Date: Thu, 15 May 2003 20:23:44 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of thumping your bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause your touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual
nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If
your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping and cant, please move on. If you
are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic
nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please
move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex
is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts
without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). 


The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 4


The Gunner left the galley and walked towards the Drill Shed, where he had
a small office. In his hand he gripped the slip of paper on which he had
written The Phantom's measurements. Outwardly he was his usual calm self.
Inwardly he was in turmoil. He was not as obtuse as Chef thought he was. He
was fully aware that The Phantom had a huge crush on him, and he was just
as aware that The Phantom had gotten a boner when his inseam was measured.

The how or the why of The Phantom's feelings for him were unimportant. What
was important, at least as far as The Gunner was concerned was that it went
no further than being a schoolboy crush, something that was never to be
encouraged in any way and certainly never to be mentioned.

As he passed by the Engineering building The Gunner saw Ryan, the
Engineering Storekeeper walk out of the building, heading for the
Dockyard. He was as laden down as a pack mule with rolls of what looked to
be white towels. The Gunner stopped Ryan and asked what he was
carrying. "Engineering wipes, Chief. For the YAG squadron," explained
Ryan. "They go through a lot."

The Gunner nodded, remembering now. Engineering wipes were huge, 3-foot by
3-foot squares of cotton fibre and paper towelling used to wipe oils spills
and clean the engine rooms of the YAGs. They were highly absorbent and
almost indestructible. He had a sudden idea. "Can you spare a roll,
please?" he asked with a smile.

"Sure, Chief," replied Ryan as he handed The Gunner a roll of
towelling. "Got some heavy duty cleaning to do?"

"In a manner of speaking, boychick," replied The Gunner. He thanked Ryan
and walked to his office where he made a telephone call to Esquimalt. He
spoke with an old Petty Officer, a man who had been around for years and
knew where all the bodies were buried. The old Petty Officer owed The
Gunner. Years ago, when The Gunner had been a young and not naive Able
Seaman, the Petty Officer had tried to put the moves on him in the Fleet
Club. The Gunner had politely refused the man's overtures, accepted a drink
by way of apology, and never mentioned the incident again. Not one, but two
brand new, never out of the package stewards jackets, three pairs of Pusser
serge trousers, and a pair of black oxfords would be included in the
Saturday morning duty run from NADEN.

The Gunner next called Halifax and spoke to the Master Corporal who was
Weapons Yeoman in the Dockyard. As they spoke the love the man still had
for The Gunner came through loudly. He and The Gunner had enjoyed a brief
fling back in the dawn of time when they were both on an advanced Gunnery
Course in Halifax. He still called from time to time, usually to reminisce
and to recall their days together. The Weapons Yeoman was married, and had
three sprogs, but he still called. They reminisced and by the time he hung
up the telephone The Gunner was assured that two pairs of patent leather
gaiters would be on the next White Knuckle flight from Halifax to Comox.

His shopping done, The Gunner considered his position with Phantom. He was
a good kid, and not bad looking, but he was a kid.  And so far as The
Gunner was concerned he was untouchable.

The Gunner was fully aware of his attraction to young males. This
attraction had drawn him to Joel when they had first met in Vancouver. That
the attraction had grown into love was immaterial. Joel looked young, and
acted young. He was also a civilian, which made him fair game. That The
Phantom was also a civilian was of no consequence so far as The Gunner was
concerned. The boy was part of the galley staff, was one of Chef's lambs,
and he stood at the same level as the cadets. The Gunner considered himself
to be just as responsible for The Phantom as he was for the other boys and
could not, would not, be touched in any way. The Gunner would not embarrass
him in any way but he would, in every way, discourage The Phantom if
matters threatened to get out of hand.

The Gunner worked for a while on his part in the upcoming ceremonies to
celebrate the Commanding Officer's fifty years of service then, shortly
before 1600 picked up the roll of engine room wipes and strolled over to
the Gunroom, still not all that sure what he was going to say.

******

Naval protocol dictated that The Gunner knock, then wait and when the door
to the Gunroom was opened, ask permission to enter. The Gunroom was the
Senior Cadets' home, and a no one, no matter what the rank or position,
could enter without the consent of all those who lived there.

When he was admitted The Gunner saw that except for the Twins the Gunroom
was packed with the senior ranking cadets. He removed his hat, thanked the
Master at Arms (Tyler was de-facto president of the Gunroom Mess) for his
consideration and asked the assembled cadets, who had braced to attention
at his entry, to relax. "Please, guys, relax and sit down," he began. "I
know you all have better things to do with your time but I have a bit of a
job to do, so please bear with me."

The cadets sat on the wooden benches flanking the long mess table, or
sprawled on the bunks.

"Guys, we have a bit of a problem," began The Gunner slowly. "To be honest,
if it was up to me, I would not say anything, but . . ." He shrugged, as if
to say, hey, shit rolls downhill and today I'm at the bottom of the
hill. "Now, first of all, I am not pointing any fingers. Be sure of
that. As I said, if it was up to me I'd say fuck it and forget it."

Some of the cadets snickered. They were well used to each other swearing
like troopers but to hear an Instructor of The Gunner's stature doing it
was something new.

The Gunner never talked down to the troops. He preferred to use the KISS
principle, and was not at all afraid to show them that he was just as human
as they were and if it meant using his vast vocabulary of swear words, so
be it. "Here goes nothing," he thought. He cleared his throat in
embarrassment and began. "Guys, I have to talk to you as Senior Cadets and
ask that you talk to the younger guys. Being a God-fearing, Christian
Gentleman, I hesitate to bring up such a distasteful subject." He
deliberately grimaced to emphasize that he was here under duress. "However,
needs must as needs does."

Tyler and Val, who knew exactly what was coming, squirmed
uncomfortably. They knew what was going on and why The Gunner had come
calling.

"Now, before I go on, I have some training aids," continued The Gunner. He
opened the roll of cotton cloth/paper wipes and asked the Master at Arms to
give one piece to each of the cadets.  When they all had a piece he went
on. "Guys, we have to do something about all the spunk that is being
produced around here," he said bluntly.

Several jaws dropped and Thumper blushed beet red.

"That's one way to get their attention," thought Tyler as he grinned
sheepishly at Val, who rolled his eyes and stifled a giggle.  The Gunner
tried to look stern and business like. "From all reports every swinging
dick in the place is in overdrive which, in itself, is nothing bad." He saw
that some of the boys had quizzical, puzzled looks on their faces. He
sighed inwardly. This was going to be much more difficult than he had
realized. He mentally cursed the Commanding Officer for putting him in such
a position. He quickly decided to get on with it and damn the torpedoes!
"The Base Laundry Officer has been complaining about the state of the
sheets we send over for laundering. It appears that he has worn out three
rocks trying to get the stains out!"

A titter of laughter rippled through the Gunroom as the image of the BLO,
an overweight, short little man beating the linen against a rock came to
several minds.

The Gunner looked around the room. His face sobered. "Gentlemen, the little
man from Base has written to Father, complaining that the cadets of AURORA
have been applying starch of a different nature on the sheets, as opposed
to the starch you use on your gunshirts! In short, my young friends, I am
talking about nocturnal manipulations of your penises, properly known as
masturbating, resulting in a massive spraying of the bed linen and due to
the excessive distribution of protein, unsightly stains!"

Thumper turned a deeper red as several heads turned and looked at him. A
nervous, embarrassed chuckling accompanied the looks. Every boy in the room
knew what masturbating was and starching the sheets had long been a
euphemism for jerking off. The Gunner smiled a knowing smile and said,
"Guys, beating your meat is nothing new. It is a normal biological
function, nothing more, nothing less and every man and boy ever born does
it or did it." He nodded forcefully. "We all have done it. Hell, when I was
your age . . ."

There was stunned silence. A god did not admit to normal biological
functions. The Gunner was fully aware that almost every boy in the room
looked up to him. Hell, they even copied his haircut, for Christ's sake!
Admitting that he actually beat off when he was younger might bring a few
of the more starry-eyed back down to earth.

Recovering from his embarrassment The Gunner decided to lighten the
mood. "Technique," he intoned, "is not a subject under discussion. Nobody
cares if you use your right hand, your left hand, both hands, or no hands
. . ."

Two Strokes and Jon glanced at Harry and giggled.

The Gunner saw the looks and snickered. "Come to think of it, if you need
two hands you might need a double issue of these things, maybe even a
triple." He grinned broadly and waited for the laughter to subside. Then he
spoke seriously. "Look, guys, what it boils down to is this: at the moment
of truth there is what is politely called an emission." He paused. "Where I
come from it's called cumming like a racehorse." He shrugged and joined in
the laughter, the turned to the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor. "During a
jackstay transfer what is put on the deck in the dump zone to protect it
from heavy loads?"

Val thought a moment. "Why, a shot mat, Gunner."

The Gunner beamed. "Got it in one, so he did." He held up a piece of
wipe. He did not have to say anything. The cadets looked at The Gunner,
then at the wipes they were all holding, then at The Gunner again. When
they realized what The Gunner was getting at, they grinned and shook their
heads. Even Little Big Man, who professed never to do such a thing,
understood. The dump zone was their beds, the shot mat . . . well, it was
the shot mat. They all got the message.

******

After his lecture in the Gunroom The Gunner returned to his office, closed
up shop for the weekend and then drove over to the Mess Hall where he
picked up Sandro, who needed his weekly ride into Courtenay. As a
practicing, if not yet circumcised, Jew, Sandro attended two hours of
religious training each Friday evening, then attended services in the small
synagogue in Courtenay. After services he would be picked up by the
Commanding Officer and would spend the Sabbath with Father and his wife, a
matronly woman who spoiled Sandro outrageously. Sandro's only complaint was
that she had held a long consultation with the rabbi and only cooked
kosher, which Sandro for the most part did not mind. What he did mind was
not being able to have bacon with his eggs for breakfast. As for the
Commanding Officer, he was secretly delighted that after six daughters he
could finally come home to find a raised toilet seat in the bathroom.

On Saturday Sandro would again attend shul. Mrs. Commanding Officer would
be waiting for him when the service ended and they would drive off to visit
the shops. The shopping done they would return home, pick up Father, and
then go off for a slap-up lunch, usually in the Officers' Mess at CFB Comox
where, so long as he observed the dietary laws, Sandro was allowed to stuff
himself at the buffet. After lunch, it was back to AURORA.

After ensuring that Sandro had packed everything he needed for his
overnighter - once he had forgotten clean underwear, which caused a minor
crisis - they drove into Comox. While The Gunner changed into civvies
Sandro had a Coke, and then they went on to Courtenay.

The Phantom watched them drive off. As silly as it was he felt envious of
Sandro, who would be spending at least an hour alone with The Gunner. The
Phantom sighed heavily, adjusted his hard on, and tried to concentrate on
his work. He remained in the thrall of the Gunner's touch on his scrotum,
even if it had been through two layers of cloth. He had tried to keep his
mind off of it, and not to think about it and was in as big a daze as
Ray. The Phantom desperately wanted to beat off, or at least pour cold
water on it but Chef, who was pissed off at having not one, but two
assistants mooning around the galley, grumbled and complained so much that
The Phantom dared not leave. Dinnertime helped, as did the cleanup
afterwards, although he was so engrossed in his euphoria that he forgot to
check out the cadets.

