USS Independence CV62 - Ch 1: An Officer’s Boy

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

Homosexuality, although officially illegal, was generally accepted as just boys being boys so long as the participants were discreet. Flaming effeminate sailors, although exceedingly popular, did not serve for long. Moreover, officers were often relieved due to inappropriate relationships, poor judgment, or loss of confidence to provide effective leadership.

With great risks, however, come great opportunity and rewards - the unmitigated pleasure of sailing the high seas with shipmates & brothers, rascals & rogues, kindred souls, and secret lovers.

"I can imagine no more rewarding a career. And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: ‘I served in the United States Navy.’”  ~ President John F. Kennedy, 1 August 1963, Bancroft Hall, U.S. Naval Academy ~

The match ignites.

Nourished by the accelerant, floating on gossamer wings, the elemental force races across the deck and up the bulkhead…devouring everything. Lurking in the shadows, sporting an erection in his bellbottom trousers, an enthralled sailor watches as the violence transforms into ethereal beauty.

Five minutes later the 1MC general announcing system comes alive with the rapid ringing of the ship’s bell. Below decks in engineering officer’s country, stateroom 3-146-0-L, HT3 Bepler on his knees, hesitates and looks up at Ensign Rozo with questioning eyes.

“Keep sucking Bepler.  I’m close,” the young officer orders.

1MC: ‘This is not a drill: fire, fire, fire, class alpha fire in compartment 03-231-1-L, away the Inport Fire Party…respond from repair locker 7-alpha. Rescue & Assistance Detail now muster in Hanger Bay 1 with the command duty officer. This is not a drill.’

USS Independence CV62, a 23-year-old Forestall class aircraft carrier 1,046 feet long displacing 79,300 tons at full load, is berthed at Norfolk Naval Shipyard, Portsmouth Virginia, west slip three on the southern branch of the Elizabeth River, completing a 5-month, $160 million dollar repair availability.

Building, overhauling, and modernizing ships since 1776, the Navy’s oldest shipyard consists of over 800 acres of land, 8 dry docks, and 200 cranes.

“Take more,” Ensign Rozo commands, holding the sailor’s wavy chestnut brown hair.

The officer instinctively thrust into the enlisted throat while visualizing the fire’s location: an Air Wing compartment - VF14, VF32, VA87… who knows which squadron. Fucking airdales. It’s a love-hate relationship between black shoes (ship’s force) and brown shoes (air wing). Mostly hate.

Air Wing, however, isn’t embarked, so the squadron compartments are vacant. Mentally reviewing the evening’s hot-work chits for industrial activity, the officer concludes nothing is authorized in the vicinity. The suspicious fire, third one this month, must be the handiwork of another malcontent sailor.

“Awk…ugh,” Bepler chokes incomprehensibly.

Suddenly, the Ensign is brought back to the present and immediate mission - feeding Bepler.

The care and welfare of enlisted men is always an officer’s first obligation. The Navy takes care of its own. Forcing his way deeper inside the throat, taking refuge as is his right, the officer smiles down upon the compliant young sailor.

Willingly accepting the domination, Bepler’s constricted gear, straining well-worn bellbottom dungarees, conveys his excitement at providing service. The sizable enlisted package, prominently displayed, begs for attention.

“Mmmm…,” he moans, as Ensign Rozo applies pressure with his black-leather steel-toed boon dockers. While sustaining no damage, having his defenseless balls under the officer’s control excites him. Bepler understands that as military property, his body belongs to the Navy for the next four years.

Obstructing the flow of oxygen, stretching the silky-smooth throat walls with his girth, obscenely protruding in the sailor’s neck, the officer’s cock head is clearly discernible. Reaching around, softly strangling the boy, the convulsing throat instinctively squeezes the thick shaft.

“Oh yeah, choke on it sailor.”

Like peanut butter and jelly or salt and pepper, officer cock and enlisted throat share an entwined destiny. The symbiotic relationship, an evolutionary adaptation in the challenging nautical environment, benefits all seafarers. Who can question nature’s grand design?

