Copyright © 2003
By Lee Mariner

This ADULT fantasy depicts homosexual acts and erotic situations. If you are not of legal age in your locality to be reading this material or should you not approve of such material, please leave.

This story is copyrighted © by the author.  It is assigned to the Nifty Archives for posting, but it may not be reproduced, copied archived or posted on any other web site without the specific written consent of the author.

My friend, Dean has edited and proofed this work.  I am grateful for his continued assistance.

Comments and/or suggestions may be directed to:


Chapter #XLVI

A sudden feeling of apprehension swept over me when Brett said, "When we get home".  I suddenly realized that I was in New York City about to go to who knows where with a man whom I had only met a few hours earlier and knew very little about other than he was sexy. 

He was a charismatic, handsome, well-developed, middle-aged man with an obviously substantial endowment; but he seemed to be a man who expected to, and probably did, get what he wanted. My earlier ardent feelings  had subsided considerably when I considered the feeling that it was a foregone conclusion on his part that I would accompany him.  I didn't like being taken for granted, and I was in the throes of trying to make sense of the apprehensive dilemma that his authoritative attitude had created in my mind.  I was trying to think about how I was going to extricate myself when Kita opened the limousine trunk. 

"Kita, " Brett said, glancing to his left and hesitating with one hand on the car roof and the other on the open car door. "Did Mrs. Hunter leave this morning for the house in the Hamptons?"

"Mrs. Hunter," I thought, looking quizzically at Kita and than back at Brett.  I was about to ask who Mrs. Hunter was when Kita spoke, his answer deepening the mystery.

"No, Sir, she didn't," Kita answered. "She and your son decided to await your return so the three of you could go together."

"She did what?" Brett exploded, suddenly breathing, almost panting, from emotional passion. "I told them to leave today and that I would join them on Monday," he fumed with exasperation, the muscles of his jaw tightening.

"I am sorry, Sir, she and Master Dwayne took the Jaguar and went shopping before lunch. I heard Mrs. Hunter tell Master Dwayne that they would keep his appointment with his class counselor at the Larchmont Young Men's Academy after lunch."

Turning and looking at me over his shoulder for the first time since he had spoken with his chauffeur, Brett frowned as he said, "Damn, Carlton, that complicates matters. I had anticipated that my wife and son would be out of town and we would have free run of the place. No matter though, we can use the garage entrance, and Kita will explain that I have been delayed and will be on a different flight."

"Brett," I said, cautiously.  "You didn't mention that you are married."

"So what if I am!" He exclaimed, his anger suddenly flaring again. "I don't remember you mentioning whether you were married or not, and you damn well better not try to play the innocent and tell me that you have never been in bed with a married man." He said, breathing heavily. "That's a load of bull shit."

Stunned by the sudden ferocity of his arrogant and unfounded accusations, I backed away, glancing at Kita who was standing with his hand on the trunk lid, his face emotionless. "It wouldn't make any difference now whether I were married or not, Brett," I replied, attempting to control my emotions as I responded. "Whether you believe it or not, I try not to be involved with men who are married."

"Bull shit," he sneered, vehemently, the knuckles of the hand gripping the door white from his anger. "I haven't met a slut who can pass up a good fuck and the chance to make a few bucks.  I don't see you as being a damn bit different," he growled in a menacing tone, his face flushed from anger.

I was stunned by the complete change in his persona and the ugly epithet with the uncalled for accusation. I could see Brett's bulging neck muscles, his flushed face, and the fury in his eyes.  I thought he was going to do something foolish, and quickly glancing at Kita I asked him to remove my luggage.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him place the two bags at the edge of the curb. As he straightened up, he said,  "There is a taxi stand just past the passenger terminal exit where I met you and Mr. Hunter."

"Thanks, Kita," I replied without taking my eyes from Brett.

I had the distinct impression that Brett did not take being refused lightly; and  I wasn't sure what, besides being extremely angry by an unexpected rejection, he might do even though we were in a public area.  What I did know at that particular moment was that I wanted to get away from Brett Hunter before there was any further unnecessary and embarrassing commotion.

