Date: Thu, 19 Jun 2003 08:18:18 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 1

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 you thumping 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 you're 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 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). My e-mail address is
paradegi@rogers.com

My thanks and gratitude, as always, to Peter, whose superb editing skills
make my humble scribbling better.


The Boys Of AURORA - CHAPTER ONE


Great care had been taken to ensure that there was at least one Senior
Cadet on each bus, thus insuring that good order and discipline was
maintained. There had been no need to worry. After a parade, two long and
involved Ceremonies, the water fight at the motel, and gorging themselves
after the Sunset Ceremony at the barbecue supper set up on the grounds of
the Legislature; almost all of the cadets began to drift off to sleep.

On the first bus Tyler, as Master at Arms, was in charge of 40 assorted
tradesmen: Storekeepers, Engineers and General Training cadets.  In the
middle of the bus Rob and Ryan sat together, saying nothing. Ryan's head
rested on Rob's broad shoulder. He was very happy and from time to time he
ran his hand down Rob's muscular leg.

In the second bus Val had charge of the bulk of the Gunners. At the very
back sat Brian and Dylan. They had taken off their jumpers and were using
them as blankets. Dylan could not sleep if his body was not covered with
something. Even on the hottest nights, when the humidity turned the
barracks into a steam bath, he slept with a coverlet over him. Having
something covering him and Brian also allowed Dylan to rest his hand in
Brian's crotch.

In front of the two cadets Andy and Kyle sat together, each lost in
thought. As they listened to the steady, even breathing of the sleeping
cadets their hands joined. Andy had promised Kyle that they would talk
about their relationship. He loved Kyle and did not have a clue what they
were going to do.

Harry was in charge of Bus Number 3. As the bus pulled away from the
Legislature he warned the assembled Bandsmen that he was tired and wished
to nap. They all knew that a tired Harry was a grumpy Harry. A grumpy Harry
was to be avoided at all costs. They all pulled their caps over their eyes
and went to sleep, or pretended to.

Greg sat beside Harry, wondering how Harry could be such a good friend one
minute and a prick the next. For two nights they had pleasured each other
as much as two guys could without actually fucking. More and more Greg was
realizing that he was falling in love with Harry, just as more and more he
was reconciling himself to being nothing more than Harry's fuck buddy. For
mile after dark mile he stared through the window of the bus, wondering
what in hell he had gotten himself into.

Sylvain was in charge of Bus 4, which contained the Bugle Band and the
Boatswains, including Stuart and Steve. Sylvain was in no mood for any
nonsense. The encounter with the girls at the motel had left him in a state
of extreme frustration and he was hornier than he had ever been in his
life. He wanted nothing more than to sit in the shadows and massage the
raging hardon that pressed against the fabric of his bell-bottoms.

Because he was a Chief, and in charge of the bus, Sylvain's orders to sit
down and pipe down were obeyed, though not without an accompanying muted
chorus of "Fuck you's, Bite me's and Up your ass's," from the Boatswains,
who had no use for Musicians in general and Sylvain in particular. They
considered him about as useful as a spare prick at a wedding and the fact
that he was a Frog did not enhance Sylvain's standing with them one whit.

Stuart, who shared the troops' disdain of the French-Canadian Drum Major,
stood up and, with a glance at his Boatswains, silenced the
grumbling. Stuart might have had little use for Sylvain but, at the end of
the day, the guy was a Chief and had to be supported. Sylvain retired in a
snit to the back of the bus where, much to the amusement of Stuart and
Steve, he moaned, groaned, huffed and puffed himself to what sounded like a
most satisfying orgasm, after which he fell asleep, snoring loudly.

In Bus Number 5 the Twins were nominally in charge of the Sea Puppies and
the few Gunners who had not managed to find a seat in the second bus. Aside
from nattering on and complaining about all the fun they had missed in the
pool, the Sea Puppies were well-behaved and settled down when Todd mildly
suggested that they get some sleep, as the bugle would still blow at 0600
in the morning and after a full day of parades and fun in the sun The Twins
felt the fatigue creeping through their bodies. They draped their jumpers
over themselves and assumed their normal sleeping positions. Before very
long Cory's head was resting on Todd's shoulder, and he was snoring
quietly, with his hand inside the unzipped front of Todd's trousers,
holding his brother's flaccid penis.