Quitting time finally released The Phantom. He changed quickly, mounted his
bike, and pedaled off, heading for the shack. He couldn't wait to get
home. His excitement was threatening to overwhelm him, and his testicles
ached. To make matters worse every time his legs pedaled the fabric of his
boxers rubbed along the length of his rampant organ. At the same time his
shorts rode up, and his flaming mushroom peeked out, which was, in a way, a
blessing. Had the fabric been rubbing this part of him he would have
exploded from the stimulation.

Braking to a stop in front of the shack, The Phantom threw the bike on the
ground, and slammed into the decrepit building, pushing down his shorts and
boxers. He threw himself on the mouldy bed and immediately began
masturbating, his touch sending shock waves through his body.

With one hand he lubricated his flaming crown with the precum that was
oozing from his slit and with the other hand The Phantom pumped furiously,
holding his erection so that it was pointing straight up. He was so totally
absorbed in his frantic masturbation that he only dimly realized that he
was moaning and groaning as his hips bucked upward. His hand became a blur
and suddenly the magnificent sensation filled his body as a pulse of glory
surged through him. He thrust his hips violently upward as a lava jet of
semen screamed through his cock and erupted, a thick stream geysering
upward, arcing, and spattering across the blanket. His body convulsed and
his eyes rolled back in his head as he screamed loudly as another, then
another load blew forth. He pulled his pulsing dick closer to his body and
small gobbets of his juice spewed out, landing on his stomach and clotting
his curly pubes.

Finally, unable to stand the all-encompassing pleasure, his hand motion
slowed, and The Phantom slid his semen soaked hand over and around his
screaming dickhead, drawing every drop of his seed out of his body. The
Phantom let his hand slip from his engorged organ. He lay there, exhausted,
panting, his body rimed with sweat, his shrinking penis rising and falling
as he breathed.

When his senses returned The Phantom finger-cleaned the sticky effluent
from his body, sucking and licking his seed. He sat up and the bedsprings
groaned and creaked in protest. "Jesus," he thought, remembering his cum
cries, "I must have made one hell of a racket." He lay back down and toyed
with his now low-hanging balls. "I bet I scared away every critter in
miles."

The Phantom lay quietly listening to the silence that surrounded him. In
the distance he thought he heard the sound of thunder. "Or," he thought
pragmatically, "It's my stomach rumbling." He had forgotten to eat, being
too busy daydreaming, first about Ray then, after being measured for his
jacket and pants, about The Gunner. With great reluctance he got off the
bed and searched for his underpants and shorts. As he had expected his USMC
boxers were soaked with precum, so much so that he did not put them on. He
slipped on his shorts and left the shack. After stuffing the soiled boxers
in the saddlebag of his bike he mounted and rode off, heading for home,
noticing that the wind had freshened, and felt warm against his face.

******

The Twins reported to the Regulating Office at 1730. They fully expected
that whatever extra duty they were assigned would be onerous and dirty, so
they had changed into work gear, long sleeved denim shirts and jeans. After
being given the once over by Two Strokes, who was the Duty Regulator, they
signed the Defaulters Book and were handed over to the Cadet Chief
Boatswains Mate, Chief Petty Officer Stuart MacDuff, called The Buffer.

The Buffer was a tall, thin cadet who was unique in that he was the only
cadet wearing a moustache, which grew in a thick, dark blond bush over his
upper lip. He was the perennial happy young man, who saw humour in almost
every situation. He grinned at the Twins and motioned for them to follow
him. Stuart led the Twins to Boatswain Stores. "Here you go, boys." he
gestured broadly. "It's all yours."

Todd and Cory groaned in unison. The place looked like Attila and his Huns
had been bivouacked in it. There was dust and dirt everywhere, with piles
of tangled ropes, blocks and tackles, scattered all over. Unidentified bits
and pieces of what look like junk littered every corner. "Ah, come on,
Stuart," moaned Todd, "you can't be serious."

"I ain't," replied the Buffer, "but Number One is." He picked up a coil of
rope and tossed at Todd. "Look, don't bust your ass. This place has been a
pigpen since 1945. It's going to be a pigpen in 2045. Just make a dent in
it and keep everybody happy." After showing them where to dump the gash,
Stuart left the Twins to their own devices and went off to the Canteen.

The Twins were not lazy. They began working diligently and before very long
they had at least the blocks squared away. They were covered in dust and
grime and Cory observed that it was a good thing this place was a pigpen
because not only were they sweating like pigs they were beginning to smell
like ones. Before Todd could reply the door opened and Chris entered.

Chris was shorter than the Twins, and not as muscular. Where they were
blond and fair, he had dark brown, almost black hair, which like the Twins
he kept closely cut. He had a ruddy, healthy complexion, which, thanks to
his time in the sun, was tanning nicely. Chris was a thoroughly pleasant
young man who also happened to be hopelessly infatuated with the
Twins. "Hi, guys." he said shyly. "Need some help?"

Cory and Todd were a little surprised. Usually defaulters were left
strictly alone, lest what they had done was contagious. "We're okay,
Chris," said Todd. "Thanks anyway."

Chris shrugged and began to clear away a pile of gear from the
worktable. He stared around the room. "Looks to me like you could use some
help. You're never going to get this place clean."

"Probably not," agreed Cory. "But we're the ones under punishment, not
you. Besides, you aren't dressed for this kind of work." He pointed at
Chris's white bells and gunshirt.

Chris waved away Cory's objection. "I have to do a dhobey tonight anyway. I
have nothing to do until after Evening Quarters, so I thought I would give
you guys a hand."

Since Chris would not take no for an answer the Twins gave up and allowed
him to help. The young boatswain worked diligently, helping to lift bales
of rope, hanging hooks on the bulkhead, and generally making himself as
useful to his young blond gods as he could. Before very long he was just as
dirty and sweaty as Todd and Cory. After an hour or so of hard work they
took a short break, sitting on the grass outside the building, their backs
against the warm wood.

Chris leaned forward and pulled off his gunshirt, revealing the waistband
and a small, damp strip of his briefs above his bells. He turned his
gunshirt inside out and wiped the sweat and grime from his face. "Jeez, is
it me, or is it hotter somehow."

"We did work up a sweat," Cory replied as he took the gunshirt from Chris
and began to wipe his back. "Jesus, Chris, you sure sweat up a storm."

Chris's body shivered at Cory's touch and he felt a slight tremor as his
penis hardened slightly. All he had wanted to do was to help his
friends. Cory's touching him was almost too much for him. When Cory was
finished wiping Chris's back he draped the damp gunshirt over his
shoulder. Chris turned and smiled his thanks.

They sat quietly for a bit, then Chris stood up and drew on his
gunshirt. "I'm as dry as a popcorn fart," he declared. "I'll buy the
Cokes." Todd offered to pay but Chris refused. "Hey, money I got. There's
not much to spend it on around this dump." With that he was off, heading
for the Breezeway Flats and the Coke machine.

Cory watched as Chris disappeared around the corner of the Headquarters
Building. "He's in love with us, you know," he said quietly.  Todd nodded.

"Are we going to do anything about it?"

Todd nodded again. "When the time is right."

"Which will be?"  Cory slipped his hand in Todd's.

"It will be when the time is right. For him, and for us." Todd squeezed
Cory's hand. "Do you remember the first time we really made love?" he asked
Cory. "Not the first time we fooled around, but the first time we actually
made love?"

Cory thought a moment. "Yes, I remember. It was wonderful."

Todd smiled. "That's the way it should be for Chris. Wonderful."

"How will we know? How will he know?"

"He'll know when it's time. We'll know when it's time." Todd shrugged. "It
will just be the right time."

Cory remained silent. "Todd," he thought, "You old softy. You might have
balls bigger than mine, but deep down inside, you're just a softy." He
glanced at his brother and smiled.

They watched as Chris turned the corner of the Headquarters Building, Cokes
in hand, and headed towards them. Reluctantly Todd withdrew his hand. "We
better cool it, Cory. If anyone sees us we'll be for it. And considering
the mood Number One was in he'd have us duck walked all the way to Comox,
with the Band in front playing the Rogue's March and Little Big Man in the
rear poking us in the ass with a bayonet."

"The little cocksucker would enjoy that," growled Cory.

******

The boys worked until 2000 when Two Strokes, who was just coming off Watch,
wandered by and told them that they could knock off for the day. Followed
by Chris, the Twins returned to the Regulating Office and logged out. As
they crossed the parade square they could hear thunder in the distance. The
wind had picked up, blowing and gusting, and sending broken twigs, leaves,
and bits of dropped paper skittering across the dusty parade square. The
close-hauled flags flying from the flag mast snapped and cracked in the
wind. As they neared the Staff Barracks Stuart and Fred rushed up.

"There's a big storm coming," said Stuart, a worried look on his face. "We
have go tie up the YAGs. I need you, Chris" He looked at the Twins. "You
two as well, if you could."

"Is it that bad?" asked Chris.

Fred nodded rapidly. "Gale force winds, or so the Executive Officer said."

Todd and Cory immediately agreed to help and they all hurried down to the
Boat Yard where they joined the officers and crews of the YAGs in securing
the boats so that they could ride out the gale with a minimum of
damage. The single lines that held each wooden-hulled boat to the jetty had
to be doubled up, and storm hawsers rigged. It was hard, dangerous
work. The wind was coming from the west, which set the usually calm waters
of the harbour to roiling, the waves rising to five or more feet, which set
the boats to pitching and yawing. While the cadets worked the lines and
checked the scuttles, the five officers worked to fit the storm shutters to
the bridge windows of each boat.

The storm hit with a vengeance and successive line squalls rolled across
Heron Spit. Thunder crashed overhead and lightning flashed
constantly. Above the storm they could hear the surf crashing against the
long wooden jetty to which the YAGs were moored. As the surge inverted the
thermal patterns in the harbour, which only minutes before had been
delightful for swimming, the water became a frigid enemy. Each wave slammed
against the pilings with such force that the sturdy wooden structure
shook. Walls of water roared down and across the jetty, soaking everyone
with bone-numbing, cold, saltwater and by the time the Squadron Commander
secured them everybody in the work party was soaked to the skin and
suffering hypothermia.

Once secured, the officers sprinted for the wardroom, Stuart and Fred loped
off to the Boatswains barracks, and the Twins and Chris headed for
Gunroom. They passed Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, two disgruntled
Signalmen, and a very put out Young Brown, the Bugler, all of them
inadequately covered by rubber ponchos. Standing beside the flagstaff,
barely seen in the now driving rain, the Officer of the Day waited for
them. Official Sunset was fast approaching and even though a gale was
raging the flags had to come down on time. Chris and the Twins hurried to
the Gunroom. They had no desire to come to a screeching halt when the
bugler sounded the Still and stand at attention in the pouring rain while
the flags came down.