“You’re an exceptional cocksucker,” the officer whispers in the sailor’s ear.

Fully housed down the throat, securing the airway, Rozo feels wonderful. Bepler, not as much.

The sailor’s eyes slowly roll up…he’s close to blacking out. Turning an attractive shade of Mediterranean-blue, the boy’s pigment takes on a hauntingly beautiful luminescent quality reminiscent of the pristine waters surrounding Crete.

“Here’s your meal, Bepler. Enjoy.”

Intoxicated by the power bestowed upon him by his commission, the officer feeds the sailor as Congress intended. Withdrawing several inches, the swollen gland vacates the sailor’s protesting throat with an audible pop. Adrenaline surges and the Ensign delivers his generous gift, flooding Bepler’s mouth with delicious Navy jam.

“Take it…swallow it all.”

Naturally submissive, the sailor obeys the lawful order.

The delicacy, creamy and decadent, is an amalgamation of sophisticated flavors containing subtle bitter, sweet, and salty notes. Rozo smiles with satisfaction as Bepler frantically swallows, greedily consuming the luxurious custard - the nutrients sliding down his parched enlisted throat.

“That’s a good boy.”

Extracting himself, Ensign Rozo discharges several ropes of jam on Bepler’s face and hair - marking his territory and reinforcing the sailor’s subservient position in the military hierarchy.

In the Navy, rank is everything.

And life as an officer is sweet; for an enlisted sailor, not so much.

Sailors have a saying: ‘I love the fucking Navy and the Navy loves fucking me!’ It captures the full flavor of the total naval experience. Enlisted men expect to be screwed over by officers and the system, and generally, their expectations are met…and often exceeded.

“That was amazing. I almost extinguished your lights.”

Pulling up his cotton khaki trousers, playfully smacking the dazed sailor’s smooth face, focusing the boy’s attention, the Ensign patiently awaits for the obligatory post-feeding gratitude.

“Thank you for allowing me the privilege of servicing you, sir.”

“You’re welcome Bepler.”

Ensign James Rozo, ‘JR’ to his peers, commissioned via the NROTC program at Cornell University Ithaca NY, reported aboard Independence eleven months ago. The progeny of successful professionals, educated in a prestigious boy’s boarding school, he’s deeply immersed in upper-class privilege. Skipping grades, nineteen years old but looking fifteen, the sailors refer to him as ‘Junior’.

Assigned to the 625 man Engineering Department as Repair Division Officer and Ship’s Fire Marshal, Ensign Rozo provides technical and administrative supervision for 110 Hull Maintenance Technicians (HT) and a 240 man ship-wide fire party organization.

“Let’s go…we have a fire to fight.”

Grabbing his blue command ball cap embroidered with the ship’s name - a tradition since 1869, the Ensign shoves the sailor out of the stateroom and they sprint off to damage control repair locker 7-alpha.

Navigating a labyrinth of passageways, they head athwartship on the third deck, up the port inclined ladder to the second deck, and aft towards the stern - approximately 46 frames, 184 feet through quick-acting watertight doors, past Officer Wardroom 1, and onto the crew’s aft mess decks.

“Head outboard, Bepler. Let’s take the escalator.”

Forestall class aircraft carriers, designed and built in the 1950s, were the first post-World War II super-carriers. Incorporating high tonnage, an angled flight deck, steam catapults, and deck-edge elevators, the ships were also designed with two portside escalators from the second deck to the 03 level, one forward and one aft.

The aft escalator services squadron ready rooms 7 and 8, located at 2-167-4-L and 2-175-4-L respectively. Encumbered in full flight gear, the pilots quickly and effortlessly strike topside, their waiting aircraft armed with ordnance for the day’s mission.

Machinist Mates in Engineering’s Auxiliaries Division delight in frustrating squadron personnel by pretending to perform maintenance - tagging-out the electrical system and dismantling components. Underway, it’s guaranteed to experience frequent catastrophic failures, further infuriating the airdales.