Todd slept with his nose buried in Cory's hair, his soft breathing ruffling
the fine blonde hair on his brother's head.  His hand was inside of Cory's
unzipped trousers and softly squeezing his brother's sleeping genitals.

Bus Number 6 held the small work party that had been detailed to load it
with the luggage, Harry's band instruments and Nicholas's flags. Nicholas,
as Yeomen of Signals had a proprietary interest in his flags. They were on
his Slop Chit and if one of them went missing he would be held
responsible. He was therefore never far from his flags. As Senior Cadet he
had supervised the loading of the bus and had seen to it that everything
was stowed neatly, working on the premise that what was loaded had to be
unloaded and the less of a muck up they made in the loading the easier
would be the unloading.

Up forward, separated from the driver by a barrier of kit bags and a floor
to ceiling barrier, Chris and Jon sat quietly. This afternoon, while the
other cadets had been playing silly buggers in the pool they had made slow,
passionate love, an act so profound that they were both still in the thrall
of the euphoria they felt.

In the rear of the bus, surrounded by more kit bags and flag cases,
Nicholas sat with Andre, who had rolled his jumper into a pillow and sat,
scrunched up against the window, fast asleep. Nicholas had been quite
surprised when Andre joined him on this bus. Usually Andre rode with the
Band members. "Hey, petit." Nicholas smiled a warm greeting at his partner
in combat. "What brings you here?"

Andre shrugged and grinned. "I am, I mean, can I sit here with you?"

"Sure. You want the window seat?" Nicholas unzipped his jumper and threw
his white cap onto the overhead rack.

Andre nodded his thanks and slipped into the window seat. "I wish to sit
with my friend. It is bonne? I mean it is okay?"

Nicholas laughed and sat down beside Andre. "Sure. Make yourself at home."
Then he leaned over and whispered. "Can't say no to a guy who's shown me
what his own mother hasn't seen since he was seven."

Andre blushed and giggled. "I have never done that, swim without my pants
on. I would not dare!"

"You've never been skinny dipping?" asked Nicholas as he settled into the
seat beside Andre. He found himself being very attracted to this sweet
young man.

"Pardon?"

"Swimming without your suit. You've never gone bare balls?"

"Mais non! No, Nicholas. I would not dare. I have five sisters. They would
laugh, and you know, make fun of my penis."

Nicholas laughed so hard he choked. "Sorry, petit, but it's pretty funny. I
guess I'm lucky. I have brothers. Two of them."

It was Andre's turn to laugh. "I have seven brothers. Two, Antoine and
Hercule, they are priests. They never smile and want to pray all the
time. They are as bad as the priests in school."

"How come?"

"Nicholas, after you play sports, you go to the showers, yes?"

"Sure. If I came home smelling like a jock my mother would kill me."

"You take off all your clothes?"

"To shower? Of course. How else can you take a shower?" Nicholas saw that
Andre was quite serious. "You wear your clothes in the shower?"

Andre nodded. "We must wear a pair of shorts. We are not allowed to look at
the other boys. It is a sin."

Nicholas tried not to stare. "You mean you've never seen a guy naked
before?"

"Oh, oui, sure. When I went away for the cadets. The Anglais do not think
it is a sin?"

Nicholas ruffled Andre's curly black hair. "No sin in looking, petit. When
you were born you didn't have pants on, did you?"

"Nicholas, that is silly. Of course I did not have pants on. What is silly
is what the priests say is sinful. Nicholas, do . . . you . . .?" Andre
made a slow, pumping motion with his hand.

"Why Andre, what a personal question to ask," replied Nicholas with a grin.

Andre drew back. "I am sorry, Nicholas. I was not right to ask such a
question."

Nicholas smiled kindly. Poor Andre was so embarrassed that he was mixing up
his verbs and tenses. "It's okay. And yes, I do. Don't you, petit?"

Andre blushed again. Then he nodded. "But not too often. It is a very big
sin. Good for ten Our Fathers at least, plus two Decades of the Rosary, and
if it is Pere LaRoche a long lecture on little boys not playing with
themselves."

