Fresh Seafood

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

1MC: ‘Sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms, give the ship a clean sweep down both fore and aft, sweep down all lower decks, ladder wells and passageways. Dump all garbage in dumpsters provided for on the pier. Now sweepers.’

USS Independence CV62 is moored at Norfolk Naval Base pier 12, starboard side, bow out.

“Are we expecting any new sailors?” Ensign Rozo inquires of HTCS Garcia, Repair Division’s leading chief petty officer.

Residing in the division office, 2-129-6-Q, they’re updating the watch, quarter, and station bill that designates personnel by billet for job assignment, watch standing, and general quarters.

“Yes sir, several should be reporting aboard next week.”

Last month in the shipyard, the aircraft carrier was crewed at 84% required to achieve R-1 readiness. Repair Division, comprised of 6 work centers and 110 billets, is currently undermanned by seven petty officers and ten E-3 and below.

Sailors are vectored to Independence from many sources.

Seasoned petty officers E5 and E6, an infusion of enlisted leadership and technical talent, transfer aboard based on well-established sea / shore rotations for each rating. Others receive orders after reenlistment and completion of advanced ‘C’ schools.

New sailors E3 and E4 from rating ‘A’ schools, eager to join the Fleet, wet themselves with excitement reporting aboard their first underway command. Embarking upon a life-altering adventure, these baby-faced defenders of democracy, idealistic and motivated, are a welcomed addition.

“We need more non-rates, sir.”

“Senior Chief, do you seriously expect another non-rate after the last incident?”

Fresh seafood straight from boot camp, non-rates in pay grades E-1 to E-3, lacking the intelligence to warrant an investment in specialized training, reside on the bottom of the military food chain.

Lacking discernable skills, engineering non-rates are allocated by the Chief Engineer (CHENG) among his five divisions: Auxiliaries, Boilers, Electrical, Machinery, and Repair.

Unencumbered by expectations, non-rates are an essential source of manual labor - performing menial assignments: mess cooking, compartment cleaning, and working parties. Besides augmenting skilled shipmates, the sailors intrinsically make excellent cocksuckers and sea-pussy.

“Sure, why not?  The CHENG owes us some.”

“Seriously?  Transgressions have consequences.”

Reflecting on recent events, the Ensign is certain they won’t be assigned another non-rate anytime soon. Taking the last non-rate underwing, Garcia vectored the boy down to the Goat Locker… the private sanctuary where E7-E9 members berth, share meals, socialize, and forge professional bonds.

Within two weeks of reporting aboard the kid is in sickbay, ruined.

- - - - - Flashback  - - - - -

FA Darges, a new non-rate assigned to R-Division, instantly catches Garcia’s predatory eye.

The painfully cute little 18-year-old 120 lb. fireman apprentice is immediately sent TDY to the Goat Locker and Chief’s Mess. Besides fulfilling the division’s requirement to augment Supply Department, the kid is a welcome addition to the chief’s well-worn stable of catamites.

Barely meeting military height and weight standards, the product of an English and German union, the boy grew up in Jasper Indiana, ten miles west of Hoosier National Forest and Patoka Lake.

While concerned for the diminutive sailor’s welfare, the Ensign is powerless to influence events.

Although technically outranking its denizens, the astute officer, well versed in proper etiquette and naval tradition, knows that unless personally invited, the Goat Locker - the locus of enlisted political power, is off-limits to commissioned officers.

The sovereign domain of seasoned mariners, what happens down there, like Vegas, stays there.

“Welcome aboard Independence,” said HTCS as he takes control of Darges, escorting him to his doom. “You’ll be TDY to the Chief’s Mess for 90 days mess cooking.”

“Okay, senior chief.”

A complete misnomer, temporary duty mess cooks do everything but cook - the exclusive domain of the professionally trained Mess Management Specialists.

A miserable rite of passage, over worked and underappreciated, mess cooks are basically indentured servants. Besides slaving away in the galley & scullery, berthing compartment, and heads, they provide an array of essential personal services.

“You’re lucky,” Garcia exaggerates, “not every sailor gets this opportunity…much better than working on the crew’s mess decks. Lots of special privileges too.”

“That sounds good,” the unsuspecting sailor grins.

Sailing in dangerous waters, unaware of the perilous nature of the assignment, the non-rate will be surrounded by apex predators. Forced to consume prodigious quantizes of decadent jam, the defenseless sailor will also have extensive liberties taken with his enlisted ass.

“Of course, you’ll also provide traditional services,” HTCS continues.

“Services?” asks the dimwitted kid, not understanding it’s his turn-over-the-barrel.