The sudden noise of the trunk lid latches engaging, amplified by the surrounding concrete walls and overhang, seemed to bring him back to reality. 
"What the hell, it's your fucking loss, Bitch," Brett growled, turning abruptly and slamming the door behind him as he ducked into the interior of the car.

Kita's inscrutable countenance softened into a discernible smile, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.  Opening the car door, he winked before getting behind the steering wheel and starting the car's engine.  

Inhaling deeply and exhaling as the limousine pulled away from the curb, I felt the tension draining away, my muscles relaxing as a wave of relief washed over me. 


As Brett's car turned a corner and disappeared from view, I sighed partially from disappointment but more from relief.   Swinging my sea bag up on my shoulder, and picking up my suitcase, I headed in the direction that Kita had indicated. There were two taxis standing at the curb.

The driver in the lead car was leaning against the seat back smoking a cigarette.  Dropping  my sea bag on the concrete beside my suitcase, I leaned over and, looking through the open car window, asked,  "Can you take me to the Brooklyn Naval Shipyard?"

"Sure can, Bud," he replied, scraping the glowing ember from the tip of his cigarette in the car's ashtray before placing the butt behind his ear as he straightened up and looked out the window at me.  "Set you back twenty-five bucks, and there is a charge of five dollars each for your bags.

"Thirty-five dollars," I mused aloud. "That's kind of steep isn't it?"

"I can put you on the meter if that's what you want." He answered without a hint of compassion. "Either way, it still costs five bucks apiece for the bags."

"Take the flat rate, Son," a voice whispered from behind me. "If you don't, the meter will cost more after he finishes running you the long way around."

"Wha...what," I replied,  surprised that someone had walked up behind me unheard.

"Cab drivers can spot non-New Yorkers, and sailors are fair game," the tall good looking stranger said in a quiet voice. "Your sea bag is a dead give-away, and I'm surprised he offered you a flat rate.  They don't usually give a serviceman a break."

"I guess I had better learn how to get around the city," I replied.

"If you are going to be in the Big Apple very long, you had better," he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the other taxi.

The sharp voice of the taxi driver interrupted me as I called out, "Thanks a lot," receiving a hand wave in return.

"Hey bud, are we going to Brooklyn or are you gonna stand there?"

"Brooklyn," I replied.

"Throw your stuff in the trunk," he said gruffly, unlocking the trunk lid from the interior of the car.


After probably a half an hour of driving through crowded streets, crossing a bridge and following a chain link fence, we turned into an approach to double gates with a guard shack situated between the lanes of entering and exiting traffic. A huge well-lit sign formed an arch over the entrance  identifying the site as that of the U. S. Naval Shipyard, Brooklyn, New York.  As the taxi approached, a young well armed Marine in camouflage uniform stepped from inside the guard shack.  He stood in a state of readiness to salute if necessary, but when he didn't see any gold he relaxed and asked for my orders and identification card.   After checking my papers and comparing my face to the card, he handed them back to me.   As he leaned down at the driver's window, I heard him start to say, "The Receiv...," when he was abruptly cut off by the driver.  "Yeah, yeah, I know where it is; it's off of Maury Avenue on Farragut.  I've been there more times than I can count.

The driver pulled away from the guard shack mumbling, "Fuckin' jarheads, they think no one knows anything about this base but them."

"They know more about it than I do," I said, a little piqued at his insolent attitude.

"You'll learn if you're here long enough," he replied glancing at me in his rear view mirror.

"I hope I'm not here very long," I replied as I handed him the fare. 

"Whatever," he said, pulling the under dash lever that released the trunk lid.

The trunk was hardly closed before he drove away leaving me in front of a very large three-story building.  Several brick steps led up to a small landing and, beyond that to a pair of half glass door with sturdy screening over the lower door panels. Mounted under a bright white light over the doors was the usual black on white lettered sign that read Transit and Permanent Personnel Receiving Station, Bldg. 101.