Nicholas chuckled. "You're not so little, petit." He pushed Andre
playfully.

"Did it feel good when you did it?"

"Tabernac, yes! Once it felt so good I did it again!" Andre threw his hand
over his mouth. "Mon Dieu, what am I saying?"

"Petit, every guy does it. If it feels good, it's no sin." Nicholas
chuckled.

"Some guys do it three and four times a day. Look at Thumper."

Andre nodded and tried to stifle a huge yawn. "Mon Dieu, I am tired." He
seemed to think for a moment. "Nicholas, you are a Roundhead. Thumper, he
is also a Roundhead, yes?"

Nicholas nodded. "And you're a cavalier. You have a repli qui entoure le
sommet du penis." "Really," thought Nicholas, "leave it to the Frogs to
write a fucking book for something as normal and simple as a foreskin!" He
gave Andre's ribs a poke with his elbow. "I don't have a 'puce. Guys who
have it jerk off just as much as guys who don't."

"I just wondered," replied Andre. "Nicholas, sometimes it is difficult to
understand. The priests say that doing things, like making you feel good,
they are bad. But everybody does it. At night, tabernac, it is slap, slap,
slap, you know . . ." He made a pumping motion with his hand.

Nicholas nodded. It was the same, with variations, in the Gunroom. "You
haven't lived," he thought, "unless you've seen and heard Harry doing the
Thumper Special!"

" . . . And if you don't do it you, in your sleep . . ." Andre no longer
felt embarrassed talking to Nicholas about such things. He was only 15 and
his knowledge of sex was limited to say the least. No one at home talked
about sex and sometimes his parents acted as if sex did not exist at
all. School was just as bad. The only thing that was ever said about sex
was DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT! He was comfortable talking to Nicholas, so
he would talk to him.

"You have a reve humide, a wet dream." Nicholas felt his attraction for
Andre growing, an attraction he could not understand. He had never felt
this way before, and while it disturbed him, it did not upset
him. Actually, he rather liked the feelings he was having. "That's normal,
too, petit. If you do it, and jerk off, you're in trouble because it's a
sin of the flesh. If you don't jerk off and have a wet dream, which you
can't not have, it's a sin of the flesh and also, I think of thought.
Sometimes I am confused, too." He saw the slightly questioning look on
Andre's face. "Our priests say the same thing your priests do. If you play
with yourself, it's a sin.  If you have a wet dream, it's a sin. If you
even think about playing with yourself, it's a sin. If you look at a girl
and think, boy, would I like to stick it in her and play hide the sausage,
it's a sin."

Andre sighed. "I guess I go to Enfer, Nicholas, if what the priests are
saying is right," he said with grim finality.

Nicholas laughed quietly. "Andre, I'll be standing right beside you."

******

At the rear of the long column of buses was Tail End Charlie: Chef's
battered old Chevy. Chef was at the wheel, trying not to lose his temper as
Dave Eddy, who shared the front seat with him, moaned and dripped about his
treatment at the hands of the cadets. In the back seat, curled up in the
corners, Joey and Randy snuffled and stirred, deep in sleep.

As they put-putted along behind the last bus Dave Eddy, quivering with
indignation, angrily recounted in graphic detail what had happened to
him. Not only had he been manhandled into the pool, his clothing had been
stripped from him and, what was unforgivable, he had been groped. Never, in
his entire life had his testicles been fondled and his penis squeezed. He
was an officer and such things simply did not happen to officers!

Chef was not noted for his patience. Quite the opposite held true and Dave
was very fortunate that Chef was relatively sober and did not have a
cleaver handy. Gritting his teeth, Chef clutched the steering wheel so
tightly his knuckles were white as Dave droned on and on. Finally, Chef
reached the end of his tether and exploded, "God Damn It!" he
growled. "Lad, you have no one to blame but yourself! The Gunner as much as
told you to mind your own business. Did you? No! You just had to get on
your high horse and flash your stripe and a half in their faces." He glared
angrily at the Sub-Lieutenant.  "You got exactly what you deserved!"