Thoroughly soaked in their dash through the driving rain the three boys
hurried into the Gunroom. Their uniforms were soaked through and plastered
to their skin, so much so that Chris's white bell-bottoms were almost
transparent, his white briefs clearly outlined, his patch of dark pubic
hair above his smallish dick clearly visible. His gunshirt was so sodden
that his light brown nipples and pale pink aureoles showed clearly. All
three boys were shivering from their drenching, their teeth chattering.

Harry took one look at them and went into action. Protesting mildly, The
Twins and Chris were stripped by Harry, Thumper, Two Strokes and Jon. They
were then pushed under hot showers, then draped in thick sea blankets,
which Alfie had dug out their storage place, and put to bed, with strict
orders from Harry to stay there. Alfie flashed up the duty kettle and when
the water had boiled, made three huge cups of strong tea. Thumper rummaged
in his kit bag and pulled out a forbidden jug of dark rum. He poured a long
shot in each mug.

"Drink this," ordered Harry. "It will get the cold out and help with your
shrinkage problem."

Chris lifted his blanket, as did the Twins. In place of his normal three
inches all he saw was his helmet, purple and wrinkled, poking out of his
abundant pubic hair. The Twins found that they had suffered the same
fate. "Jesus," exclaimed Chris, "it's gone!"

Harry laughed uproariously. "Don't worry, it will be back to normal by the
morning."

"But I might need it tonight!" squalled Cory.

"No you won't!" ordered Todd.

"You leave your tally whacker alone," admonished Harry with a leer as he
wagged his finger at Cory.

Cory was about to comment on certain people and the Thumper Special when
the door crashed open and Fred clumped in. He slammed the door shut and
stood dripping water all over the clean deck. He was wearing a poncho but
was just as soaked as the other three had been. He was about to say
something when he sneezed, a huge, ball rattling blast. He was immediately
set upon, stripped naked, shoved into a shower, the water so hot he was
afraid of being parboiled, shoved into his bed and given a medicinal mug of
tea and rum.

Tyler and Val followed Fred into the Gunroom and while they weren't treated
as roughly as the Twins, Chris and Fred, they took the hint and
showered. Draped in thick blankets they sat with the other cadets at the
mess table. Harry poured the last of the rum for them. Thumper sighed and
took the empty bottle, stuffing it at the bottom of his kit bag. He would
dispose of it in the morning.

Harry boiled another kettle of water and made more tea. He sat down beside
Tyler and looked around. Two Strokes rolled off his bunk and rummaged in
his kit bag. He pulled out a bottle of brandy and placed it in front of
Harry, who opened it, and poured a round for everybody.

"My brother thinks he's all ready for a party tomorrow night," said Two
Strokes as he handed the bottle to Tyler. "Looks like he thought wrong!" He
grinned and held out his cup.

"What have you guys got in here, a fucking liquor store?" asked Val. He
tasted his tea, smiled, and took a healthy slug.

"As if you don't have a bottle of your Pop's homemade grappa hidden under
your clean shorts in your locker," replied Harry with a knowing smirk.

A blast of wind shook the barracks, setting the closed windows to rattling.

"It's a pisser out there," said Tyler, his hands around the hot, aromatic
mug. "No Rounds tonight. Number One says everybody is to stay inside."

The storm worsened and since the barracks was unheated, every cadet was
soon draped in a warm woollen blanket, talking quietly, passing the bottle
until it was empty. Tyler went into the Chief's Mess and returned with a
bottle of rye.

Liquor was officially banned at AURORA. Except for the Wardroom, the ship
was supposed to be as dry as toast. That almost every senior cadet had a
hidden bottle was a well-known secret. The liquor tended to be sippin'
licker. Tyler, Val, and Harry, who was the Senior Cadet in the Gunroom, saw
no harm in their peers having a drink so long as no one got drunk. It was,
after all, a part of their rite of passage.

The boys talked quietly, swinging the lamp, enjoying the unique bonding and
camaraderie that only happens in an all male, military environment,
generating the warmth of friendship that no outsider can ever penetrate. It
was an experience that, with the possible exception of Tyler, the cadets
knew would never happen to them again in their lives. Every cadet in the
room was 18, or as close as damn it to it. Tyler was going directly to
Royal Roads Military College from AURORA. Val, when he returned home, would
turn in his kit. Both boys were leaving the Sea Cadets, Tyler to the
Canadian Armed Forces, Val to his father's business. The other boys would
be allowed to finish out their Corps' training cycle. In any case, unless
they took a commission, they would not be back.  This was their final year.

The talk, as it almost always did, turned to sex. As it turned out, except
for Two Strokes, they were all virgins. Harry argued that a dry hump while
dancing close with a girl, should count. The others disagreed; a dry hump
was a dry hump and didn't count, even if you did cream your shorts. "Fuck
me!" growled Harry as he shook his head. "And they were a pair of brand new
silk boxers, too."  As the only man of experience available, Two Strokes
was questioned closely about his one and only time. He took a sip of his
brother's brandy, and thought a moment. He liked being one of the boys. He
liked the feeling of warmth he had, warmth that did not come from the
liquor. "It was all right, I guess," he said presently.

A chorus of "You guess?" assailed him.

"Well, yes. I do guess it was all right," returned Two Strokes firmly. "I
mean . . ." He struggled. "I mean, I put it in, and that was nice, but I
have to be honest, my hand would have felt better. Then she grabbed my ass
and pushed me further in and well . . . I pumped a couple of times, and I
came."

"That's it?" asked Alfie incredulously.

"That's it," confirmed Two Strokes. "I wasn't at all sure I'd cum until I
saw my knob all covered in spunk. Actually, I've had better dumps." He
poured another drink.

Tyler, who had been in the process of having a drink, choked and was
pummelled on the back by Val, who was shaking with laughter. The other
cadets roared and pounded the table. Two Strokes beamed. He was now
officially one of them, a Brother of the Sea.

Cory got up, his blanket around him like an itinerant Sioux brave, and
wandered off to the heads. When he returned to the Gunroom he sat down
beside Harry, who asked him if everything was all right. "No," replied Cory
glumly. "I could hardly find it."

"Don't worry, the little feller will be all better in the morning." Harry
laughed uproariously.

"You should talk," sniffed Cory. "Can I have another drop?" he asked as he
held out his cup.

Val poured the last of the rye in Cory's cup and Tyler topped it up with
tea. "That's the last of it. And the last for tonight," said Tyler. "It's
getting close to Lights Out anyway." The other cadets nodded. The unwritten
rule was you could get a buzz on, but nothing more.

The Twins and Chris shrugged their indifference at Tyler closing the
bar. They did not need the booze They were quite content to just sit, chat
and enjoy one another's company, so comfortable that they hardly realized
they were naked under their blankets and that every time they moved a part
of them was exposed.  "You, know, Roger, you really should have had her
give you a blowjob," said Jon suddenly.

Todd hid his head under his blanket. The last thing he needed was a
discussion of blowjobs. Not when he and Cory . . . Cory, just as anxious,
spoke up. "Well, I've never had one," he lied blatantly, "but I hear it's
pretty good if it's done right."

Under the blankets Todd's jaw dropped. "Jesus, Cory!" he thought, "don't
open the door."

Todd need not have worried. Every cadet in the room, at one time or another
had had thoughts and feelings for other boys. None of them had acted on
those feelings to any great extent. Some of them had fooled around. All of
them still played grab ass and, just as now, thought nothing of walking
around nude, not too mention parading their morning woodies. Acting and
talking gay was something they all did without thinking. None of them would
have admitted what they felt, or that they had beat off with another
guy. They knew instinctively that such things were never to be spoken of
and never to be admitted. As for the Twins, they fucked around and made
suggestive noises, playing the gay game the all played - even Two Strokes,
the Gunroom's resident bigot. What mattered, however, was that the Twins
were messmates and members of Nelson's Band of Brothers. That they might be
gay - which none of the cadets knew for sure - was not considered. The
Twins were friends and brothers and that was all that mattered.

Two Strokes scratched his head, then his balls. "You know, she was so busy
trying to get my pants down, and I was so busy trying to get my pants down,
I never even thought of that," he said. "I figured, hey, I'm gonna get
laid. That's all I was thinking about." He sighed heavily.

"Well, maybe the next time." consoled Alfie.

"Not with that cow. I'd have to tie a 2x4 to my ass just to keep from
falling in."

They were laughing so hard at Two Strokes' latest sally that they hardly
heard the bugler sound Last Post. Tyler and Val stood up and, after bidding
everyone good night, went into their quarters. Reluctantly, the other
cadets followed suit. Cory walked to the switches and turned out the
lights, then went to his bed.  Before getting in he leaned down and kissed
Todd good night.

******

In the Petty Officers Mess, Little Big Man lay on his bunk, which butted
against the bulkhead separating the two berthing areas, listening to the
sounds of laughter that filtered through the paper-thin wall from the
Gunroom. He heard Harry's bellowed laughter and the voices of the senior
cadets, and grimaced. It sounded as if they were having a party in
there. His head jerked up when he heard one of the Twins - Cory, he thought
- howling about something. His face became suffused with anger and the
embers of hatred flared.

He hated the Twins. He hated the vile creatures that were abominations in
the sight of God and man, loathsome things that lay with men and did
obscene things to each other and to the other cadets. He hated the Twins
because God, and his father, and his minister told him that he must hate
them. That they returned his hatred ten-fold Little Big Man did not
doubt. He had felt their wrath, and suffered for his beliefs, for his
righteousness. He had fought the good fight and lost against the vile sons
of Satan. Little Big Man was not surprised that he had lost for the power
ranged against him was strong. His father had told him that there would be
many battles before the righteous; right-thinking white men triumphed
against the forces of evil ranged against them. Some battles they would
win, many others they would lose. They would suffer horrible losses but in
the end they would triumph. Little Big Man had no doubt that he, a
right-thinking, upright, Christian, white man would triumph.

Little Big Man heard another burst of laughter from the other side of the
bulkhead and almost spat his contempt for the Twins and their
friends. "Fucking fags," he muttered angrily. They were all fags,
influenced by the Twins, serviced by the Twins and he hated them almost as
much as he hated the Twins. He rolled on his side and unconsciously slipped
his hand down the front of his tighty-whiteys. The Twins, the fiendish,
sneaky Twins had suborned the senior cadets and used their influence
against him.

As he idly fondled himself Little Big Man ground his teeth with impotent
rage. Last summer, not only had the Twins engineered his demotion from Lead
Drummer of the Band, thus eliminating any chances he had to become Drum
Major of the Bugle Band, they had humiliated him, made him a laughing stock
and had almost cost him the friendship of Rob, David and Ryan. He had spent
half the summer crashing cymbals and avoiding the other cadets who gloried
in mocking him, making a fool of him!

Little Big Man had been spared further humiliation when he returned home
thanks to the silence of his friends and his father's position as Deputy
Sea Cadet Chairman of the Navy League Branch, a position that had also
brought the cadet back to AURORA, rehabilitated and promoted to Petty
Officer.