"Oh well," I mused softly to myself as I swung my sea bag on my shoulder and, picking up my suitcase, started to ascend the steps.  Just as I was about to reach the landing, one of the doors swung open and a young man dressed in civilian clothes followed by another dressed the same way came barreling through the door.   "Hey," I shouted. "Watch where your going."

"You watch where your going, Buddy," the lead sailor said as he deftly and athletically danced his way Gene Kelly style down two steps at a time, his buddy following him after they had avoided knocking me backwards.

Leaning forward and letting my sea bag drop onto the landing, I held onto my suitcase for balance as I recovered from the unexpected onslaught.  Turning my head in their direction, I saw two young men, obviously teenagers, trotting down the street. One was dressed in Levi's and a red sweatshirt with the name 'Falcons' emblazoned on the back. The other also wore Levi's, but his shirt was a non-descript  light blue.   I started to bark an order for them to stop when I realized that I was wearing civilian clothes myself and that they would ignore me.

"They're probably on their way to the EM(Enlisted Men's) Club," I thought as I pushed my way inside the building.

The interior was typical of other barracks buildings that I had been in with dark green vinyl tiled floors that needed scrubbing and polishing, light green walls, and two iron railed steel-tread stairways leading up to the other floors.  In front of me was a wooden double door with a sign designating it as the mess hall.  To my right was a single wooden door with a series of numbers painted in black on it's natural, varnished surface. To my left there was a wooden door that for some reason was painted the same color as the walls.  The upper half was open and on the wall above the door the words, "Master-at-Arms" had been painted in black letters.  On the wall to the left of the door was another sign, "Transits Report Here",  and below that in smaller letters, "Have Your Orders Ready'".

Below the half door shelf, there was a bulletin board covered with a myriad of notices, pictures and notes.  Beyond the door was an approximately twelve foot square two-window office containing two desks, several gray four-drawer filing cabinets and assorted chairs scattered behind and in front of the two battered desks.  A second-class petty officer in an undress blue uniform sat at the desk further from the door reading from a manual.  A seaman apprentice, also in his undress blue uniform, was standing at an open file cabinet drawer feigning enthusiasm while he sorted through a stack of papers and placed them into various file folders.  Both men seemed to be totally engrossed in what they were doing and not paying  any attention to the doorway until I asked loudly, "Would one of you care to check me in?" 

"What, oh... sure," the petty office said quickly glancing up and rolling his chair back.  Using his pen for a bookmark, he stood closing the manual he had been reading and moved around his desk to the door.  "We didn't mean to ignore you, but I was  trying to catch up on some past due manual changes while Glover was doing some of the old filing."

"It helps pass the time while on watch, Carlson," I said, glancing at the name tag pinned to the left breast of his tunic.

"Especially then," he replied as he took my orders from my hand.

After several seconds of looking over my orders, he turned away mumbling under his breath. "Evers, Carlton Evers. I saw that name on a transient personnel list," he said aloud. "Glover, have you finished the Transient Personnel file?"

"Not yet, I'm still filing the 'R' stuff," the seaman replied wearily. "That stack of papers is still on the desk."

"Is there something wrong, Carlson?" I asked, a little agitated at not being told anything.

"No, your orders are okay, but I think your name is on a list of transients who have been assigned for transportation on board the USNS George W. Goethals." 

I knew USNS meant  United States Naval Ship, a designation for ships that the Navy controlled but were not in active commissioned status. The smoke stacks had bright blue and yellow bands indicating they were non-commissioned naval vessels. The ones that I had seen plying the Mediterranean were old World War II ships that were used for transporting personnel, supplies and materials. I had assumed that the Navy would fly me to my next duty station in Panama, and it surprised me to hear that I might be going on an old USNS vessel that was probably close to it's final voyage to the ghost fleets.

"I surely hope that you are mistaken, Carlson," I replied, trying to overcome a sudden feeling of apprehension and disappointment deep in the pit of my stomach.