Dave gaped and sputtered. "They stripped me!" he declared with heat. "They
felt my dick and balls! I'm an officer, damn it!" He was crimson with
righteous anger.

"BULL SHIT!" roared Chef so loudly that Randy and Joey started awake.

"Chef . . .?" began Joey, a little frightened.

"No problem, me son. You and Randy go back to sleep," replied Chef with a
smile, his voice gentle.

Joey settled back. Randy, who was also now awake, gently kicked Joey's
foot. He glanced first at his friend and then at Chef and Dave. He grinned
widely. Sleep was definitely no longer on their agenda. It was not often
that the officers and instructors bickered in front of the cadets so they
listened intently as Chef continued on.

Joey's interruption had deflated Chef's anger somewhat and, after checking
in the rear view mirror and making sure that the boys were all right, Chef
glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Dave, his arms crossed across
his chest, staring straight ahead, and frankly pouting.

Under ordinary circumstances Chef, who did not suffer fools - or officers -
gladly, would have let Dave stew. Had Dave been an ordinary, garden
variety, no hoper of an officer, Chef would have ignored the lad for the
balance of the trip. What bothered Chef though, was that Dave was, while
young and inexperienced, a good and popular officer who had the makings of
becoming a great officer, with the right counsel and direction.

At the moment Dave was too puffed up with his own self-importance, and
still in the thrall of being an officer. This Chef could understand for all
too often during the course of his own career he had seen young lads, mere
boys, really, Naval Cadets and Midshipmen, come strutting up the gangway,
all full of piss and vinegar and starry-eyed, filled with the enthusiasm of
youth and then, when the dust had settled and the stars had disappeared
with the cold, hard light of day, seen those same lads turned into Wardroom
Wallys, Champagne Charlies, or worse, Nigel Farnsworths, so full of
themselves and their imagined prestige, that they were all but useless, fit
only for the incitement to mutiny.

Thinking about it Chef realized that in a way he was partly to blame for
officers turning out the way they did. He had never made any bones about
disliking most officers, treating them with veiled contempt and disdain
when he thought he could get away with it. No, he had not helped matters at
all, and in retrospect he thought that perhaps those same objects of his
contempt and disdain just might have become welcome additions to the ship's
company, with the guidance and support of a senior rating, and an
occasional good kick in the seat of their pants.

A quiet giggling from the back seat drew Chef's attention to the two
boys. He had no idea how far Randy and Joey planned to go in the cadets, or
if they even planned on going on, for that matter. What he did know, and
what he knew to be important, was that all the boys deserved to be led by
competent, unselfish officers. Chef decided that it was about time that he
started to do something about the problem, rather than compounding
it. There was no time like the present, and who better to start with than
Dave?

Chef turned to Dave, who was still pouting, and spoke, his voice low and
confident. "Dave, when you are told not to do something by an older, more
experienced hand, do not do it! The troops are not impressed and waving
your Commissioning Scroll at them only makes you out to be a bigger fool
than they think you are!"

"I resent that, Chef!" snarled Dave, all but baring his teeth.

"Too fucking bad. Resent all you like," returned Chef. His anger was
returning and he struggled to maintain his composure. "You were wrong to do
what you did. The troops were not doing anything but having some good
old-fashioned fun. They made no effort to deliberately expose themselves
and when they got out of the pool they either had towels around them or
they were wearing their swimming suits.  I don't recall anyone
complaining. The girls sure weren't."

"That is not the point! I am an officer and they had no right to strip off
my clothes and feel me up!" insisted Dave stubbornly.

Joey and Randy squirmed uneasily. While they had not helped to strip Dave
to his underwear they had taken advantage of the situation and given him a
good feel (but then, so had Cory and, they suspected, Todd). Joey glanced
at Randy, who grinned. They were so close that sometimes it scared Joey to
think that Randy knew exactly what was going through his mind. By the same
token he knew what Randy was thinking: Sub-Lieutenant Eddy had nothing
between his legs to write home about. Still, it was best to shut up and
pretend to be asleep.