It’s a black shoe - brown shoe thing.

Although currently out-of-commission, the escalator still facilitates quick transit from the second deck to the gallery 03 level. Avoiding the clotted traffic of sailors and shipyard workers, the direct route also precludes the necessity to navigate through a maze of compartments, passageways, inclined ladders, hatches, and obstructions inherent in the port-quarter of the ship.

“Through here,” as Rozo pushes Bepler through the armored ballistic door, onto the escalator.

Taking station astern, encouraging forward ascension up the immobile metal treads, the officer’s hand aggressively pushes and squeezes the sailor’s enticing ass. Now why hadn’t he noticed THAT before?

An asset any sailor would be proud to possess, the Ensign ruminates, ‘does Bepler takes it up the ass?’ He must, the officer concludes, don’t all sailors?

Obviously, he needs to sample apiece.

- - - - -  Flashback Ten Months  - - - - -

Ensign Rozo clearly remembers the first time he met HT3 Thomas Michael Bepler.

A wiry kid of dazzling perfection, Bepler has smooth creamy white skin, high cheekbones, expressive brown eyes, and an infectious smile with inviting voluptuous lips. Excessively handsome, at first glance the Ensign knew the sailor was destined to be an officer’s boy. His boy.

Established by Congress on 13 October 1775, the fledgling Continental Navy incorporated many British Naval customs and traditions, with a French admixture from the revolutionary war alliance. One such tradition was for boys to serve aboard ships as officer’s boys, cabin boys, and midshipmen.

John Paul Jones went to sea at age 13 aboard Friendship, a brig out of Whitehaven. And John Barry, the most successful captain of the Revolutionary War and ‘Father of the American Navy’, started out as a cabin boy aboard a fishing skiff out of Rosslare, Ireland.

While the concept has evolved over the last 235 years, sailors still unofficially serve as officer’s boys in today’s modern Navy. Being an ardent traditionalist, selecting a boy from the sailors in his division is a sacred responsibility, one the Ensign takes very seriously.

The Navy is not unlike prison…except prisoners have some rights, sailors not so much.

Signing an enlistment contract, swearing an inviolable oath, sailors surrender their civil law rights and voluntarily accept military authority and jurisdiction under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Bound by regulations, they are subject to strict rules, endless requirements, and the capricious whims of officers.

Aggressively hunted by predatory shipmates, many vulnerable sailors prefer to serve an officer, a practical survival strategy, instead of being relentlessly used by the crew. Enjoying significant prestige, privilege, and protection, hopeful boys dream about being selected by an officer, to be his boy.

And as expected, the competition is inherently intense.

“Please sir, select me,” Bepler begs, “I’ll do anything you want, sir.”

“Anything sailor, are you sure?”

“Sir, yes, sir. Whatever you require.”

“Very well. Fill out a special request chit and I’ll consider your qualifications.”

Although there are many highly qualified sailors applying for the position, Bepler’s enthusiasm is impressive…making him the front-runner. Respecting the selection process, however, ensuring equal opportunity, the officer evaluates all the candidates’ skills before making a final selection.

“A schedule will be posted on the division’s bulletin board. Don’t miss your appointment, sailor.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be there. You can count on me.”

“Very well Bepler.”

Interviewing the dozen applicants is exhausting but exhilarating work. Accepting the burden of leadership, Ensign Rozo altruistically measures their skills and willingness to swallow navy jam. It’s gratifying seeing how eager they are to please - renewing his faith in the American sailor. Several boys, looking for an advantage, provocatively rub their alluring asses, advertising availability.

Although enamored by smooth golden-skinned Latino sailors - so delicious, the Ensign is also happy to select a charming and deferential Asian boy, or a talented submissive white kid.

Discretion and maturity are important qualities, but a subservient and respectful disposition is paramount. An inclination for veneration doesn’t hurt either. After all, the Ensign is an officer and gentleman by an act of Congress serving at the pleasure of the President.