Carlson turned around as he was leafing through a sheaf of several papers held together by staples.  "I don't think so, Evers," he said perusing one sheet and then another. "I'm almost certain....yes, here it is," he exclaimed, reading musingly.  "Evers, Carlton, Boatswain Mate First Class, USN assigned to the USNS George W. Goethals for transport to US Naval Air Station, Coco Solo, Republic of Panama."

"Let me see that, Carlson," I demanded, feeling my stomach turning over with apprehension.

Seeing it written in black and white didn't change anything, but hanging around in a barracks filled with transients going to various duty stations did.  The ship was not scheduled to leave for a week, and I surely wasn't looking forward to being in a state of limbo without any regularly assigned duties until then.

"Damn," I exclaimed.  "That sucks big time."

"The ship or hanging around here until she leaves?" Carlson asked, glancing across the counter at me with a hint of sympathy in his tone.

"A little of both but more here than the ship," I replied a little dejected.  "On board the ship, I know what follows, but here  the days drag, and who knows what kind of duty they might try to assign."

"I know what you mean; I've been here for almost two weeks," Carlson said as he sat down and extracted the ink pad and stamps he needed to endorse my orders as being on board the station.  He was just about to stamp my orders when realizing that my leave and travel time hadn't expired, I stopped him. "Hold it Carlson. I don't have to check-in right now."

"What?" he replied, the stamp in his hand hovering scant inches above the paper. 

"It just dawned on me that, I still have another week before I'm due to check-in," I said, chuckling softly. "This is my first time in New York City, and I might as well see some of the sights while I have the chance."

Placing the stamp on the inked surface of the pad, he glanced at the dates my orders.  "Your call, Boats," he exclaimed, looking up and grinning at me. "At least that's a week that you don't have to spend here," he said as he stood, folding my orders and returning them to the envelope.

"Maybe you will be transferred by then," I said a little sympathetically.

"Let's hope so."


There was a taxi sitting in a designated area outside of the Receiving Station barracks.  My funds were not inexhaustible, and I was hesitant to spend another thirty-five dollars to be taken to a YMCA if there was one in Brooklyn.  Leaning over to look into the interior of the taxi, I asked the driver, "What's the fare to the YMCA?"

"Which one, Bedford or Flushing?" he asked, turning to look at me with a "why are you bothering me" stare.

"The closest one," I replied, ignoring his look and getting into the back of the car.

"That'll be Bedford Avenue," he sighed, starting the engine and lowering the fare meter's flag as he pulled away from the curb.

I couldn't help but notice the complete lack of open space along the route; everything seemed to be dirty gray concrete, non-descript at red bricks and dirty opaque glass.  The buildings appeared to be attached to each other because of a lack of space between them, and there seemed to be hardly enough room for people to breathe much less room for grass, bushes or trees to grow.  There were people sitting on building entrance steps, leaning against metal railings or leaning against walls; some engaged in animated conversations and others just sitting staring at nothing.   Large dirty glass windows were filled with banners and garish colored neon signs proclaiming the establishment to be a bar or grill or maybe a delicatessen or some other type of neighborhood store.

I was hard to imagine a YMCA in the area, and I was surprised when the driver stopped in front of an ancient but clean-looking  building. "Here you go, Buddy," he exclaimed as he disengaged the fare meter.  "Ten bucks a night and a free breakfast after morning services."

Hunching down, I glanced out the car window. The sign "Bedford Young Men's Christian Association" was centered over the double-wide doorway, and several men, young and older, were lounging against the walls on either side of the iron stairway railings.  "It looks like it's been here for awhile," I said.

"It has that, but it's clean and, if you can stomach the preaching the food isn't half bad," he replied followed by, "The meter reads twelve bucks."

As I was digging the money out of my wallet, I started to ask about my luggage but then decided to keep my mouth shut. "Sleeping dogs don't bite," I thought as I handed him the money.