"They did not strip you. They left you your underpants," Chef pointed
out. He lowered his voice, changing tack, trying to reason with the irate
officer. "Dave, you have been a Sea Cadet since you were 12. Before that
you were a Navy League Cadet. You, of all people, should know how high
spirited the boys can be. They meant no harm. They were just having fun. If
anything you should feel complimented."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Dave, failing to see the compliment in being
felt up.  Chef sighed inwardly. Dave was too angry to listen to
reason. With a slight shake of his head Chef said, his voice deceptively
low. "Dave, by doing what they did they showed that they think of you as
one of them. They only do things like that to guys they like."

"I would prefer that they think of me as an officer," said Dave coldly. "I
am an officer, Chef, and I will thank you to remember that."

"Right, boyo!" Chef thought, resisting a natural inclination to reach over
and smack the young man. "If that's the way you want it." He looked
directly at Dave and shook his head. "Sir, I'm an old sailor who's been
around for more than a Dog Watch. I shall give you one more piece of advice
and then I shall keep my own counsel!""

"And that advice is?" asked Dave archly.

"When we get back to AURORA go into the Wardroom, pack your bags, and then
get on the next plane home. When you get back home turn in your papers
because you are not going to be of any use to man or cadet with that
attitude."

******

As the convoy travelled north each bus in turn passed over a slight bump in
the carriageway, which caused the heavy sleepers to stir uneasily, and the
light sleepers to awaken. Andre, always a light sleeper, felt the
jolt. Momentarily confused and disoriented, he shook the cobwebs from his
head, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and remembered where he was. He saw
that whatever had caused the bus to go bump in the night had not bothered
Nicholas, who was sleeping soundly.  The bus was very quiet, the only
sounds being the purr of the motor and the swishing of the tires on the
pavement. Andre stuck his head above the seat and looked around. In the dim
light from the overhead fixture he saw nothing but piles of flags and
baggage. Except for the driver and himself, everyone else seemed to be fast
asleep. Andre turned and looked at his sleeping seatmate. Nicholas was one
of a very few English boys that Andre could call a friend for it was a sad
fact that his heritage discouraged, in every way, friendship with the
English, to the extent that, though he lived in Montreal, one of the
world's most cosmopolitan cities, Andre lived an insular, restricted, and
constricted life in a virtually closed society within a society.

As a French-Canadian, Andre did not associate with English boys. His
school, while one of the best in the Province, was unilingual French
(Parisian, not, thank God, Canadian, which was a hodge podge of patois and
idioms, so much so that anyone from the wilds of Quebec was an object of
ridicule because no one could understand half of what he said). Only last
year the Jesuit Fathers, with ill-concealed reluctance, had begun an
English language course.

Andre's isolation from the English community in Montreal was such that the
Sea Cadet Corps he belonged to was unilingual French and he was sent to a
French only camp, HMCS QUEBEC, in Ste-Angele-de-Laval, for his New Entry
Training. He had never had the opportunity to interact with English boys
until he went to the Band School, in Kingston. Here Andre met one huge,
jovial Drum Instructor named Harry, whose smiles and cajolery had made life
bearable for him.

It was in Kingston that many of the myths Andre had come to believe as
gospel were dispelled. It was common knowledge that the English hated the
French. But Harry hated no one and went out of his way to be kind to his
young French-Canadian drummers. No English boys spoke French. If this was
so then why did Harry, and two blond-haired Twins from far off Vancouver,
speak flawless French? Which led to the dispelling of another myth: all
English were blond haired, with blues eyes and pink cheeks. Harry was dark,
though pleasantly so. The Twins were blonds, with rosy pink skin. Typical
Anglais boys. But Sylvain, who was from the real wilds of Quebec, up near
Rimouski, was blond and had blue eyes, which had led to some very unkind
remarks concerning his heritage. A myth disposed of.

Another myth held that all English were crude and very rude. Harry was
crude, in the manner of all teenage boys in an all male environment, but he
was never rude.  As for the Twins, their manners were impeccable.

The English boys, it was held, would have nothing to do with French
boys. This was also false. Harry and the Twins had taken a fancy to him,
and teased and kidded Andre unmercifully. They also taught him the
rudiments of drumming, and always included him in their escapades, and even
took the time to teach Andre a few English words (mostly swear words, but
English nevertheless).