In the end, Bepler is selected. The sailor’s ebullient spirit, alacrity, and commitment to professional excellence make him stand out - not to mention his crazy oral skills. Insatiable and immensely talented, demonstrating exceptional ability, he’s an enthusiastic cock-sucking sailor.

“Bepler is off-limits,” orders the Ensign, passing the word at morning quarters.

The sailor is now his exclusive property. Once designated as an ‘officer’s boy’, no one, not even the Command Master Chief or another officer would dare to touch him…an unthinkable breach of naval etiquette with serious consequences.

Loyal and submissive, Bepler is an excellent acquisition. Instinctively, he understands the Ensign’s emotional and physical predilections and provides exceptional service.

“Why did you enlisted in the Navy?” the Ensign asks, curious about the boy’s own story.

“To move on to something better, sir.”

Haunted by the past, emotionally bruised, hesitant to provide amplifying details, Bepler’s response, typical of most sailors, is sad commentary on the decay of western civilization accelerated by civil unrest and the drug culture of the 60’s and 70’s.

A week later, they celebrate the sailor’s 19th birthday at the Wooden Nickel. Located in Norfolk on Military Highway, the sailor bar is adorned with command plaques and faded ships’ pictures. After several beers, besieged by submerged memories, Bepler’s emotional dam weakens.

“I never knew my father…and my mother drank heavily, often disappearing for days.”

“That’s most unfortunate,” Rozo commiserates.

From his division officer’s notebook, the Ensign knows Bepler hails from the high country of rural western Virginia. The undulating Appalachian landscape, an endless succession of elevations and ridges shrouded in blue isoprene haze, has long been abandoned by time and sidestepped by progress.

Born in a small unincorporated community in secreted Bedford County, Bepler grew up alongside the King James River, where the Blue Ridge Mountains on the east and the Allegheny Mountains on the west pinch the Shenandoah Valley.

The James, a freshwater river formed from the confluence of the Cowpasture and Jackson, meanders east for 340 miles, descending out of the mountains to the coastal plains. Reaching sea level east of Richmond, it becomes a tidal river and at Hampton Roads meets the Chesapeake Bay, homeport to the world’s largest and most powerful naval force.

“Mostly my older brother Billy watched over me,” the sailor continues. “He taught me to hunt and often took me to Jennings Creek, a secluded swimming hole off the James.”

Remote and inaccessible, bordered by grassy banks, shrubs, and broad-leaved deciduous hardwoods - oak and hickory, Jennings Creek is where boys go for wild swimming. Unregulated, worthy of rowdy camaraderie, the rich brown water from the tannin of decaying leaves caresses naked bodies. Communing with nature, boys forge intimate connections, share stories, and learn about life and sex.

Wrestling playfully, displaying his superior strength, Billy lifts his naked younger brother out of the water and launches him skyward. With arms and legs flaying about, briefly defying gravity, the young boy shrieks with childish delight. Descending from the dizzy peak, crashing downward, submerged underwater, he touches the muddy bottom and floats effortlessly to the surface.

Retaliating, the young boy naturally reaches for Billy - but ends up with his brother’s dick instead, his small hand barely halfway around the thick teenage shaft.

“Let go of my dick, faggot.”

“Sorry Billy, it was an accident,” as the embarrassed boy, amazed by the appendage’s proportions, quickly releases the awakening and rapidly expanding shaft.

Bepler takes a long drink, swallows, and empties the domestic beer bottle. Looking down with distraught and unfocused eyes, ruminating over traumatic memories, the sailor exhales a deep measured breath and musters the courage to continue as the emotional sluice gates slowly open.

“Soon after, Billy led me out of the creek.”

Prodded from behind, traversing a root-strewn path, the boy is forced deeper into the unsullied wilderness. Negotiating rugged terrain, over tawny rocks and boulders, around uprooted trees rotting with clutches of wild mushrooms, and through thickets of saxicoline brush, they reach a secluded hollow hidden by a stand of hickory.

