of Ensign Rozo, Repair Division Officer. As running mate and mentor, Rozo will coordinate the boy’s messing, berthing, and work assignments. He’ll also try to protect the prominent midshipman from a profusion of predators.

Or at least limit the damage.

Sternly counseled by the XO, Rozo understands there’ll be consequences if the Admiral’s kid is wrecked and ruined beyond reasonable limits.

“Please follow me,” requests the Messenger. Un-dogging a quick-acting-water-tight door, they depart the quarterdeck and enter Hanger Bay 1.

* * *

“Sweet ass on that kid,” pronounces BM1 Sanders. “Very fuckable.”

“Is that all you think about?” responds LT Howard.

“Got to fuck something while underway.”

“True enough.”

Sailors have needs. At sea, disconnected from the world of women, they choke-the-chicken thinking of pussy or the next best thing, sea-pussy. There’s nothing quite like a scrumptious piece of ass to mollify ravenous cupidity. Succulent. Satisfying. And oh so available.

Not always fully consensual.

“You think he realizes the adventure he’s embarking upon?”

“Definitely. He knows the score.”

As a Navy brat growing up surrounded by sailors, Prescott understands their adventuresome spirit. Lifting sail and catching the winds of destiny, hypersexual with few boundaries, enlisted men possess an almost maniacal need to ejaculate.

While any receptacle will suffice, few repositories are more desirable than midshipmen. Thoroughly indoctrinated, the submissive boys are predisposed to accommodate enlisted needs.

Once again midshipmen-mania has infected the crew.

Highly contagious, the affliction transforms sailors into dissolute carnivores. A fevered feeding frenzy will soon ensue. Untreatable by military medicine, it must run its course until all-hands are satiated and ravaged midshipmen no longer serviceable.

“The kid really does have a hot ass,” admits the LT.

“Can’t wait to tap it,” muses Sanders.

The BM1’s white crackerjacks conspicuously display an awakened shaft. He envisions the concupiscible kid struggling to accommodate the oversized appendage as it mercilessly punches up inside and negotiates the anfractuous passageway.

“Just remember, 1/c are off-limits,” admonishes Howard. “Don’t get caught fucking Prescott… or there’ll be consequences. Best to focus your attention on the 4/c’s.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take that under advisement.”

Grinning, both men know he’s going to fuck the kid anyway.

* * *

Traversing Hanger Bay 1, Prescott attracts attention.

A shiny new object; an irresistible lure.

Sauntering sailors sporting swelling shafts stop and stare. Perpetually horny, they’ll compete with shipmates for a piece… especially after discovering his father’s a flag officer. Every sailor dreams about balling an Admiral’s kid… an unimaginable delight and career highlight.

He’s not the only guppy drawing interest. Swimming in dangerous waters, all midshipmen experience relentless predation. Toothy alphas with insatiable appetites for fresh seafood are already circling with deleterious intent. Whipped into a frenzy, they’ll soon consume innocence.

And a wake of destruction - bruised, battered, and badly beaten boy bottoms - is assured.

Prescott observes his surroundings.

A smorgasbord of delights; an eclectic menu.

Everywhere he looks are desirable young sailors at the peak of perfection. Boys in the prime of their reproductive potency. Five thousand sets of swollen balls working overtime, heavily laden with a myriad of intoxicating libations. Staggering quantities available straight from the tap.

And it’s not immediately clear who’s hunting whom.

* * *

Independence shifts colors with the next day’s high tide.

Passing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel she makes for open water.

Midshipmen eagerly explore the ship. Navigating 10 decks, they see only a fraction of her 3,500+ spaces: flight deck & hanger bays, mess decks, engineering machinery rooms, berthing compartments, squadron spaces, medical & dental, and command & control centers.

Popular hangouts include the ship’s stores, weight room, library, chapel, post office, and bake shop - where fresh pies, cakes, and cookies are always available.

Ample remote compartments also exist.

Harboring depraved designs, excited sailors readily show trusting boys shaft alleys, pump rooms, load centers, damage control voids, and hidden maintenance spaces under the flight deck and around deck-edge aircraft elevators (accessible via catwalks).

Perfect locations for gangbangs, spit-roastings, and communal feedings.

* * *

Prescott takes his duties seriously.

Proceeding to the starboard quarter, ascending several vertical inclined ladders, he stands outside the ballistic door to Repair Division’s aft berthing compartment, 02-231-1-L. The remote space houses randy, rambunctious Hull Maintenance Technicians (HT).

As Assistant Division Officer, he’s responsible for conducting health and cleanliness inspections of the division’s forward (69-man) and aft (42-man) berthing compartments - ensuring gear isn’t adrift, decks swept, heads sanitized, racks made, and dirty laundry collected.