It was also at Kingston that Andre saw with his own eyes that not all
Anglais were Roundheads, as everybody thought. Some were, some were not,
including an Anglais cadet from Sarnia who had a very long and rubbery
repli and who delighted in demonstrating his ability to masturbate by just
manipulating his foreskin, which everyone thought was interesting, until
the Duty Officer and the Duty Petty Officer (Harry) walked in on one of his
demonstrations.

In addition to dispelling the myths of his childhood, Kingston brought to
the fore a small inkling that disturbed Andre: he was physically attracted
to other boys, particularly the English boys. They were, for the most part,
less repressed and more open about sex.  Harry joked about the size, girth
and beauty of his penis.  The Twins, who were gangly, all bum and baskets,
really, were also, it was whispered, homosexual, which nobody seemed to
mind, except for some of the French boys who went to early Mass every day
and thought that familiarity with The Twins meant eternal damnation. Andre
would have loved to join the ranks of the damned but had not dared to make
the first move.

Andre knew that Sylvain, and some of the older boys, all of whom were
boarders at the Jesuit Academy, visited the younger boys at night. Or so it
was rumoured. Andre would not have minded such a visit. Two things
prevented it. He was not a boarder, and he did not trust Sylvain. He did
not, in truth, trust any of his schoolmates. They were all sons of Holy
Mother Church and sooner or later one of them would say the wrong thing in
Confession. It had happened before, and two boys had been prayed over,
condemned and expelled, all in flawless Latin. Most of the English boys,
being Protestants, did not have to worry about Confession and even the boys
who were Roman Catholic didn't seem over bothered, and figured that what
the priests did not know would not hurt them.

For three years Andre had managed to get himself selected for summer camps
where the majority of the cadets were English. Being a drummer, and with
perfect recommendations from his Instructors, his requests met with little
opposition. He was also Harry's special protégé, and where Harry went
so went Andre.

Andre was now 15 years old and every summer for three years he had watched
each morning as Harry and the Twins and other boys, too numerous to
remember or count, crawled from their bunks, their underpants tented with
their morning erections. He had silently watched them strip off their
underpants, their hard smooth penises bouncing as the tight, restricting
cloth was removed. He had listened to the boasts and comparisons and now,
as he had then, Andre moaned softly. If only he could have reached out and
touched . . . He looked at Nicholas, and longed to reach out to touch the
handsome boy's smooth cheeks. He also longed to reach down and feel the
soft perfection that he knew lay hidden beneath the dark serge fabric of
Nicholas's bell-bottom trousers. Andre looked down at Nicholas's crotch and
what he saw made his heart skip a beat. "Tabernac!" he breathed. Nicholas
might be asleep but there was a very pronounced and more than respectable
bulge in the front of his pants!

Andre very quickly averted his eyes but, like a moth drawn to a flame, he
returned to the enticing and stimulating sight between Nicholas's legs. He
felt his own penis hardening and quickly reached down to adjust it into a
more comfortable position.

For some miles Andre sat there, mesmerized, listening to Nicholas's steady
breathing, watching as the bulge pulsed slightly with each breath he
took. As he watched Andre rubbed his own erection, a feeling so wonderfully
stimulating that twice he brought himself to the edge, and while he wanted
desperately to squirt, he just as desperately wanted to prolong as much as
possible the delectable feelings that washed over him. Without thinking of
the consequences he reached down and ran his finger along the bulge in
Nicholas's trousers.

As Andre's finger felt the hardness beneath the fabric Nicholas stirred
slightly but did not wake up.

Andre continued his stroking for a few minutes and then, emboldened by
Nicholas's continued inactivity, reached out and slowly drew down the
zipper of his friend's trousers. When Nicholas did not react Andre, who
could feel his own erection throbbing, unbuckled Nicholas's belt, popped
the button on his trousers and pulled them open, revealing a white expanse
of starched gunshirt. As carefully as he could Andre pulled up Nicholas's
stiffly starched gunshirt. His eyes widened and he gasped slightly. In the
dim light cast by the overhead light was . . . revealed, jutting proudly
from the slit in Nicholas's white boxer shorts was his magnificent, light
tan and very pink, erect penis.