Among the men leaning against the wall there were one or two young men of obvious Latin heritage dressed in tight jeans that displayed their equipment and skin tight t-shirts revealing leanly muscled but well developed physiques. One dark haired boy who was probably in his late teens or early twenties reminded me of Lyle Coleman. As I passed, he turned toward me smiling  as his hand drifted suggestively over his well packed crotch.

I was still feeling horny after the unexpected encounter with Brett Hunter, and the memory of Lyle and the last night at the cottage flashed in my head as I ascended the steps toward the buildings entrance.  "Too bad, he's probably hustling," I mused as we caught each others eye in a brief but knowing glance. 

The aroma of unwashed bodies and disinfectant assailed my nostrils the moment I stepped through the doors into a vaulted ceiling room.  Several men occupied a variety of chairs scattered around an un-carpeted marble floor, and there were some almost antique writing tables underneath the mezzanine overhang.  To the left two steps led downward to a narrow landing before descending further into what an overhead sign proclaimed to be the locker and men's rest rooms.  On the right several wide steps led upward to a mezzanine.  Standup signs at the foot indicated where the dining room was located; along with  times it was open and when services were held. There were several half wooden and half opaque glassed doors off of the mezzanine and a number of benches. 

The reception counter was empty except for a bell with a handwritten sign that said, "ring bell for service."  When I tapped the button with the palm of my hand, the clang of the bell seemed to resound around the room, and I could almost feel several pairs of eyes looking my way. 

A middle-aged drably but neatly dressed man entered the area behind the counter from an inner office, asking, "May I help you?"

"Yes, I'd like a room," I answered, eyeing the large key box mounted on the wall behind the clerk.

"How long will you be staying?"

"Hopefully, if things work out,  just for tonight," I replied eyeing a bank of not totally unoccupied telephone booths against a back wall. Two men looked like they were sitting and sleeping in two of the booths with their elbows on the small change shelf holding their heads up.

"The room is ten dollars plus a two dollar state room tax, and checkout is at eleven o'clock. If you stay more than a day, you'll have to let us know in the morning before checkout time so the maids can skip cleaning it.  We only change linens twice a week," the counter clerk said, handing me a key to room two twenty but not releasing it as he said, "Please, leave the towels in the room except when you are using the showers or wash room. Be careful even then; they do disappear, and there will be a charge."

"That sounds fair enough," I groused cheerfully as I handed him the money; my attempt at levity resulting in a blank stare.

"The elevator is to your left in the hallway or you can use the stairs also in the hall at the end," he said over his shoulder as he disappeared through the door he had entered.

"Thanks," I called out behind him thinking, "not much of a Christian attitude to be working for a Christian organization."

I thought about leaving my sea bag and suitcase sitting in front of the check-in counter but looking around the room decided that prudence was the better part of stupidity.  As I slung the bag over my shoulder, and leaned down to pick up the suitcase, I saw the Lyle look-a-like watching me as he casually walked toward the hallway where the clerk had said the elevator and stairway were located.  Hesitating for a moment, he licked his lips and groped the bulge in his jeans.  Nodding his head in the direction of the hallway, he moved slowly in the "follow me" mode that I had used years earlier.   I felt the tingling feeling in my groin and my cock stirring.  Breathing in deeply to calm the building passion, I moved on to the telephone booths entering the last one.

Setting my suitcase on end, I stuffed my sea bag into the booth leaving barely enough room for me.  Extracting the small personal phone number book from my wallet, I found Jerry's number. Rather than squeezing in with my luggage, I stood facing the booth doorway.  Dropping several coins in the telephone, I dialed Jerry's number and waited, listening for the ring.

A smooth well-modulated voice filled the telephone earpiece, "Hawes residence."

I recognized Harold's voice, Jerry's chauffer-butler.  Glancing quickly around me, I sat on my sea bag as I said, "Harold, it's Carlton Evers, is Jerry home?"

There was a slight hesitation and then, "Mr. Evers, so good to hear your voice. Mr. Hawes is in the library at the moment. I know he will be delighted that you are calling.  Please wait a moment while I transfer your call."