He’s also searching for a salty snack.

Opening the fitting, entering the enlisted inner sanctum, he’s smacked by the pungent musk of concentrated masculinity. Intense. Overpowering. Rich in nuance. At once familiar and yet curiosity piquing. A scent boldly pronouncing ‘This is the Den of Men.’

Breathing deeply he inhales the intoxicating amalgamation. Immersed in a sea of body odors, sweat, pheromones, cigarette smoke, and earthy colognes - oud, sandalwood, & patchouli, the volatilized chemical compounds suffuse his senses.

A carnal catalyst, the aroma increases desire.

And his cock compulsively responds.

Inside the berthing compartment naked sailors abound. Roughhousing and grab-ass play is underway. Nothing gay; just sailors being sailors.

“Hey, it’s Midshipman Prescott!” a jubilant HTFN announces.

For days the men have strived to pry Prescott away from Ensign Rozo’s protective supervision. Finally untethered from his guardian, they mobilize and surround the boy. Driven by fevered dreams of conquest and glory, rapacity raises as shafts twitch in anticipation.

“You excited to be at sea?” asks a sailor.

“Definitely. Haze gray and underway!”

A wondrous adventure, there’s nothing like sailing the high seas. Free from ashore concerns, male bonding is bountiful and beneficial. Shipmates & brothers, rascals & rogues, kindred souls, and secret lovers. Who could ask for anything more?

“Yeah, nothing better,” adds an HT2 with a mischievous grin.

Navigating around Prescott, exchanging furtive smiles, they draw him deeper into the compartment… shepherding the lamb to slaughter. Trembling involuntarily with almost unbearable anticipation, the men are eager to engage the gorgeous boy.

“Did you enjoy your 4/c certification?”

“Oh, umm… it was ok,” blushing at the memory.

Assigned to a Knox class fast frigate out of Naval Station Mayport, Florida, the plebe was aggressively initiated by motivated crewmen. Insatiable, they repeatedly tested the limits of lubrication, friction, and wear. And his throat and ass received a world-class education.

“We wouldn’t mind recertifying you,” suggests an enthusiastic HT3.

“Fuck yeah!” shout several sailors.

Stroking swelling shafts, fantasy gets the better of them. Envisioning the sexual soiree, inflamed imaginations paint libidinous canvases. Maddened by urgent desires, fueled by unbearable cravings, sailors boldly embark upon voyages of scintillating excess.

Unfortunately, 1/c tail is reserved for the exclusive enjoyment of commissioned officers. And Ensign Rozo has warned them not to fuck Prescott… or there’ll be consequences.

But everyone really wants a piece.

And isn’t Rozo constantly telling them to take initiative?

* * *

Prescott isn’t the only midshipman in extremis. Throughout the ship sailors sally forth in search of adventure. Collisions are inevitable as insatiable appetites are addressed:

-  Storekeepers from Supply S2 Division introduce a Holy Cross 4/c to Filipino meat in a storeroom. The SKs feed the Crusader their dark-brown sausages and delicious jam flavored with indigenous spices. The distinctive piquancy is an acquired taste; and they ensure he acquires it.

- Boiler Technicians have a Villanova 1/c in 2 Main Machinery Room. Positioned behind the boilers, the Wildcat is face-fucked by a steady stream of BTs. Naturally he swallows every creamy load; that’s the way he’s been taught by his military-science professors.

-  A 4/c from The Citadel is aloft in the Signal Bridge. A bitch to be bred, the diffident Bulldog assumes an accommodating position on hands and knees. Fucked doggedly, a dozen Signalmen take turns knotting the pup.

-  Quartermasters from Navigation Division manipulate the malleable masculinity of a University of Michigan 4/c. Tapping into something primal and eternal, QMs feed their perverse desires and take turns pummeling the diminutive Wolverine to ruinous effect.

-  Boatswain’s Mates from Deck 1st Division enjoy a USNA 4/c. The hubristic midi is besieged and secured across the port anchor windlass. Stuffing an oily rag in his mouth to shut him up, providing little preparation, the arrogant Annapolis ass gets fucked. Repeatedly.

All midshipman learn about life at sea.

And none return ashore unchanged by the experience.

* * *

Prescott is already a fully qualified fleet cock sucker.

A current HT2 previously served aboard USS Josephus Daniels CG-27 under Captain Prescott several years ago. He remembers the young golden-haired teen visiting the ship and secretly sucking sailors, satisfying an insatiable sweet tooth for saporous sperm.

“Do you remember me? I served aboard Daniels with your father.”