Running the palm of his hand across the sloping top of his erect penis,
Little Big Man shivered with delight. He moaned softly and then a fleeting
look of fright crossed his face. He pulled his hand from his underpants and
sat up abruptly for all he needed was his messmates catching him playing
with himself. He looked around the dimly lit Mess and then lay back down,
smiling. The other cadets Little Big Man shared the barracks with were off
playing sailor, helping to secure the buildings and the YAGs. The dumb
fucks! He had managed to be one step ahead of Tyler and Val and while the
others - Mal, Jack, Willy and the two Physical Training Instructors, Mike
Sunderland and Phillip Adean - were off getting blown half way to Hell, and
drenched in the teeming rain, he was warm and comfortable in his own bed.

Sure that he would not be disturbed, Little Big Man returned his hand to
his undies and settled back, returning to thinking hateful thoughts about
the Twins and their friends. He kept a mental list of the cadets who went
out of their way to support the Twins. They would all pay when the day
came. God, would they pay. The Twins might have their ways, but so did he
and after the events of yesterday he would do anything he could to have his
revenge, to see the Twins, and their newest friend, who was not even a
cadet but a civilian, brought down.

Little Big Man's face darkened with anger and renewed humiliation. He had
had a run-in last year with The Phantom, a knock down, drag out fight. But
last year the Twins had not been involved and nothing more had
happened. This year it was obvious to Little Big Man that the Twins gotten
to the guy. They had gotten to a lot of guys! It was as plain as the nose
on his face that the Twins were conspiring to destroy him, to ruin his
career. He could stand the humiliation, he could stand the Twins trying to
deliberately kill him he was convinced that they had aimed and fired the
cannons at him with malice aforethought. What he could not stand was that
they conspired to take away his career.

He was so disgusted that the pleasure that had been coursing through his
body drained away. With a snort of anger he sat up and pounded his
mattress. They had done it to him again, taking an entirely innocent remark
directed at them and using their evil influence persuaded their friends to
have him suspended as Lead Drummer of the Band and seconded to the Training
Division to train the Sea Puppies, who loathed him as much as he loathed
them, the little bastards! He swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and
then stood up. He stripped off his briefs and grabbed a towel. He needed to
calm down because he needed to think about how he could retaliate against
his enemies. He walked into the washplace cursing his fate and as he
stepped under showerhead he was full of righteous indignation, convinced in
his own mind that he was the injured party, the victim of a conspiracy,
never conceding that it had been his own tongue that had caused him to
suffer Harry's wrath.

******

Two days before, at Thursday lunch, Little Big Man had been in the lineup,
waiting for his food. He was, as he almost always was, with Rob, Ryan and
David, his friends and, he hoped, soul mates. Ahead of him in the line were
the Twins who were laughing at something or other with the civilian kid who
worked the galley, the same kid he had fought last summer. "So," Little Big
Man thought to himself, "the fags are working on another convert." Well,
they would not have far to go because everybody knew that the kid they
called The Phantom was halfway to being a queer anyway. Little Big Man
turned to his coterie and muttered that fags of a feather flocked together,
saying it just loud enough for the Twins to overhear and following up his
words with an evil cackle.

The Twins, who had heard worse, ignored the little prick. They had no
desire to start a riot in the middle of lunch. No point would be served and
nothing would be gained. Little Big Man was a bigot and a racist and a
homophobe. He would never change so they absorbed his barbs and went to
find a table.

The Phantom had heard Little Big Man's remark and unlike the Twins, he was
not prepared to ignore the biting words. He was not a cadet, and had little
standing, but he was not about to allow Little Big Man to insult innocent
people whenever he felt like it. The Phantom wanted to lash out at the
skinny little git but he was a civilian and he was intelligent enough to
know that a mere civilian interfering in a cadet matter would not go over
well. Then he saw who was standing behind Little Big Man. The Phantom gave
Little Big Man a withering look and then gave Harry as searing look that
demanded to know what, if anything, Harry was going to do about Little Big
Man.

Harry hoped to live to be a ripe old age, but only if he was never again
the recipient of that green-eyed, fiery look that would remind him to his
dying day that a junior cadet did not make disparaging, disrespectful
remarks about senior cadets, especially in the hearing of a civilian and a
senior Chief. He felt The Phantom's green eyes boring into his very soul
and squared his shoulders. He promptly boxed Little Big Man's ears, turfed
him from the Band for a week, and assigned him to teaching the Sea Puppies,
none of whom could play so much as a kazoo, Band Drill.

******

As the storm raged unabated the cadets battened down everything that could
be battened and then hurried to their barracks for a hot shower and dry
clothes. Little Big Man was towelling himself dry when the door leading
from the outside banged open and Mike and Phillip, shivering and covered in
goose bumps, hurried into the showers. They ignored Little Big Man, as they
always did, and quickly turned on the water. Steam began to fill the small
room when Mal, Willy and Jack, equally chilled, came in. After giving the
shrunken parts if his messmates disparaging glance, Little Big Man returned
to the berthing area. He put on clean underwear and then felt under the
pile of dirty laundry that lined the bottom of his locker and pulled out
imitation leather, zippered, notecase.

Little Big Man sat at the mess table and opened the notecase. On top of the
small tablet of lined paper was a small brochure, ill-printed in heavy
black ink. Little Big Man lifted the booklet carefully, treating the slim
volume as if it was holy script. The small booklet, a short history of the
youth wing of the Liebstandarte, had been his inspiration and hope. The
Leader had promised that on Der Tag, on the day that the Jewish Conspiracy
was finally defeated he, Paul Greene, would once again raise the
Standard. He would wear the black and silver uniform, he would have the
runic SS symbol tattooed under his left arm, he would assume his rightful
place in the Legion. He would be an offizier, a leader, a man of respect
and importance. It had been promised to him.

Carefully putting aside the booklet and his dream of imagined glory, Little
Big Man took up his pencil. He began to write a letter to his father, the
ill-spelt, tightly scrawled words filling the pages. As he wrote he smiled
spitefully. The Twins had their ways, and so did he.

******

The storm raged for the better part of the night. Toward dawn it slackened
and settled into a steady drizzle. The cadets awoke to a cold, damp
barracks. None of them wanted to leave their warm beds, and they sure as
hell didn't feel like getting up and performing pushups in the
rain. Saturday, until 1200, was just another working day, and they were all
expected on the parade square for P & RT at 0610. A mutiny was avoided when
the Roundsman stuck his head in the door and announced that PT, and
Divisions, were cancelled.

They lazed in bed, delaying until the last possible moment getting up. They
eventually all crawled out, had their morning dumps and piss, and pulled on
whatever rig they needed for the day. Most of the cadets donned work
dress. The Crushers and Chris put on blue bell-bottomed trousers and
gunshirts. Two Strokes and Thumper had the Morning Watch. Chris was
teaching a class. The Twins would be busy in the Drill Shed, putting the
Sea Puppies through their paces, teaching them Queen Anne's Drill. Wearing
a variety of ponchos, slickers, yellow rain gear and Burberrys, they all
went to breakfast, where they heard the latest on the damage caused by the
storm.

One of the YAGs had been damaged. The storm had torn loose the engine room
hatch and flooded the space. The boat would have to be towed down to
Esquimalt for repairs. Ashore, a tree branch had smashed through one of the
tall windows of the Mess Hall and, all in all, there had been only minor
damage to the other buildings, a leaking roof here, a broken window
there. The parade square and the grounds were littered with broken tree
branches, uprooted flowers, and several dead seagulls, the usual aftermath
of a storm.

After breakfast everybody went about his business. At 1115 the Afternoon
Watchmen secured and went off for their lunch. At 1145, the YAGs sailed
under the command of the Executive Officer, who had to go to Esquimalt
anyway. The Twins watched them go and then went to lunch. After lunch they
went to the Regulating Office, signed the log, and then went back to
Boatswains Stores. Not very long after they started cleaning Chris, changed
into work dress, came in, and began to help them.

They worked until 1500, bending, stooping, carrying, reaching, sweeping,
and by the time they left all three were sweat stained and covered with
what seemed to be the dust of ages. They returned to an eerily quiet
barracks.

Saturday afternoon was a half-holiday. Those who needed to gathered in the
Cadet Laundry, bags of dirty clothing in hand, waiting their turn at the
machines. Others, under the supervision of the Vicar, had gone into town to
shop. The jocks gathered in the Drill Shed to play a pickup game of
basketball. The canteen was open and others gathered there to play
shuffleboard, and drink Cokes.

As they stripped off Chris complained that he had aches in muscles he never
knew he had. "And look at me," he said indicating his body. "I look like
the rag picker's child."

"So do we," replied Todd.

All three boys were covered in sweat-streaked dust. Chris's white briefs
were soiled with sweat stained dirt and grime. He pulled them off,
grimaced, and rubbed his chafed groin. "Jesus, I have got to get some
boxers," he moaned. "Look at that," he said indicating the red skin between
his legs, which had been rubbed raw by the leg bands of his briefs.

Todd clucked sympathetically. "That's why we don't wear briefs very
often. But don't worry, a little talcum powder will take care of that."

"You can borrow a couple of pairs of my boxers," offered Cory. Then he
added hastily, "They're clean, honest. I didn't cum in them or anything
like that."

"Jesus, Cory!" exploded Todd. "The things you say."

Chris giggled and nodded. "Thanks, Cory, I appreciate it. I promise not to
cum in them or anything like that." He picked up his towel and headed for
the showers. Cory flipped Todd the bird, stuck out his tongue and followed
Chris into the showers.

They turned the water on full blast, each boy standing under a separate
head, slowly washing the dirt from their bodies, and massaging the pain
from their aching muscles. From time to time Chris made sideways glances at
the Twins, Todd on his right, Cory on his left. He saw that, as Harry had
promised, their dicks had returned to normal. They were all the same,
circumcised, about 3-inches long, smooth, with no veins marring the sleek,
pinkish brown shafts and with neatly defined helmets, although the Twins'
dicks were just slightly lighter in colour than his own. He noticed that
both Cory and Todd had beautifully formed, low hanging balls, although
Cory's were slightly smaller than Todd's.

Chris could feel his balls tightening and his cock hardening. As much as he
wanted to be with the Twins, he didn't want them to think he was some sort
of a weirdo who got a hardon in the showers. He turned his back to the
Twins and began vigorously scrubbing, trying to take his mind off being
naked in the same room with his idols. He reached around and tried to scrub
his back, not quite making it.

The Twins had seen the glances, and could see Chris's slowly rising
dick. Cory looked at Todd, who nodded. Cory moved behind Chris, and Todd
moved closer to his side.

"Here, let me do that," murmured Cory softly. He began to slowly massage
Chris's back. Todd placed one hand at the base of Chris's spine, just above
the curve of his butt, and began moving his soapy washcloth across Chris's
stomach, carefully avoiding Chris's rampant boner, six firm inches jutting
upward at an angle from his body.