“Just follow orders Darges. Do what you’re told and everyone will be happy.”

Envisioning breeding the little sailor, Garcia repositions his tumid gear. Leading the boy through the labyrinth of secluded third deck compartments, he delivers Darges to his destiny.

The Mess, adorned in shades of blue and gray, while not as lavishly appointed as the Wardroom, is a significant upgrade from the crew’s mess decks. Three dozed square metal tables, welded to the deck, are surrounded by ubiquitous Emeco 1011 aluminum semi-upholstered armchairs.

“Follow me,” as Garcia navigates the compartment.

In the galley is an imposing figure - the Mess Management Specialist Master Chief (MSCM).

A skilled vituperator, barking at frantically scurrying sailors, his powerful voice bristles with hard-earned authority. Working up the ranks from E1 to E9, an arduous 32-year journey, the veteran born on the open seas is the embodiment of nautical tradition. The salty bellowing bastard, motherless son of Neptune himself, has dark piercing eyes embedded in a weathered coriaceous face.

Tattooed on his arm is the traditional CPO emblem.

A gold anchor, emblematic of constancy of purpose amidst the storms of life, is fouled by a length of chain symbolic of life forged day-by-day with honor, morality, and virtue. The silver letters ‘USN’, symbolizing unity, service, and navigation, are superimposed on the anchor’s shank. Two inverted five-point silver stars cap the stock, indicating the rate of master chief petty officer.

“Here’s our new mess cook, Master Chief,” as Garcia hands Darges over for assignment.

“Oh great…another pretty little shit,” notes the annoyed MSCM.

Serving aboard six afloat commands - challenging environments with tenacious predators, he knows the boy is doomed. Capturing the imagination of the membership, the little sea urchin will spend significant time perforating collateral duties on his hands and knees.

“He can’t spend all day over-the-barrel,” the Master Chief growls. “I have a mess to run.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll work out an equitable schedule.”

Word spreads and excitement builds as the enticing scent of fresh seafood permeates the Mess. Gathering around the nervous sailor, salivating chiefs consume the tasty little morsel with their eyes…imagining the succulent flavor, tenderness, and texture melting in their mouths.

Relishing the opportunity to inject the non-rate with a fleet education, several chiefs rub their constricted and growing erections.

Glancing down, assuming a submissive position, the frightened sailor notices a dozen throbbing and twitching cocks on display. Thick shafts, prominent veins, shapely cockheads, and large testicles are all clearly discernible in the chief’s khaki trousers and coveralls.

Whereas care must be exercised when educating 3/c midshipmen - they must be returned to the academy relatively undamaged, no such restriction exists with a non-rate. Darges can be aggressively enjoyed…absorbing everyone’s fetishes, paraphilia, and perverse sexual predilections.

“I better get some work out of this one before you sea dogs ruin him.”

“Sure, of course,” Garcia placates the MSCM.

Immediately the transformation into sea-pussy begins. Exercising control over their property, Garcia commences the non-rate’s fleet education and teaches the minnow his place in the food chain.

“Time to see what we have here. Strip Darges,” Garcia orders.

“W…what senior chief?”

“Strip now!” HTCS aggressively commands, the threatening tone conveying serious consequences for anything other than immediate compliance.

Stunned, struggling for understanding, unsure where this adventure is headed, the sailor glances from face to face searching for sympathy. Finding none, filled with dismay, having no choice in the endeavor, Darges reluctantly follows the lawful order.

With a blank expression on his face - eyes distant and unblinking, he slowly unbuttons and removes his blue chambray shirt and white undershirt. Pausing briefly, he unfastens the web belt buckle, unbuttons and unzips his dungarees, and pushes them to the deck.

“Everything…skivvies too.”

The excitement is palpable as the young sailor strips.

Stepping out of the pooled dungarees, his hands tremble as he pulls the skivvies’ elastic waistband out and down, off his hips, and past his thighs as the last scrap of modesty falls to the deck.

Standing utterly exposed, striped of his clothing and confidence, the sailor is on display like the day’s catch at New York City's historic Fulton Fish Market. The renowned wholesaler sells every imaginable variety of fresh seafood.

“Stand at parade rest, sailor”

Assuming the military position, snapping arms behind his back, hands interlocked, and feet spread shoulder width apart, his head is bowed in submission. The boy’s insignificant gear shrinks as frightened tiny testicles retreat and seek protection inside the miniature pink purse.

Devastated, his face displays a priceless range of emotions.

“Good boy,” said Garcia, pleased with the sailor’s obedience.