The sonority of elemental forces, the forest’s murmurings, flows ominously as songbirds in the canopy - starlings, thrushes, and warblers scold a warning with sharp whistles and twittering notes.

Unceremoniously, the boy is pushed to his knees on the verdant moss carpet. A warm breeze blows rife with the earthy aromatic fragrance of wood rot, loamy soil, and old leaves burning in slow decay.

Piercing rays of sunlight cascade down between the swaying trees, illuminating Billy’s muscular teenage torso. Transfixed by the view, inches from the young boy’s face, with foreskin retracted over the large purple head, Billy’s majestic cock beckons, commanding attention and examination.

“It’s awesome, right?” asks the manipulative older boy.

Speechless, the boy can only nod in the affirmative.

Mesmerized by the immense power surging within the tumescent cock, overwhelming his senses, the young boy is helplessly drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Captivated, he watches as Billy seductively strokes the amazing shaft, accentuating its rapidly growing length.

“All boys are curious,” he adds with disarming assurance. “Go ahead, hold it.”

Idolizing his older brother, craving continued attention, the submissive and trusting boy is eager to please the superior male. Confused but compelled, burning with curiosity, head spinning wildly, he reaches for the tumid offering…his trembling hands unable to completely enclose the massive girth.

“It’s…it’s huge,” whispers the stunned boy.

“Good boy. Now show it respect…give it a nice kiss,” he seductively encourages.

Swallowing hard, obediently leaning forward, parting his lips, placing them on the blood-engorged cockhead, he hesitantly complies with Billy’s request.

“Oh yeah, that’s good. Now lick it,” he cajoles the entranced boy.

Facilitating the precarious decent, Billy sweet-talks his little brother until the boy’s natural reluctance weakens and dissolves. Extending his inquisitive pink tongue, taking a taste, licking around the enflamed head and along the thick shaft, he innocently follows his brother’s meticulous instructions.

Firmly guiding the boy’s head, expecting compliance, Billy doesn’t offer any choice.

Nearby, curious gray squirrels, eastern-chipmunks, and other indigenous feral creatures watch the boys. Chattering, they shuffle through the detritus of decaying leaves and underbrush while debating the significance of the curious human behavior.

Transported in time, navigating emotional waters, Bepler remembers the pivotal moment when his life changed forever. Immersed in the task, slowly but surely, Billy’s large gland somehow ends up inside his little mouth. He’s not sure how it happens, it just does, and before he realizes it, he’s sucking cock.

“That was the first time I sucked, sir.”

“And what do you remember most about the experience, Bepler?”

“The smell, sir. The astonishing scent.”

While the texture is amazing - the soft succulent head, surprising malleable velvet-smooth steel shaft, and firm testicles hanging ponderously in their fleshy wrinkled bag, it’s the rich aroma the young boy will always remember. Beguiled, with no return to innocence, it smelled like destiny.

 Applying pressure, encouraging him to keep sucking, Billy becomes more insistent, forcing more inside the little mouth. Filling his brother completely, he occupies all the available real estate.

After a few minutes, Billy pulls out, jerks up and down, and shoots four voluminous spurts, drenching his little brother’s surprised face. The chunky viscous custard scalds his fragile psyche, slides down his forehead, blurs the vision in his left eye, tracks down his cheek, and drips off his chin.

“You look great covered in jizz,” said the older boy while rubbing the dripping cock across his brother’s flush face. “Next time you’re going to drink it.”

Nauseous, unable to breath, the young boy experiences overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt. Tricked, he just crossed a seminal threshold, the evidence dripping down his distraught face. Overhearing older boys talk derisively about faggots, he knows it’s the worst thing a boy can be…a cocksucker.

The barmaid, an attractive woman with a warm smile and generous breasts, checking on the sailors, approaches until the Ensign waves her away. Intuitively she understands the moment, recognizing the familiar face of distraught men and tortured souls imbued with painful memories.