There was a click, silence and then another click followed by, "Carlton, where are you, in town?"  Jerry asked, excitement in his voice.

"Not very far really, Jerry, I'm in Brooklyn," I replied a sudden surge of warmth washing over me at the sound of his voice.

"Brooklyn, New York," he said inquisitively. "Why are you there, I thought you were going to Panama."

"Jerry," I replied. "Don't you remember that I told you that I was going home of leave first and then I would be here for transportation to my next duty station in Panama."

The line went dead, but I didn't panic; I knew Jerry.  I could hear him breathing as he was thinking, and then he said, "My fault, Carl,  I confused the locations and the dates.  How long are you going to be in Brooklyn?"

"I'll be here for at least the next week or so, but I don't have to report in for a few days yet," I answered.  "At the moment, I'm in a rather old YMCA."

I could hear the pace of his breathing increasing, and then I heard, "If you would you like to spend that week in Boston with me, Carl, Harold can be there by noon tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, would be great, Jerry," I replied, a warm elated feeling spreading over me. "It'll give me a chance to rest after the flight from Indiana."

"Indiana, that's your home if I remember correctly," he replied softly. "I'm anxious to  hear all about it, Carlton. Right now though what YMCA are you staying at?"

"The one on Bedford Avenue."

There was a muted repetition of "Bedford Avenue," and then "Harold knows where you are, Carl.  I wish it could be sooner, but noon tomorrow is better.  Both you and Harold can get a good night's rest.  "I'll send the Forest Green Cadillac; you remember it don't you?" He asked in a covertly erotic tone, the not very subtle innuendo bringing back pleasant memories.

"I should," I whispered. "If our phones had phonavision, you would see me blushing."

"And probably with an erection," he responded in a seductively salacious tone.

"You can find that out tomorrow," I replied, my cock hardening as I recalled when he had taken me in the back seat of the Cadillac.

Just as he was about to speak, a metallic voice interrupted saying, "Deposit twenty-five cents for five minutes, please."

I was fumbling for a quarter coin when Jerry said, "Be out front at noon, Carl and I'll see you tomor..."  The phone went dead before he finished talking.

"Things will be all right tomorrow," I mused, remembering the song by that name as I heaved myself up from my sea bag. 

I should have known better than sit on top of the clothes-filled canvas bag with my one hundred seventy pounds. It was thoroughly jammed inside between the seat and window.  I was tugging on it cursing under my breath when a soft baritone voice asked from behind me, "Need some help?"

"What?" I exclaimed, startled by the unexpected offer. 

The good looking Lyle look alike had come up behind me while I was struggling with the sea bag; and, not expecting it, I snapped upwards and then fell forward against the telephone booth, my head striking the wooden door jamb.

He grabbed me with one arm around my waist, his hand on my stomach and the other hand gripping my left bicep.  I felt the pressure as he squeezed holding me  and helping me to stand upright. "I'm sorry, Fella," he said, his voice filled with concern.  "I didn't mean to scare you, but you looked like you needed some help getting that bag out of there."

"I'm all right;  I wasn't expecting anyone to be behind me," I said, glancing at him as I rubbed the sore spot on my forehead.  "I kind of jammed it  inside while I  was making a call," I explained lamely, my cock suddenly surging at my seeing just how good looking he was and the swelling of his muscles as he easily pulled the stuck bag free.

"I can't blame you for trying to secure your gear," he said, straightening up and thrusting his pelvis forward as he did.  "It's easy to get ripped off if you're not on the lookout."

"I appreciate your help," I said, deliberately glancing down at the bulge in his groin.

"No problem." he said, grinning as he returned my glance by lowering his eyes to my hardening cock.  " I was headed for my room, and to be on the safe side maybe I had better carry the sea bag up to your room," he suggested. "That was a pretty nasty bump you took on your head."

"Thanks, that'd be a big help," I said swallowing, my throat feeling like cotton.