Chris responded to their massaging fingers, a low moan escaping his lips.
He closed his eyes and laid his head on Todd's chest; feeling for the first
time the firm, warm flesh of one of the two boys he loved. His heart was
pounding. He turned his head and tenderly kissed Todd's chest. He never
wanted to leave Todd's strong, muscular arms, never wanted not to feel
Cory's warm fingers caressing him. "Chris, is this something you want to
do?" asked Todd quietly. "We can stop it now. It's no big deal."

The Twins, whenever they were with another boy, made a point of offering to
stop before things got too out of hand. They felt no guilt about what they
were doing, but they wanted to be damn sure that the other boy was just as
eager as they were.

Chris cupped Todd's balls and then stroked his semi-hard penis and as
Todd's penis stiffened in his hand he raised his head and kissed him, a
kiss of love and tenderness. Chris gazed into Todd's azure, gold lashed
eyes. "I have wanted this since I first saw you and Cory. I wanted this
last summer. I wanted this last winter. I want it now. I love you both, "
he moaned. He was breathing heavily, overcome with the moment.

Todd did not reply. As the water washed away the soapy residue of their
shower he returned Chris's kiss and dropped the washcloth. He began to
stroke Chris, and fondle his now tightened balls. Cory moved to the other
side of Chris and began to lick and nip his nipples to erection, massaging
his waist, then his firm, hair-dusted ass cheeks.

A whirlwind of emotion roared through Chris as the Twins positioned
themselves as close as they could to him, trapping his pulsing cock between
their hips. He could feel the heat of their hardons against his skin. As
they continued to stroke and fondle Chris felt his dick convulse and his
body began to tremble as the river of pleasure spread across the flood
plain of his soul. His cock jerked and a massive jet of cum flew from
it. His balls pulsed and another, then another string of cum arced from his
engorged helmet. Chris bit his lip to stifle his cum cry, all the while
wanting to scream the ecstasy that overwhelmed him. He had peaked, his body
was drained, and his knees buckled.

The Twins helped Chris to the bench against the wall of the showers, and
sat on either side of him. He slumped, his face in his hands, totally
overcome.  When he lifted his head the Twins saw that he was crying. They
drew away, not quite afraid, but worried that perhaps they had picked the
wrong time, the wrong boy.  Chris, seeing their look, put his arms around
their shoulders and pulled them close.  Breathing deeply, his head back,
tears flowing, he reassured them. "All my life . . ." he sobbed, "ever
since I was little . . . All my life, they told me . . .my father, my
brothers, everybody, that it was bad, it was dirty." He nuzzled Todd's
neck, then Cory's. "But it isn't. It's wonderful and natural," he murmured
as he closed his eyes as the Twins embraced him. "It's wonderful," he
whispered.

******

The Phantom awoke that morning out of sorts and with a headache. He had
come home the night before thoroughly exhausted and soaked to the bone from
the rain that had started just as he reached the turnoff to his street. At
his mother's orders he had taken a long, hot bath. As he soaked his father
had come into the bathroom and given him a tall hot whiskey and water. He
had been so intrigued at his first real drink that he forgot to be
embarrassed. He had crawled into bed naked, and pulled the warm covers over
his head and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He lay back, listening to the rain that still teemed down, then reached
down and touched his flaccid penis, and grimaced. He had thumped himself
raw yesterday. Getting out of bed The Phantom went into the bathroom where
he rummaged in the medicine cabinet for something to put on his
dick. Finding nothing there, he went into Brendan's room. In the bed table
he found a half-used tube of Vaseline. He gently smeared his dick with the
lubricant, idly wondering what Brendan was doing with a tube of Vaseline in
his drawer.

The Phantom returned to his room and sat on the bed, staring idly at the
rain slicked street below. He hoped it would clear up before too long. Not
only did he have to go to work, he also desperately wanted to go back to
AURORA tonight. The cadets were allowed to stay up until midnight and, if
he knew anything about it, they would sleep like the dead, nothing short of
an earthquake awakening them. Tonight would be perfect, if it stopped
raining.

He heard his father calling him. He dressed in an old pair of sweats and
went downstairs. As The Phantom ate his breakfast his father detailed all
the work that had to be done. The pool was full of storm debris and a
branch of the tree out back, which had snapped off, had to be chopped
up. They would use it after it had dried in the fireplace during the cooler
winter months. After working for the better part of the morning The Phantom
showered, changed, and begged a ride from his father, who also agreed to
pick him up after work.

Chef immediately put him to work checking out a pile of fresh food and
canned goods, rations for the boats' crews that were to be loaded on the
two YAGs that were going down to Esquimalt as soon as the sea state
abated. That done he helped load the rations on the truck sent from the
Dock Yard.

The rain continued to pour down, depressing everybody. The cadets straggled
in for lunch, most of them dressed in jeans and sweaters. Everybody was
damp and cold and The Phantom kept busy filling the soup containers and
brewing up a huge batch of Kye. The Gunner came into the galley just after
lunch, carrying a huge bundle, which he dropped on Chef's desk, then
gestured for The Phantom to come alongside. "Here you go, Phantom. I hope
they fit." The Gunner indicated the package.

"Go and put them on," ordered Chef.

The Phantom went and changed, then stood as The Gunner and Chef walked a
circle around him, nodding and stroking their chins.

"Well, I have to admit," began Chef. "He sure looks good."

Ray, Sandro, and the other cooks wandered over and had a look. They all
nodded approvingly. The white steward's jacket, which had a high, black
collar, wide black cuffs, and black buttons embossed with a small anchor,
fit The Phantom perfectly, almost as if it had been made for him alone. The
smooth serge trousers, a trifle wrinkled, set off his hard young body,
flowing over his melon-like behind. "Jeez, Phantom." said Ray, "you look
like a million bucks."

"For that you get something special tonight," thought The Phantom. He had a
silly grin on his face and was blushing. He hung his head and glanced at
The Gunner, wanting to see his reaction.

The Gunner stood and stared at The Phantom. He was struck by the sheer
masculinity of the youth. The boy was not beautiful, and never would be,
although he was damned good looking. The Gunner realized that at the right
time, and in the right circumstances, he would have crumbled and succumbed
to the sudden feelings rising in him. Which he could not, and would not,
allow to happen. He handed The Phantom a shoebox. "New shoes go with the
outfit," he said tightly, trying to maintain his composure. "Get one of the
cadets to show you how to spit shine them."

"Oh, I know how to do that, Gunner. My Dad already showed me." The Phantom
smiled shyly. He had seen the look on The Gunner's face when he inspected
him. The Gunner was fighting the same demons he was.

"Well, enough of this fashion show," boomed Chef. "Phantom, you go
change. Gunner, I need a beer."

The spell broken, The Gunner went to the fridge, The Phantom to change, and
the cadets returned to work.

******

After lunch the rain tapered, and stopped. As the clouds cleared and the
sun peeked through the temperature began to rise sharply, and the
water-soaked Spit began to dry out. The Phantom worked through his shift
and shortly after seven his father picked him up and they drove home, where
he showed his parents his new finery.

After a long shower The Phantom dressed in his new clothes and preened for
his parents. His mother, as mothers will, told him he looked very handsome,
and very grown up. His father looked at him wistfully, remembering the long
ago days when he had worn a jacket very much like the one his son now wore,
when he did duty in the Officers' Mess of the Airborne Regiment.

They talked for several hours, mostly about what The Phantom wanted to do
with himself. He would enter his last year of high school in
September. Both his parents hoped he would go on to university. The Phantom
listened carefully to what they had to say. He made no commitments. An idea
was forming in the back of his mind but he said nothing to his
parents. Around midnight he went upstairs, ostensibly to bed for the night,
in reality for a short nap before he went over to AURORA.

When The Phantom woke from his nap he showered and dressed. As he left the
house he saw that a heavy fog had settled over the town, the air rent by
the town foghorn, answered in the distance by the horn at the end of Goose
Spit. The fog had settled over the harbour and across AURORA. As he slowly
made his way along the beach he could barely make out the boxy outlines of
the buildings.

The Phantom slipped into the Cooks Barracks and went immediately to Ray's
bunk. As before Ray was lying on his back, his arm shielding his eyes from
the dim light in the corridor. Once again, as The Phantom began to lower
the front of Ray's briefs, he raised his hips. As the briefs went lower
Ray's cock stiffened and rose. The Phantom could not be sure but he could
swear that Ray's breath stopped momentarily as his dick bounced out his
briefs. Ray settled back, spreading his legs, offering himself to The
Phantom's waiting mouth.

The Phantom leaned forward but instead of taking Ray's erection in his
mouth he licked and washed his balls. Ray responded by spreading his legs
further, his knees rising as he squirmed at the touch of the warm, moist
tongue laving first one, then the other ball. The Phantom revelled in the
unique muskiness of Ray's balls, the strange, special scent of him. He
kissed each ball in turn. At each kiss Ray's five inches throbbed and
twitched. Ray's hips went higher as The Phantom took one, then the other,
and then both of his balls in his mouth. The Phantom sucked gently, rolling
his tongue around the perfect orbs. Ray began squirming, his hard cock
pulsing and slapping against The Phantom's masked forehead.

The Phantom could feel Ray's balls tightening and withdrawing upward. He
left Ray's balls and with one hand gripped the thickened base of his cock,
then began licking his way upward toward the reddened mushroom that crowned
the end of the boy's smooth shaft. Using as much saliva as he could produce
The Phantom sucked and tongued Ray's tender spot, then lowered his mouth,
gently sucking the clear, sticky precum gushing out of Ray's gaping slit,
then slowly sucking in the sex-heated crown. Ray gasped at the warmth of
the Phantom's mouth, then bucked and groaned.

With his free hand The Phantom ran his fingers along Ray's almost
nonexistent ball sac, then along the small strip of flesh between his balls
and his love hole. He ran his fingers around and across Ray's small,
puckered hole as he sucked slowly on Ray's raging, thick cock, staring
intently at the boy's face, alert for any change. As he watched Ray's face
contorted and twisted in agonized pleasure. He raised his hips slowly,
without force, and his dick began spewing out the thick, salty sweet nectar
that The Phantom craved. He sucked and swallowed as Ray pumped load after
load into his eager mouth.

As his orgasm waned Ray continued to thrust in ever diminishing movements,
his sperm lubricated cock sliding easily in and out of The Phantom's
mouth. When he had no more to give he lowered his hips, squirming as The
Phantom licked his wonderfully sensitive helmet clean. When he was finished
The Phantom stood up, then leaned over and kissed Ray gently. He was not at
all surprised when Ray's mouth opened slightly and his tongue slipped into
his mouth. The Phantom allowed the kiss to linger for only a moment, then
pulled away. He gave Ray's genitals a final squeeze and left the barracks.

******

The Phantom paused outside the Cooks Barracks, completely hidden by the
fog. He listened carefully. At first all he heard was the bellowing of the
foghorn at the far end of the Spit. Then he became aware of the rhythmic
crunch of gravel under heavy boots. He ducked down, hiding in the shadows
and watched as two cadets, their bodies encased in fog-rimed slickers,
grumped their way toward the Guardhouse. The Night Roundsman and the Duty
PO were returning to post. As the cadets disappeared into the fog The
Phantom moved quietly towards Barracks 8.