“Oh, umm… no, sorry I don’t.”

“Perhaps this is familiar,” extracting his cock, “you sucked on it often enough.”

Prescott’s attention is immediately drawn downward.

He studies the sailor’s sizable shaft. Capped with a disproportionately wide head, it has pulsing sinuous veins running down its length. Below, large lolling testicles hang tantalizingly like forbidden fruit on the tree of knowledge. 

Crafted by a divine hand, radiating power, it beckons to his soul.

Momentarily flustered, taking a deep breath, redolent pheromones ignite a kaleidoscope of images as memories flood the stunned midshipman. Salivating, decadent flavors resonate on his tongue; every communion an unforgettable movable feast.

Confirming the truth, sailors snicker derisively.

“Your secret’s safe; just suck us,” offers the HT2.

“We get to fuck you too,” adds an audacious sailor.

Roweled up, residing at the intersection of desire and desperation, rationality evaporates. Screw the consequences. What Ensign Rozo doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? He can’t court-martial the whole damn division!

The compartment is charged with expectancy.

Stroking the shaft, the HT2 achieves maximum tumescence.

Craving communion, professing his faith like a good Southern Baptist, Prescott willingly descends to his knees. Unbridled desire animates his expressive eyes. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers reverentially, venerating the quiddity of masculinity.

Leaning forward, paying homage, he kisses the spongy glans.

His knowledgeable tongue probes the urethral meatus, swirls around the coronal sulcus, and tickles the frenulum. Licking lips, the sweet salty taste of masculinity resonates. Exquisite layers of flavor… earthy undertones of raspberry, black cherry, and truffle with hints of pepper.

“Eat me,” commands the sailor.

Opening wide, instinctively tilting his head back for proper alignment, Prescott swallows the whole cock balls deep in one easy fluid motion. Possessing innate talent, he easily accommodates the sailor, providing comfortable quarters inside the welcoming throat.

Watching intently, the audience of impressed sailors detect the outline protruding in his neck. Maneuvering for unobstructed views, they take pictures of his face and ballooned throat. Later, they’ll have him autograph the souvenirs for inclusion in prized collections.

Every division keeps a scrapbook of midshipmen.

And Repair Division’s is more extensive than most.

Two-blocked with bloated balls pressed against his chin, Prescott is prevented from proceeding any deeper. Stuffed, moaning and mumbling contently, he makes entertaining happy ‘ahh’ and ‘mmm’ sounds. And it’s obvious to all that he’s enjoying himself.

Intoxicated with the power of supremacy, gripping the head firmly, navigating the well-dredged channel, the HT2 persistently thrusts in-and-out. Perched upon the precipice of a shattering climax, trembling involuntarily, he explodes and feeds the boy a torrent of jam.

Feasting, the rapturous boy swallows repeatedly to get it all down. Luscious and satiny like crème brûlée, the custard with hints of vanilla, caramel and white chocolate is simple perfection. And it ignites an insatiable craving for additional portions.

“Please… can I have some more?” begs the besotted boy.

With a smirk of satisfaction, the crested petty officer milks the last drops out of his deflating shaft. Disembarking, he gives way to an excited shipmate. Gaining access, propelled by ardor, the next sailor quickly stuffs his desperate need inside, feeding the kid’s voracious hunger.

All too quickly for Prescott’s liking, the sailor violently ejaculates in under a minute.

And the midshipman drinks down four generous shots.

Dissipated, the next squid steps forward. Spurred on by the ribaldry of shipmates, he delivers a riveting face fuck and a hot nutritious meal.

Word quickly spreads; sailors queue up.

Over the next six weeks Prescott enjoys the all-you-can-eat buffet and quarts of salubrious elixir. Away from Rozo’s vigilance, they also introduce him to the undeniable charm of aptly named remote compartments: pump rooms, load centers, shaft alleys.

And they all take turns breeding the boy.

* * * Return To The Present * * *

Stainless steel speculums are superfluous.

Corpsmen pass around a small amber glass bottle. Amyl nitrite.

Inhaling the vasodilator deeply, midshipmen feel an immediate rush of euphoric wooziness. Suddenly intoxicated, heart rates increase as blood surges through dilated vessels. Beguiling gaped holes open wider, inviting inspection and intrepid explorers.

Grinning corpsmen peek inside, fascinated by the red trenches.

Ravaged membranes, raw and receptive.

Inquisitive fingers playfully circle enflamed rims and slip inside pliant slots. No resistance. Working two and then three fingers in-and-out, up-and-down, they pry rings wider… preparing the holes for a much larger parade.

Helpless midshipmen can only whimper.