The chiefs, like discriminating seafood wholesale buyers, restaurateurs, and retailers inspecting the day’s catch, gather round the sailor for a closer inspection.

With experienced and discerning eyes, they evaluate and pass judgment on the quality of the offering. Taking perverse delight, intensifying the humiliation, they exchange disparaging comments about the under-sized sailor.

“You sure he’s legal size?  Perhaps we should throw him back into the sea.”

“Not much meat on his bones. Looks more like a sea scout than a US Navy Sailor.”

Tattooed on the boy’s arm is an abstract silhouette of a full-rigged sailing ship. Representing a desire for freedom and distance from difficult circumstances, intertwined with the mythology of the sea, the image invokes a yearning for exploration and new adventures.

“He’s got a pretty little tail. That’s something.”

“True. Let’s get a better look at that,” Garcia suggests.

Powerless, the wretched sailor is frog-marched forward, aggressively bent over a table, and displayed like a featured item at a buffet restaurant. Spreading the minnow’s slender legs, rotating his hips, pulling the cheeks apart, the starving patrons maneuver for the perfect viewing angle.

“Damn, look at that tiny fucking hole,” Garcia whispers, mesmerized by the sight.

“It’s beautiful…pink and tight, just the way I like them,” adds a toothy carnivore.

Fully exposed for everyone’s viewing pleasure, the sailor experiences overwhelming feelings of humiliation and shame. Nauseous, unable to breathe, the traumatized non-rate, stripped of his self-esteem, retreats inward, his eyes distant and unfocused.

Memories of his pre-enlistment physical suddenly flood back…the indignity and humiliation.  Standing naked under bright lights, feet shoulder width apart, arms up and out parallel to the deck, the boy is surrounded by a military doctor and three corpsmen.

Determining suitability for naval service, providing no quarter, inquisitive hands run skillfully over every inch of his body - poking, prodding, and probing inside and out. Teaching the corpsmen, the doctor demonstrates the proper technique for conducting hernia and prostate examinations.

With growing smiles and erections, the corpsmen take turns honing their skills.

“Sweet sea-pussy,” said an enthralled chief.  “Can’t wait to tap that.”

“Hell yeah. We all want a piece,” a choir of voices affirm.

Addressing the matter of lubrication and dilation, grabbing a sick of butter, Senior Chief Garcia finds the delicate opening and caresses the miniature lips. Exposed and vulnerable, feeling pressure, the ring instinctively clamps shut on the intruder.

Employing force, working relentlessly, prying the reluctant aperture open, Garcia triumphantly enlarges the minnow for the appreciative crowd.

“Open that sea-pussy Senior, get it ready for us,” encourages a shipmate.

“Boy, we’re going to enjoy shafting you,” adds HTCS Garcia, addressing Darges.

In a moment of understanding and panic, the non-rate’s stomach tightens as his face contorts with fear. Darges has been around plenty of livestock, watching aggressive bulls breed cows. And he’s heard stories of drifter boys - some willing, others not so much, ridding experienced farmhands up in the hayloft, earning a day’s wages.

“Please senior chief, I’m not gay. I don’t take it up the ass.”

“Nonsense, of course you do. You’re a non-rate.”

“B…but…but I’m not gay,” Darges whimpers.

“Doesn’t matter, your ass belongs to the Navy.”

With obvious pleasure, Garcia rams the butter past the quivering lips and up inside the protesting chute. The boy’s internal heat slowly melts the butter, basting the tender seafood, enhancing the flavor.

The audience enthusiastically applauds, impressed with Garcia’s culinary skills.

“Here’s your new uniform, sweetheart,” said a chief, producing a pair of pink panties.

Subjugated and emasculated, tears well up as Darges drowns in humiliation.

Sliding the silk panties up the boy’s slender legs, transforming the sailor into sea-pussy, the chiefs cheer enthusiastically. Other non-rates working in the galley, stop, and stare at the proceedings. While sympathetic, they’re also greatly relieved, knowing it means less time over-the-barrel for themselves.

Wasting no time, the inveterate consumers escort Darges through the Mess, down a passageway, and into a berthing compartment, 3-183-0-L. Forced towards the designated duty mattress, the trapped sailor struggles but is no match for the scrum of motivated chief petty officers.

Having no choice, Darges accepts his destiny, his eyes liquid pools of submission.

The enlisted sharks - ultimate appetites without conscience, encircle the helpless sailor and move in for the kill. Focused on their personal enjoyment, indifferent about consequences, abhorrent fetishes and perverse sexual predilections are freely indulged.

As the provider of the meal, HTCS Garcia is entitled to the first piece of ass.