Sympathetic but aroused, the Ensign encourages Bepler to continue. Ashamed, lost in introspection, the sailor dredges up suppressed memories as the cathartic purging accelerates.

“All kids suck their older brothers…about time you started servicing me,” Billy explains while grinning the widest of malevolent grins.

Was that true? Did his friends also suck their older brothers? Vulnerable and naïve, the sickened boy desperately wants to believe the assertion, but can’t. Intuitively, he knows it’s a lie.

“Please Billy, don’t tell anyone,” begs the boy.

“I don’t know,” thinking about it. “I suppose there’s no reason to share a good thing with my buddies. After all, you’re my little brother. Cooperate and no one has to know you’re a cocksucker.”

“Don’t…don’t call me that.”

“What, a cocksucker?  But that’s what you are, right?”

“Um…err, yeah, I guess so,” admits the humiliated and broken boy, understanding he’s irrevocably committed. Helpless to change the situation, tricked and sweet-talked by Billy, he knows that deep down inside its true. Boys who suck cocks are cocksuckers. And he did…and he is.

“Damn right,” smacking the boy’s face with the meaty but deflated shaft. “And don’t ever forget it. You were born to suck cock, my cock.”

Distant jubilant voices suddenly resonate in the forest, announcing the arrival of other boys at the creek. Recognizing the sound, Billy departs for his friends, leaving his brother on his knees. Alone, abandoned, and crying, the soul-crushing realization hits home…he’s a cocksucker. With the evidence drying on his young face, the boy collapses into passive despair like a puppy taken from its mother.

Taking a deep breath, Bepler looks at Ensign Rozo and continues his sorrowful story.

“A few nights later Billy continued my education.”

Entering the austere bedroom, navigating in the darkness with feral eyes, the predator circles the unsuspecting prey. Pouncing, easily overpowering the boy, sitting on his chest, pinning the ineffectual arms, immobilizing the head between muscular thighs, he quickly establishes complete control.

“Time for another feeding,” Billy announces, the strong stench of alcohol suffusing the air.

Smacking his little brother’s face with the tumid shaft, Billy issues the simple but direct command - equal parts invitation and insult.

“Blow me, cocksucker.”

Helpless, the submissive boy complies, stretching his lips around the flared head and down the thick veiny shaft. Swinging in their floppy sack, weighty pendulous balls violently batter his chin as Billy pumps his hips, thrusting in-and-out, each time penetrating a little deeper.

“Take more,” Billy demands, applying pressure, reaching the throat’s entrance.

Lunging aggressively, he pops inside the boy’s shocked throat. Immensely pleased, grinning wickedly, Billy presses forward, not stopping until he’s balls deep. Exercising his birthright as the older brother, he’s housed completely inside the protesting and devastated conduit.

Suffocating, with his nose buried in Billy’s thick pungent pubic hair, the boy gulps desperate breaths between deep strokes. Minutes seem like hours, as the shaft is alternately withdrawn and stuffed inside the constricting and hermetically sealed orifice.

Hoping for deliverance, the boy prays his mother will awaken and save him. Sadly, there’s little chance of that - she’s passed out again from another hard night of drinking.

“I’m close…get ready,” Billy shouts.

Twisting his head in futility, the young boy tries to dislodge the swollen teenage shaft…but it’s firmly entrenched inside the convulsing throat. Tears stream down his ruddy face as he surrenders completely and accepts the inevitable humiliation.

“Ugh…here it comes, cocksucker. Take my load you little pussy!”

Christening the boy, the aggressive teen trembles as a deluge of salty wonder explodes down his little brother’s throat, directly depositing five thick spurts where destiny ordained.

“Oh god,” Billy moans through clenched teeth.

Pulling back, he coats his brother’s tongue with the sweet sticky jam.

“How’s that taste, pussy?”

“Terrible…I hate it!” the boy cries, wanting to throw up.

“Well it’s an acquired taste…and I’m going to make sure you acquire it.”