As was his habit he stopped and listened carefully. Hearing nothing he
entered and listened again. Nothing but the sounds of boys sleeping, a few
quiet moans, someone breathing nasally. He walked the length of the mess,
peering at the sleeping bodies in the double bunks. Other than Brian and
Dylan, he really had no idea which boy he would visit. He found Brian and
Dylan at the far end of the mess. Brian was sleeping in the lower bunk
directly against the outside wall. Dylan was two beds over, also sleeping
on the lower bunk. The bunks in between, and the uppers above Brian and
Dylan were empty, their usual occupants away on watch. The mess was warm
and muggy and both cadets were lying on top of the sheets, Brian clad in
briefs, Dylan in loose, baggy, white boxers.

The Phantom knelt beside Dylan, who was sleeping on his side, his arms
hugging his pillow. The Phantom saw a very a handsome boy, with longish
blond hair. He was well muscled, with a good chest, and a flat, taut
stomach. As slowly as he could The Phantom gently pulled down the front of
Dylan's boxers. His circumcised penis was thick, about two inches of soft
flesh lying against his thigh, and encompassed in dark reddish blond pubic
hair, that grew in an almost square, bushy patch extending down in thick
swirls to almost meet at the base of his penis, the hair extending thinly
along his groin and inner thighs. Dylan's balls, which were of average
size, were encased in a hairy, tight hanging sac. To the right of his quiet
genitals was the red and blue Superman tattoo he was so proud of.

The Phantom lowered his head until it was barely an inch above Dylan's
groin. He sniffed delicately, drinking in yet another boy scent. He licked
the tip of Dylan's helmet and then gently drew it into his mouth. Dylan's
cock hardened almost at once to not quite five inches of stiffness, the
blood vessels in the lower part of it distending, contrasting darkly
against the pale pink of his of his shaft. The upper third of Dylan's
erection turned a dark rosy pink and his cock had a lovely, mellow taste
but before The Phantom could savour more Dylan squirmed and drew up his
knees. His hand brushed the top of The Phantom's ski mask-covered head. The
Phantom moved quickly away and as Dylan fisted his hardon and rolled over
onto his stomach. He breathed one barely audible word. "No."

The Phantom moved away with a feeling of regret. Not for himself, but for
Dylan, who would never know the wonder he had refused. He moved quietly
down to Brian's bunk and knelt beside it, studying the sleeping
gunner. Brian was lying flat on his back, one hand resting on his stomach,
the other flung out over the edge of the bunk.

The Phantom reached out and cupped Brian's balls through the thin fabric of
his briefs, feeling the soft, dense eggs. He stroked Brian's penis to
hardness, and began pulling down his briefs. As the restraining briefs were
pulled downward Brian's penis popped out and rose straight up from his
supine body. It was surrounded at its base by a dense, curving arc of
auburn hair that spiralled upward in a thick treasure trail and completely
encircled his tight balls, then continued on in a thick curly forest,
disappearing between his legs. Brian's cock had thickened and the upper
part of its shaft, above his circumcision line, was a deep pink. His
curving helmet, with a crisp, well defined rim, was as round, as smooth,
and almost as red as an Okanogan cherry.

When his briefs had been pulled down to mid-thigh, Brian crooked his right
leg, making more room for what might come next. The Phantom leaned over and
buried his nose in Brian's groin. He smelled the muskiness, leavened with a
rawness that would always be Brian's. For a moment he debated removing his
mask, wanting to feel the warmth of the hard flesh against his cheek. He
rejected the thought, however. If Brian woke up and saw who was sucking
him, disaster would follow. He licked and sucked Brian's tight, hairless
balls, so tight that he could not take them both in his mouth at once. The
warmth of The Phantom's mouth on his balls seemed to penetrate Brian's
brain, and he squirmed gently and spread his legs wider.

The Phantom licked the underside of Brian's tight sac, and then ran his
tongue along his hairy perineum. As he moved to take Brian's cherry-red
knob in his mouth, The Phantom looked up. Brian was breathing heavily, his
chest heaving, but his eyes were tightly closed. He had one fuck of a grin
on his face.

"He knows," thought The Phantom, "He knows, but he doesn't care. He wants
his cock sucked, and that's all he cares about." The Phantom was happy to
oblige. He drew Brian into his mouth, taking all of his five inches easily,
burying his nose in the thick auburn forest at the base of Brian's hard
penis. He breathed again the unique odour that was Brian, an intoxicating
aroma of musk intermingled with the faint aroma of soap. Brian's pulsing
erection tasted as he smelled, sweet and pleasant. The Phantom was going to
thoroughly enjoy sucking this cadet's cock.

The Phantom began to suction his way up Brian's shaft but before he could
savour the precum that was gushing from Brian's piss slit, Brian's hands
moved. He grabbed the back of The Phantom's head, pushing it down as he
thrust violently upward, shoving his steel hard rod as far into Phantom's
mouth as he could, grunting loudly, trying to fuck The Phantom's face. He
began muttering. "Yeah . . . suck it . . . yeah . . . bitch . . . suck that
big dick."

The Phantom's reaction to this treatment was as violent as Brian's
thrusting. He squeezed Brian's taut balls as hard as he could. Brian
croaked something. The thrusting stopped at once and The Phantom took his
mouth away. Keeping his grip on Brian's balls The Phantom moved his body
upward, placing his mouth close to Brian's ear. He saw that Brian's eyes
were open wide, his mouth a perfect "O" of pain.

The Phantom was very angry, so angry that common sense, which told him to
fuck off out of there at a great rate of knots, was burned away. "Close
your eyes, now!" ordered The Phantom in a harsh, rasping whisper. His hand
roughly covered Brian's open mouth.

Brian quickly closed his eyes.

"Listen to me, STUD," growled The Phantom derisively, the memory of Brian
and the other cadet lying on the deck of Boatswain Stores still in his
memory, "Don't say a word, and don't open your eyes! Listen! Understand?"
He squeezed just a little tighter. Brian frantically nodded his head. He
was fully awake now and fully aware of what was happening to him. He had
awoken at the first warm touch on his balls. He was aware that the guy,
whoever he was, was righteously pissed off. But he couldn't help
himself. He loved getting blown. He tried to mumble that he understood.

"I . . . told . . . you . . . to . . . shut . . . up," snarled The Phantom
tightly. He squeezed Brian's balls again. The Phantom could feel Brian's
face contort under his hand. "I said shut up!" The Phantom snapped. "I am a
guy. I am a guy who was sucking that miserable excuse you call a dick. I am
not some street whore you pay to blow in some back alley! Do you
understand?"

Brian nodded vigorously.

"Good. I want to suck your cock again. A guy wants to suck your cock,
Brian. Do you want a guy to blow you, Brian?" The Phantom emphasized guy
each time.  Brian's mind was reeling with surprise, pain and
confusion. Brian? He knows my name? How could he know my name? Who is this
guy? Brian, as confused as he was, pushed his questions to the back of his
mind. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to get blown. He wanted to get
blown by a guy because only a guy could properly blow another guy. He
nodded slowly.

"That's good. That is very good, Brian," hissed The Phantom. He loosened
his grip slightly. "Now here are the rules, Brian." He spoke in a calm, low
whisper tinged with danger. "Do not move until I tell you to move. Do not
speak. If you move I will rip your balls off! Understand?"

Brian understood. He had no idea who this boy was but he was very sure that
the guy would do exactly what he said he would do. He nodded again.

"If you obey the rules I will suck your dick like it has never been sucked
before," promised The Phantom. "You think the guy who blew you last year in
Boatswain's Stores was good? I'm better."

Brian's mind was racing again. Who was this guy? How could he know about
Boatswains Stores? He couldn't possibly know. Only Ben and he knew . . .

"You think the hose bag who gave you a blowjob as a good-bye present before
you came here was good? I am going to take your dick and balls to places
she never heard of." The Phantom released Brian's balls. "There will be no
face fucking. There will be no name calling. Do you want me to suck you,
Brian? Do you want me to take you across the river?"

Brian did not answer. He placed his hand on The Phantom's and moved it down
to his aching balls. Then he took his hand away. He heard as soft rustling,
and then felt the warm moistness engulf his dick. He realized that he had
remained rock hard throughout the one-sided conversation. He felt his balls
being massaged, his dick being . . . SUCKED . . . A feeling beyond pleasure
transporting him as The Phantom began to take him across the river.

******

Sunday was a day of rest for the cadets. They did not have to get up if
they did not feel like it. If they didn't feel like breakfast, that was
fine. There was a midmorning brunch. If they felt like lounging around in
their underwear, they could. It was Sunday Routine and, within reason, they
could do as they liked. For those who were religious the Vicar held sway in
the Wardroom. A Roman Catholic priest from Comox said Mass in the Drill
Shed.

The Twins lolled in bed until gone noon. They had absolutely no qualms
about missing the Vicar's service. At home every Sunday they were hauled,
dressed in their best Savile Row suits, down to Christ Church Cathedral
where their family had a pew. On Christmas Eve their father would squeeze
his thickening body into his old Mess Kit, they would put on their best
Number One Uniforms, their mother would don an indescribable new hat, and
they would truck on down to church. While religion played a large part in
their lives at home, they quite deliberately avoided church whenever they
could, not being able to stomach the arrant hypocrisy.

They ate lunch with Chris, then wandered down to the beach, sat on the damp
sand, and just enjoyed each other's company. After a while they returned to
the Gunroom and as expected found a beehive of activity. The mess table had
been transformed into an ironing board. Jon, Fred, and Alfie were busily
ironing their freshly cleaned uniforms, iron in one hand, and a can of
spray starch in the other.

Alfie's can of starch emitted a stuttering death rattle. "Shit," he
complained. "I'm out of starch." He turned to the other boys. "Can I use
some of yours?" he asked Fred.

Jon, remembering The Gunner's recent speech, grinned wickedly as he cupped
his balls through his tight, white briefs. "You've heard of Canada Starch?
Well, Alfie me old son, under here is the finest Canadian starch you'll
ever find. If you wait for ten minutes, I'll give you enough to starch
every gunshirt you own!"

Alfie cringed at the very thought of using Jon's "starch." He looked at
Fred and winked, then took the proffered can of spray starch and let
fly. Before Jon could react Alfie proceeded to soak the front of his
underpants.

Fred watched as Jon hooted and fell backwards on his bed. He started to
laugh and bent double, holding his stomach. Alfie could not resist and
sprayed Fred's bottom. Fred jumped as the cold spray of starch soaked his
boxers and flew forward, landing on Jon, who called Fred a pervert and
pushed him onto the deck. The resultant thud of Fred landing brought Tyler
into the Gunroom. He threatened to charge everybody with the illegal
discharge of starch, waving a shot mat to make his point.

Ignoring the shouting and tumult at the other end of the mess was another
group of cadets, gathered around Harry's bed for a boot-polishing
party. Harry, who was ill pleased at being interrupted when he was holding
court, growled that if they didn't all shut up he'd hold gun drill with
Alfie, Jon and Fred acting as 12-pound field guns and the cans of spray
starch as propellant. Tyler retired to his Mess for a drink.