Supremely confident, unconcerned for Darges’ discomfort, without any additional enhancements other than the kiss of butter, Garcia slams inside the tiny pussy.

“Aggggghhhhhh!” the boy screams, shocked by the sudden explosive agony.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Garcia cries.

Providing no time for acclimation, smirking with satisfaction, he rips roughly into the protesting hole, assaulting the helpless non-rate as the audience vociferously cheers the endeavor.

“Oh god, it’s too big…take it out, take it out…please,” the sailor begs.

Grabbing the boy’s hips, he slams all 10-inches inside the shattered boy. Driving balls deep inside the clutching chute, bottoming-out and rearranging internal organs, Garcia repeatedly pummels the non-rate, ripping the kid a new one.

“Damn…he took the whole thing,” said a chief, noting the boy’s protruding abdomen.

“Way to go…plow that sea-pussy!” another shipmate encourages.

Enjoying undeniable perfection, it’s another fine Navy day for Garcia.

For Darges, not so much.

The brutal assault proceeds unabated as the alpha males exercise their inherent rights indiscriminately and to excess. Over the next two weeks many large military objects are unceremoniously stuffed up inside the miserable minnow.

 Struggling valiantly to accommodate the fleet education, but inherently lacking sufficient elasticity, the sailor’s devastated sphincter, gapping wide open, is quickly ruined.

Out-of-commission, Darges is reluctantly transferred to medical.

Lying on his belly, hips up and rotated, legs spread wide open, chunks of navy jam and blood ooze out of the sailor’s battered and torn pussy. The damaged sailor, incapable of performing his duties and standing watch, is on the binnacle list for the foreseeable future.

Under HM1 Coyne’s care, the corpsman performs daily examinations, fingering the healing ring and inspecting the delicate rectal lining with his medical toys. Concerned for his sailor, Ensign Rozo also frequently visits sickbay, personally examining the boy’s shredded pussy.

“No one knows what actually happened,” said Coyne, “and he’s not talking, sir.”

“That’s not unexpected,” replies Ensign Rozo.

“They didn’t use much lubrication, sir…just some butter,” said Coyne.

“That seems like an imprudent decision.”

Unfortunately for Darges, his fate is sealed - designated as sea-pussy. Once cleared for unrestricted duty, his education will continue. Making up for lost time, he will absorb his lessons until fully qualified to stand the watch and accommodate his superiors and shipmates.

Upon completion of  the TDY assignment he will return to Repair Division.

A duty schedule will be posted in the berthing compartment for shipmates to reserve half-hour time slots. Senior petty officers, enjoying head-of-the-line privileges, will naturally exercise their rights and frequently shaft the inferior male.

- - - - - Return To The Present - - - - -

“The situation did spiral a little out of control sir,” HTCS Garcia admits.

“A little? Senior Chief, you ruined the kid. There’s no way to put lipstick on that pig.”

An unexpected annoyance, the CHENG reprimands HTCS Garcia for the careless destruction of government property, a UCMJ Article108 violation. Although not directly responsible, the actions of his subordinates reflects poorly on Ensign Rozo’s leadership.

UCMJ Art. 108. Military Property Of United States: Loss, Damage, Destruction, Or Wrongful Disposition:

(1)  Any person subject to this chapter who, without proper authority sells or otherwise disposes of; willfully or through neglect damages, destroys, or loses; or willfully or through neglect suffers to be lost, damaged, sold, or wrongfully disposed of; any military property of the United States, shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.

“It’s not really my fault, sir,” Garcia explains.

“How’s that? You should have prepared him better, senior chief.”

Darges wasn’t stretched out sufficiently at Recruit Training Command (RTC), Great Lakes - an unforgivable oversight by his company commander.

Fortunately, one insignificant non-rates’ ass isn’t of any great concern. The Navy has an abundance of minnows and every ship routinely enjoys fresh catches.

“I swear sir, today’s sailors are woefully unprepared to join the Fleet.”

“You know Senior, sometimes a little finesse often pays handsome dividends.”

All predators understand that the ultimate enjoyment lies in the hunt - ascending the dizzy peak of anticipatory wanting, identify a target, attacking, break, and taking ownership of a shipmate. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it, decimating a sailor’s will and converting him into sea-pussy.

“True sir, but it’s much more exciting watching a sailor struggle to take it.”

“Can’t deny that senior chief,” laughing at the rationalization. “Still, you must exercise care in the future. You can’t go around tearing up all the new non-rates.”

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

In the Navy, rank is everything.

And life as a Chief Petty Officer can be sweet; for fresh seafood, not so much.

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

The author may be reached at [email protected]


james rozo

[email protected]


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