Tucking thumbs into palms, wide knuckles are slowly pressed forward. Intense stretching. Focused on achieving mission objectives, corpsmen apply increasing, insistent pressure. Rings steadily expand… and suddenly yield. Popping inside, hands are fully embedded.

And sphincters snap shut around stout wrists.

Midshipmen wail in momentary misery.

Elated corpsmen pause to admire their new fleshy bracelets.

Underway, making way, they explore uncharted territory. Probing for problems, they meticulously document the tantalizing landscape like cartographers mapping the new world.

Exploring deeper, ruined rings slowly advance down muscular forearms. With single-minded determination, conscientious corpsmen continue investigating as far as they can reach. Stretching snug sleeves, they playfully compete to see who can get deepest.

Groaning and grunting, grimacing midshipman take every torturous advancement.

And several make it to the elbow.

“Ok men finish up… ten more minutes,” orders the HM1.

Loitering inside convulsing chutes, thrusting fists in-and-out, they exercise dominion over destroyed midshipmen. Enjoying unfettered access, many take advantage of the opportunity to exchange holes with shipmates… collecting multiple bracelets.

And there’s no doubt about it, Hospital Corpsman is the best rating in the Navy.

* * *

It’s an anxious time aboard Independence.

A medical report summarizing the condition of the midshipmen is provided to the XO. No surprises; the preponderance of damage exceeds military specifications. Absorbing the brunt of enlisted attention, overwrought 4/c rings are wrecked beyond recognition.

No putting the petals back on those flowers.

Additionally, despite repeated warnings, fevered sailors swept up in the frenzy also pursued and  pummeled the 1/c midshipmen. Especially Prescott. As expected, drawing excessive attention, the kid’s aristocratic allure proved too irresistible.

A nervous Ensign Rozo stands at attention.

Across a magnificent mahogany desk is the XO. Decorated with VF-32 ‘Fighting Swordsmen’ paraphernalia, it’s clear he’s an F-14A Tomcat fighter pilot. As the second most senior officer, he wields tremendous power to deleteriously impact tours and terminate careers.

“I warned you about protecting Prescott. You failed miserably.”

Perspiring profusely, Rozo mentally curses his men. They disobeyed his direct order and fucked Prescott anyway. Now he’s looking at a Letter of Censure for inadequate leadership and failure in the execution of his oversight duties. A once promising career may be over.

Naval Officers are persons of integrity - it’s the foundation of their conduct. Possessing high levels of moral courage, never compromising their ultimate obligation to the truth, they’re accountable for actions of commission and omission without evasion.

So he falls on his sword.

“No excuse, sir. I accept full responsibility.”

“Very well.”

Enlisted men weren’t the only ones swept along by powerful currents.

Unbeknownst to Rozo, besides his sailors, the XO, Chief Engineer, LT Howard, and a dozen other officers enjoyed Prescott. Undeniably the tastiest morsel aboard, the Admiral’s kid was an unparalleled culinary experience. A once in a lifetime trophy fuck.

“Perhaps I can save your ass,” the XO offers with a sly smile. “I know Prescott’s father, we attended Annapolis together. He was my company commander when I was a plebe.”

Walking slowly around the Ensign, examining him from every angle, savoring the erotic potential, he imagines taking liberties. Officers have needs too. Aroused, his erection expands and struggles for quarters inside constricting gabardine khaki trousers.

“You know, the Chief Engineer is right… you do have an amazing ass.”

Profound silence fills the compartment.

Senior officers almost never fuck junior officers; that’s what enlisted ass is for. But after a steady diet of midshipmen, the XO has grown accustomed to superior cuisine.

Commissioned via Cornell ROTC, Rozo reported aboard ten months ago. Skipping grades as a kid, graduating summa cum laude at nineteen but looking fifteen, senior officers refer to him as ‘Junior’. He’s about the same age as the 4/c, and younger than all the 1/c midshipmen.

Understanding the path forward, the Ensign willingly pays the price to save his career. Demonstrating contrition, without hesitation he steps forward, unzips engineering coveralls, bends over the desk, rotates hips, spreads legs, and offers his masculinity for consumption.

The XO delights in the presentation.

And wastes no time driving balls deep inside.

* * *

 Midshipmen depart.

Flying off in Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King helicopters, they’ll limp back to college campuses with cherished memories, ruined rings, and hard earned Fleet certifications.

Settling down into a predictable routine, finally able to focus without distractions, the crew continues Type Commander training. Flight operations. Watch station qualifications. Underway replenishments. Months of exhausting days and restless nights dreaming of midshipmen.

Running its course, the feeding frenzy fulfilled fantasies.

And the crew can’t wait until next summer’s guppies report aboard for training.

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