Chris joined the Regulating Petty Officers as they tried to repair the
damage wrought to their boots by the storm. The Twins, who enjoyed a good
natter with their mates, pulled out their work boots, which were scuffed
and water-stained from their exertions in both Boatswain Stores and the
storm, and joined the group gathered around Harry's bed. He had resumed
telling his war story.

" . . . Anyway, I was at Kingston two years ago, for the sailing course."
Harry was saying as he vigorously applied polish to his already pristine
boot. "We lived in the Stone Frigate, and the food was not to be believed."

"We're not interested in the food at Kingston," griped Fred.

"Who said you were?" asked Harry calmly. "Do you want to hear this story or
not?"

The other cadets nodded. If the story involved sex, they definitely wanted
to hear it.

Harry nodded and continued on. "All right, there we were at Kingston. We
did the course, and then we had the Graduation Parade, the usual
bullshit. That night there was a monster party in the Mess. They even had a
so-so band, because they invited a whole bunch of Wrenettes from Kingston."

"Girls?" squealed Chris.

"Yeah, girls. You know, they don't have dicks and if you're lucky they have
big tits."

The Twins rolled their eyes and glared at Harry. This from a boy who
readily admitted that the closest he had ever come to getting laid was a
dry hump on the dance floor at HMCS CARELTON. Chris blushed and Harry
continued blithely on. "A guy name Danny, he hooked on to a Wren and they
wandered off to Fort Henry. One thing led to another and she gave him a
humongous blowjob. Only thing was, she did him standing up and when he came
he blew a load so big he fell backwards, rolled down the glacis and into
the moat. Silly fucker was sore for a week and happy for a month."

"That's it?" complained Two Strokes. "You didn't get laid? Some guy got a
blowjob and you didn't?"

"I never said I did," replied Harry smoothly as he grandly waved away Two
Strokes' objection. "All I got was a feel when I was dancing and when she
felt how big I was she wouldn't let me near her."

The cadets threw their polishing clothes at him and groaned at his
assertion of greatness in his basket. Then they started playing "do you
know", primarily about guys they had met with big cocks. Without
embarrassment they named names and suitably embellished descriptions of the
size, shape and girth of impossibly huge penises.

Thumper unknowingly put his foot into it. "This guy had a dick about a foot
long, I mean it was huge," he said with feeling. "A dick built for large
women and small ponies.  A real two-hander."

"Good job you only have a two-finger one," laughed Chris.

"Bloody aye," bellowed Harry. "If he had a two-hander he'd be dead in a
week, all the jerkin' he does."

As the other cadets roared Thumper stood up. In a high dudgeon he retired
to his bunk, grievously insulted at Harry's remark. Harry tried to mollify
him, as did the other boys. Thumper would have none of it. It was his dick,
and if he wanted to beat it, it was his business. As far as he was
concerned there were certain things a messmate did not kid about.

"Well, I'm not hanging around here watching him pout," said Todd, when all
attempts to pacify Thumper had failed. "We might as well go over to the
canteen."

Cory followed Todd's lead. They put away their polishing gear and changed
into shorts and loose fitting T-shirts. As they were about to leave Chris
asked if he could tag along.

They left the Staff Barracks and wandered toward the canteen. Cory
complained about the heat, wishing they could go for a swim.

"The beach is a mess," said Chris. "Driftwood and dead kelp all over the
place. Besides, the surf is still a bit high. No swimming until Base sends
a work party to clean up the beach and the seas calm down."

"Well, I'm not all that hot-to-trot about the canteen. It's like,
terminally boring at the best of times," complained Cory. He hated the
music that blared out of the jukebox, usually loud, and almost always rock
of some kind.

Chris dug in to the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a ring of keys. "We
can always go to Boatswain Stores," he said with a sly grin on his face.

Todd stopped walking and stared at him. "Where did you get those?"

"Stuart gave them to me before lunch. I'm Duty Boatswain tonight." Chris
shrugged. Then he waggled the keys. "Well?"

Cory looked at Todd. They both knew what Chris was getting at. "Ah, Chris,"
began Todd, "Ah, are you sure? I mean, what happened in the shower was
great, and all, but, well . . ."

"Todd, I'm sure," answered Chris seriously. "I'm sure I love you and
Cory. I'm sure that I want to be with both of you. Yesterday happened
because I wanted it to happen, just as I want something to happen again
now."

******

Chris unlocked the door to Boatswain Stores and held the door open. When
the Twins were inside he carefully locked the door again. "We can use the
office," he said as he gestured for the Twins to follow him to the corner
office.

After making sure the office door was locked the Twins stripped off their
tees, then their shorts. They were not wearing underpants. Chris followed
suit, removing his tee, and lowering his shorts and Cory's borrowed boxers
that he had on underneath. They stood there, nude, with the weak sun
streaming through the grimy window, shimmering off the Twins' golden
hair. Chris reached out and touched first the helmet-shaped head of Todd's
penis, then Cory's. Todd smiled and reached down. He stroked Chris to
hardness, and then knelt down.

Chris moaned as an incredible warm, wet, sensation coursed through his
boner. Chris felt Todd's hand on his balls as he tickled and fondled
them. He felt his ass cheeks being spread and a tongue gently lapping and
snuffling his smooth, hairless globes. He leaned forward, offering his most
private part to the probing tongue. An electric shock surged through him as
Cory's tongue slipped into him.

Todd began to bob up and down on Chris's hot cock, his tongue searching for
and finding every sensitive spot on it. He continued to knead and roll
Chris's balls as Cory's tongue moved in and out of Chris's opening,
savaging the super sensitive membranes. Chris felt as if a forest fire were
raging throughout his body. He could feel the flames reaching upward as his
cum-filled balls ached for release.

Todd's tongue and lips found the glory spot just below Chris's mushroom,
where it joined the blood-engorged shaft.  Cory's tongue moved rapidly in
and out of his entry, sucking avidly.

"OhmyGod . . .Ohymygod . . ." Chris groaned loudly. "OhmyGod . . .I'm
. . .I'm . . ."

Todd's head moved faster, Chris's cock flared, and a huge load of semen
filled Todd's mouth. At the same time both Todd and Cory, who had been
rapidly fisting their boners, let go, each boy groaning and growling as
their spunk spattered Chris's shin and calf.

Chris continued to cum hard, so hard his balls ached with pleasure. He felt
small tremors rolling through him as Todd licked and sucked his softening
cock, searching for more of his creamy boy juice. He lowered himself and
lay back on the dusty floor. Todd continued to suck, concentrating on
Chris's almost unbearably sensitive helmet. "PleasePleasePlease," Chris
begged, unable to stand the sheer ecstasy. Todd listened and finally
released him.

Todd and Cory lay beside Chris, each boy breathing heavily, sated. The
Twins caressed and stroked Chris glowing body. Chris sat up and grinned
broadly. Then he leaned down and took Todd's cum slicked cock in his mouth,
bringing him to hardness. He left Todd and concentrated on Cory's soft,
semen-streaked mushroom. When they were both hard and proud he leaned over
and kissed Todd, his tongue tasting the last remnants of his own cum. Then
he kissed Cory. "My turn," he said with a soft, evil, leering chuckle.

******

Todd, Cory, and Chris, exhausted, but very happy, sat in the warm sun
outside of Boatswain Stores, watching the world go by. The harbour was
dotted with sailboats, and an occasional trawler drifted by on its way out
to the fishing grounds. Up the bay they could see a small clutch of cadets
lying on the beach, catching rays. It was a perfect do-nothing kind of a
day.

The boys were bare-chested, having used their T-shirts to clean themselves
after their lovemaking. Not, as Cory had observed, that there had been much
to clean up. Still, there were some cum spots on the deck that they didn't
want to have to explain to Stuart when he came in tomorrow morning.

The Master at Arms and the Cadet Gunner, Tyler and Val now after last
night's bonding session, together with Kyle walked by on their way to the
Boat House. They were dressed in swimming shorts, and each carried a towel
and an orange life jacket. Tyler waved and asked if the Twins and Chris
wanted to go sailing with them. They waved their thanks but declined the
invitation. They were quite content where they were. Chris moved down,
cocked his arm and rested his head in one hand. With the other he began
idly playing with the soft blond hair on Todd's leg. "Did you ever, I mean
have you . . ." he jerked his head towards Tyler and Val as they
disappeared into the Boat Shed.

Todd shook his head. "We wanted to. Val and Tyler are hunks. So is
Kyle. But, Chris, you just can't go around jumping some guy's bones
whenever you feel like it."

"You really have to be very careful," said Cory. "Unless the guy comes on
to you it's better to leave him alone and beat off. Safer, too. Some guys
get real nasty if you put the moves on them."

"And always watch out for the guys who are always hanging around with their
dicks in their hands. All they want to do is fuck you," warned Todd.

"Or fuck your face." Cory leaned forward and hugged his knees. "I love
sucking cocks, but I hate a guy who slams into me like he's fucking some
bitch on heat. I bit the last guy who tried it."

Chris sat up, shocked. "You didn't!"

"He sure as fuck did!" replied Todd, laughing. "He left his teeth marks on
the guy's dick."

"He left us alone after that, didn't he?" returned Cory, standing up.

"Where are you going?" asked Todd.

Cory shrugged. "All this talk is making me horny. My dick is too sore for
another go round." He shaded his eyes and looked toward the main cluster of
buildings. "The bus from Base is here. New kids coming in." He pointed
toward the road leading from town.

"There's The Gunner's car. I guess he met them," observed Todd as he and
Chris stood up.

With the sun warm on their bare backs they ambled towards their quarters
and as they passed the Headquarters Building the bus pulled up, followed by
The Gunner's Land Rover. The Gunner got out of his car, waved to the three
cadets and then started to sort out the thirty odd New Entries, young
cadets who had just arrived to start their course.

The Gunner was wearing his usual Sunday rig of baggy shorts and an
overlarge tee. Cory and Todd glanced at The Gunner's muscular legs and
well-formed chest. Cory sighed quietly. The sigh was not lost on Chris.

The three boys sat on the low concrete steps of the Headquarters Building,
dodging and moving as the other cadets slammed in and out as they tried to
complete their In Routine. "This place is too busy," griped Cory.  He stood
up and yawned. "I'm going in for a shower, then I think I'll have me a
nap." With that he walked quickly down the gravel path that led to the
Gunroom.

"Is he all right?" Chris asked, concerned.

"He's fine." Todd looked at Chris. "He's got the hots for The Gunner, is
all," he said abruptly.

Chris picked up a piece of grass and chewed on it. "That's what I thought."
He gave Todd a sly look. "You too?"

"Me too. You angry?"

Chris smiled and slipped his hand up the leg of Todd's shorts. He gave
Todd's warm, velvet scrotum a gentle squeeze, then pulled his hand
out. "Nah. I love you and Cory. I also know that you like other guys." He
shrugged philosophically. "I kind of like the Guard Officer," he admitted.

"Kyle?"

Chris nodded. "He's in my Corps. I've sort of had a crush on him
forever. Almost as bad as the one I had on you and Cory."