And true to his word, he does. The sucking continues unabated, sometimes twice a day, as quarts of delicious creamy goodness are devoured. Settling into a routine, service is provided whenever and wherever the older boy demands. Sleeping at the foot of Billy’s bed, he’s readily available to provide immediate service during the night or first thing in the morning.

Looking at the Ensign, the sailor takes a deep breath and continues.

“Six months later everything changed when Billy brought home some friends. Sporting conspiratorial grins and growing erections, I immediately realized they knew…that my brother betrayed me, broke his promise. I was shocked, dismayed, humiliated.”

“That’s understandable,” as Rozo adjusts his constricted erection.

“I didn’t want to, but Billy forced me to suck everyone.”

Physically controlling the devastated boy, smacking him around, displaying his superiority to his friends, Billy shoves himself inside the compliant mouth. Impressed, they watch and laugh hysterically, cheer Billy on while getting drunk, and wait with anticipation for their turn.

Eventually, they all feed the cocksucker…several boys twice.

Word quickly spreads and soon everyone in Bedford County knows about the boy’s unique skills. Departing the world of normal boys, forcefully escorted to impromptu gatherings, he’s the entertainment - the available and compliant consumer of masculine quintessence.

“That’s fucked up, right sir?”

“Yes, Bepler, that’s most unfortunate,” the Ensign consoles him.

“I mean…I was just a kid. I trusted Billy and he turned me into a cocksucker, sharing me with his friends. And my mother allowed it to happen. Why didn’t she protect me?”  Entrenched in painful memories, drowning in a riptide of emotions, Bepler turns away sobbing.

The Ensign is not surprised, he’s heard many similar accounts before. Forged on the anvil of adversity, life is intrinsically arbitrary and unfair.

Every sailor’s life is a tragedy: abused, neglected, emotionally battered, physically beaten, bludgeoned by circumstance, living in dysfunctional families in blighted neighborhoods, squalid existences perched upon the precipice of doom.

The military takes all the progeny of misery and misfortune.

Changing their life’s narrative, enlistment is the opportunity to transcend the bottom rung of the social-economic ladder. It’s the promise of something better: food, shelter, safety, rules and regulations, order in a chaotic universe, a life with meaning and purpose filled with camaraderie and adventure.

“It’s ok Bepler…the Navy is your family now, no one will ever hurt you again,” as the Ensign reaches out, wipes away tears from swollen red eyes, and holds him tightly.

“Thank you, sir. I know I can depend on you.”

“Come on, Bepler, let’s leave…you’re spending tonight with me.”

Earlier Rozo reserved a BOQ room, so there’s no need to return to the ship. An hour later, having traversed a thousand emotional miles, contently nursing on the Ensign’s cock the sailor is finally home.

Savoring the decadence resonating on his tongue, running his trembling fingers through the officer’s enticing pubic hair, Bepler breathes deeply, inhaling the strong masculine scent. The pheromones ignite a primitive biological urge and the sailor suddenly ejaculates, shootings jets of chunky-white enlisted jam.

Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, victorious in the Battle of Midway, looks down approvingly from the wall above - his moment in history captured in vibrant colors. Every sailor battles fate and personal demons. Resilient, silencing the voices in his head, Bepler slowly emerges from the grit and grime of childhood trauma, gently caressed by the healing hands of time.

“Happy Birthday, Bepler.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Holding Bepler tightly throughout the night, a safe harbor in the tempest, sheltering the boy from the malevolent universe, the Ensign offers a silent prayer - calling upon the ancient gods of Wind and Wave to protect the sailor.

His sailor. His boy.

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

A minute later Ensign Rozo and HT3 Bepler are on the 03-level, heading aft down the port passageway, jumping over steel knee-knockers. Turning outboard, they arrive at 03-228-2-Q…repair locker 7-alpha. Within two minutes, all 24 members of the fire party are present.

The voyage aboard Independence continues in chapter 2.

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]


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