"You check him out?" asked Todd.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, does he have what you like? He's got a dynamite body and he is nice
to look at and all, but have you checked it out?"  He smiled
knowingly. "Some guys look great with their clothes on, but get their pants
off and you can get a shock."

Chris chuckled. "I've seen him naked. It looks nice." Todd's emphasis had
not been lost on him. "All of Kyle looks nice as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, I have it on very good authority, namely Cory, that he's got a nice
one when its excited. Some guys, they look all right soft, all smooth and
everything and then you see them with a hardon and it's ugly city." He
grimaced and stood up. "We can't fool around but I would like to take a
shower with you. If we hurry you can chuck shit at Cory. Tell him he has
small balls. That really gets him going."

"But I like Cory's balls," replied Chris with a grin. He waggled his
eyebrows. "Yours too, for that matter."

******

After supper Val dragooned the Gunroom into a game of baseball. Tyler
ambushed The Gunner and Kyle, the Guard Officer, and asked them to join the
cadets in a game of pickup. Kyle agreed at once. He missed the
rough-and-tumble of the cadet mess and the camaraderie. He missed being
with the boys, and being one of the boys. The Gunner agreed as well. He was
a baseball fanatic and one of the things he missed was the absence of any
organized sports at AURORA. Except for the Staff Cadets, most of the
trainees were so involved in their classes and practical work that there
was simply no time left in the schedule for anything other than training.

There was no shortage of players. This being Sunday night nothing was doing
anywhere. No movie, and there were just so many games of shuffleboard that
could be played, so many games of cards that could be dealt. Kyle, as an
officer, picked one team, The Gunner the other. The Twins, because of their
reputation on the playing fields were, much to their annoyance, split up,
Todd going to the Shirts, Cory to the Skins, and Fred, who claimed to be
allergic to sports, agreed to act as umpire. The Gunner's team lost the
toss and stripped off their tees. Kyle's multi-coloured team, each cadet
wearing a different coloured tee shirt, argued over the batting
rotation. Fred glared at everybody, adjusted his hastily donned jock,
yelled "Batter up" and the game was on.

The Gunner, by unanimous dissent, was pitcher and had a good first
inning. He managed to walk Todd and Two Strokes before Thumper hit the ball
into play. Cory, who was playing first base, managed to snag the pop fly
from Thumper, threw the ball to Ryan, who was second baseman, who threw it
to Chris, who was on third. Three men out and it was the Skins turn at bat.

Chris was first up in the Skins batting rotation. He grinned at Two
Strokes, who was pitching for the Shirts, who smiled back and waggled his
eyebrows. He let loose with a curving fastball. Chris swung his bat,
missed, whirled and lost his balance, falling flat on his ass. Randy
Lowndes, a recently arrived Sea Puppy and catching for the Skins, giggled
at the very dirty name Chris called Two Strokes. Chris connected with the
next pitch, driving the ball right into the first baseman's glove. Val held
up the ball and did a little victory dance.

Rob followed Chris, to equally dismal results, his pop fly easily caught by
Two Strokes. Cory was next. He took a few practice swings and glared at Two
Strokes, who glared back, wound up, and let fly. Cory connected and belted
a long ball into centre field. Harry, who was playing shortstop, leaped
up. The ball clipped the tip of his glove and bounced once before he was
able to scoop it up and throw it to Thumper, who was third baseman. Cory
made it to second. Randy, a skinny, redheaded boy who looked as if a strong
breeze would carry him away, was next up and he batted Cory home. It was
the first, and only run the Skins made for the next five innings.

As expected a crowd gathered along the edges of the parade square.  With
one of their own playing the Sea Puppies - all 37 of them - rooted for
Skins, led by Randy's best friend, Joey Pelham. The others, assorted
gunners, storekeepers, odds, sods, boffins and the ship's cat, thoroughly
enjoyed themselves as they hooted and hollered for their favourite team,
called Fred's eyesight into question when he made a bonehead call, and
generally behaved like any fan at a ball game. The Gunner, who was having
the time of his life, grinned at Kyle, who grinned back. This was what it
was really all about. Boys having fun being boys. They didn't realize it,
but this game, and much of what they did and whom they met here, would be
part of their memories for a long time, sometimes for the rest of their
lives.

At the top of the sixth, with the score 2 - 1 in favour of the Shirts, The
Gunner stepped up to the plate. Two Strokes grinned and spat a long stream
onto the dusty square. He was aware of The Gunner's ability but figured he
could sucker him. Two Strokes figured wrong.

The Gunner's bat connected with the ball and it slammed past Two Strokes
and Brian, hit the Headquarters Building and rolled. As Brian ran after it,
The Gunner loped around the bases. Score tied. His team-mates went wild,
some slapping his back, the more daring ones (led by Cory) whacking his
firm butt.  The next two innings were scoreless, which was not
surprising. The teams were evenly matched and all of them had played
before, either on school teams or on the sandlot. Then in the top of the
9th Shirts took the lead with two more runs.  The Gunner used all his
training and knowledge to keep up the Skins' spirits. His main concern was
that they enjoyed themselves although he realized full well that, being
boys, they placed much more emphasis on winning than he did. Both teams
were pumped, and with an exuberant audience looking on the rivalry was
great.

Two Strokes was feeling very pleased with himself. His pitching had kept
the Skins down to two runs. He had no doubt that his good right arm would
win the game for him. Unfortunately his ego got the better of him and he
choked. In the bottom of the 9th he walked Chris. Trying to recover, he
threw wild and clipped Rob, who went to first. The next batter up was Cory.

"All right then, boychick, it looks like it's up to you," The Gunner told
Cory as he chose his bat.

Cory nodded. "Two Strokes is hot today. Except for those two walks he
hasn't made an error all game."

"There's always a first time."

"Yeah. But he's awful good."

"You are better," replied The Gunner firmly. He smacked Cory on the fanny
and pointed him toward the plate. Cory was glowing as he walked up to the
plate. The fanny slap was all he needed. No matter what Two Strokes did, no
matter how he pitched, Cory knew he was going to hit a homer.

Two Strokes made the pitch. Cory swung the bat and heard the crack as he
connected. He took off running, as Kyle put it, like a stripe-assed ape,
heading for first. He rounded first and streaked for second, where he
paused momentarily, looking to see where the ball had gone.

The Gunner, who had stationed himself along the third base line, and seen
the ball disappear into the scrub at the edge of the square, was jumping up
and down and signalling Cory to head for home. Cory turned to make his run
when it happened. Nicholas, who wanted to win as badly as anyone else, and
who knew the score was now tied, reached out and yanked down Cory's
shorts. He was as shocked as everyone else when he saw that Cory wore no
underwear.

Cory, his shorts around his knees, tried gamely to continue on, running and
hopping while trying at the same time to pull up his shorts. He was about
halfway to third when he stumbled. He picked himself up and managed to get
his shorts hiked up. He ran to third, rounded it, and headed home.

Brian had the ball at last and threw it to Todd, who threw it to Two
Strokes, who fired it at Jon, who was catching. Cory threw himself forward,
sliding like a luge on his stomach, his arms extended. The ball crossed the
plate just as Cory's hand hit it.

Fred yelled "He's SAFE".  Cory had scored the winning run.

His team-mates went wild, pummelling his back, slapping his butt. Chris
hugged him and planted a big wet one on both cheeks. The Gunner ruffled his
hair and told him that he had "Done good." Rob and David wrapped their arms
around him. Cory being Cory copped a quick feel of both of them. Neither
boy objected. What the fuck, he'd won the game for them.

"Jesus, Cory." exclaimed Rob.  "You sure showed the world that you have
balls."  Cory grinned, then looked down at his sagging shorts. He wasn't
too sure if Rob was talking about his home run or his flashing the whole
fucking base. He saw Nicholas coming towards him, his hand extended,
wanting to congratulate him. "And they just got bigger," he said grimly and
as he headed for the Yeoman, his fists balled.

Nicholas, seeing the look on Cory's face, took off running. Cory tackled
him at the pitcher's mound. Both boys went down, snarling and cursing,
raising a cloud of dust. In the process Cory's shorts came down again and
the crowd howled with laughter as Cory's butt appeared and disappeared in
the dust storm.

The Gunner ran up and snatched Cory away, grabbing him around his
sweat-slicked waist. "Calm down, Cory, for Christ's sake calm down," he
ordered as he tried to separate the two boys.

Cory was bouncing and jumping, his arms flying and legs kicking. As he did
so The Gunner's hands, quite unwillingly, slipped down, covering Cory's
abundant pubic bush. As Cory jumped up and down his flaccid dick bounced
against The Gunner's hand, his heat-distended balls flopping back and
forth. He leaned forward and unknowingly ground his butt in The Gunner's
groin.

The Gunner almost lost it. He could feel Cory's butt grinding into his
crotch, and he could feel his dick starting to harden. He recovered and
quickly moved his arms, grasping Cory's chest, just below his nipples. He
pulled back and they crashed to the ground. "Cory, stop it!" The Gunner
whispered harshly. "You're making a fool of yourself."

Cory suddenly sobered. He was lying on his back, on top of The Gunner. He
could feel a tingling in his groin. The last thing he wanted was to
embarrass either The Gunner or himself. He could feel a lump forming
against his bare ass. "Jesus," Cory thought, "What am I doing to him?" He
stopped struggling. "I am all right, Gunner," he said quickly. "You can let
me up. Please?" he finished quietly.

"Sure?" asked The Gunner hopefully.

Cory nodded and The Gunner released him. He rolled off The Gunner's body
and stood up. He pulled up his shorts and reached down to give The Gunner a
hand up. Their hands clasped and he pulled The Gunner to his feet. The
Gunner leaned forward and put his hands on his knees, breathing deeply and
willing his penis to soften. He looked up at Cory. "You're stronger than
you look, you little fuck." He coughed and spat out a mouthful of
dust. Then he smiled. And then he winked at Cory.

"Guess I'm in the rattle again?" asked Cory, a forlorn look on his face.

"No." The Gunner shook his head, straightened, and winced as he massaged
his back. "I think you did me an injury." Seeing the stricken look on
Cory's face he punched his shoulder. "I'm fine, and I'll square it with
Kyle, I mean Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent." He put his hand on Cory's
shoulder and squeezed gently. "You got carried away in the heat of the
moment is all. Now shake hands with the Yeoman and then hit the showers."

Cory nodded and walked up to Nicholas. They shook hands and Nicholas
apologized for playing dirty ball. Cory brushed him aside. "You wanted to
win. I understand. You got carried away in the heat of the moment, is all,"
he said, unconsciously echoing The Gunner. He put his arm around Nicholas's
shoulders and they walked off, the best of friends. As they left the parade
square Cory turned his head and saw The Gunner watching them leave. Cory
smiled gently and gave him a small wave. The Gunner returned the smile and
nodded, then turned and walked toward his car.

Cory disentangled himself from Nicholas and stared after the man he
loved. "I will never tell," he thought. He felt himself colouring. "I will
never tell what I did to you. I will never tell that I made you get
excited. I will never tell that you got a lump in your pants. I swear. I
swear."