Cautiously, his hand trembling slightly, Andre reached out to touch the
dark pink flesh of Nicholas's perfect, mushroom-shaped helmet. Nicholas's
penis twitched at Andre's touch and a small, gemlike drop of clear liquid
oozed out of the pee-slit. Entranced, Andre watched as the small drop of
liquid ambrosia slowly oozed down the gentle curve of Nicholas's dark pink
mushroom. Almost immediately another, larger drop appeared. Andre's finger
touched the crystal droplet of heaven and lifted it to his lips. His tongue
flicked out and for the first time Andre tasted nature's wonderful
lubricant, shuddering at the delight of it. He had never tasted anything
like it and immediately wanted more. He lowered his head and the glorious
scent of Nicholas, musk, soap, cloth, cleanliness, all mingled together,
assailed his nostrils. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Andre was almost overcome with
the glorious incense that rose from Nicholas, smelling for the first time
the magnificent odour that every male produces.

Leaning down, Andre pressed his lips against the underside of Nicholas's
erection, touching the sweet spot just where the shaft joined the
delicious, curving head, his lips savouring the warmth of the smooth
skin. He closed his eyes and tasted . . . Mon Dieu and tabernac, it was so
terribly warm and sweet, tasting like nothing Andre had ever tasted before.

At the soft touch of Andre's lips Nicholas's erection jerked again and
another drop of clear fluid appeared as if by magic from the finely cut
slit in the curving, smooth surface of the dark crimson glans.

Groaning, Andre slipped his hand into the wide fly of Nicholas's boxers and
felt the thick bush of pubic hair surrounding the base of the six or so
inches of pink and tan perfection his lips worshipped. Andre tried, but
failed to slip his hand further into the white boxers, unable to stroke and
fondle what he knew to be a set of perfect, oval, low-hanging
testicles. Intoxicated with Nicholas, Andre slowly sniffed his way up the
perfect shaft, his warm breath softly caressing the barely seen vein that
bisected the underside of Nicholas's erection. He kissed and licked
Nicholas's spongy-hard glans and with his finger he traced the length of
Nicholas's hardon, the first hard male flesh other than his own that he had
ever touched. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he did not see
Nicholas' eyes snap open then close quickly, nor did he hear the soft, low
sigh that escaped Nicholas's lips.

Nicholas was not naive when it came to sex between boys. He went to an all
boys school and had spent every summer for the past five of his 18 years in
one Sea Cadet camp or another. He had always found the homoerotic bantering
and rough housing stimulating and he was not stupid enough to believe that
it was all talk and no action. Each summer Nicholas had seen pairs of boys
drift off to their own private places. Back home he knew that there was a
small storeroom above the stage of the school auditorium that could only be
locked from the inside, a room where the Masters never ventured, a room
where two boys could be alone. While he was aware of what was going on,
Nicholas had never participated in anything. He masturbated, of course,
sometimes as much as three times a day, but that was the limit of his
sexual activity.

At first Nicholas had thought that all that talk about wet dreams was
having an effect on his sleep patterns. He could feel that his dick was
rock hard and thought that maybe, for the first time in ages, he was having
a reve humide, which was fine with him. He was feeling some very pleasant
feelings, made even more pleasant as a very soft and warm finger was drawn
up and down the underside of his hardon. He squirmed slightly and spread
his legs a little wider. What a strange dream he was having. A finger of
all things was being . . . a FINGER!  Nicholas opened his eyes and looked
down. The front of his bell-bottoms was unzipped and his hard dick was
poking out from the fly of his underpants. He watched as Andre's finger
traced the length of his dick, paused to very lightly tease the small knot
of skin directly under his helmet, and then slowly move again, retracing
its way down to his balls. He was so enjoying the feelings coursing through
his body that when Andre began teasing and twirling the thin hairs curling
around the root of his dick he involuntarily clenched his butt muscles,
which caused his dick to jump.

When Nicholas's cock jerked up and down Andre very quickly jerked his head
and hand back, fearing that his fondling had awakened his new-found friend
and even more afraid of Nicholas's reaction if he should wake up and find
someone playing with his dick! As quickly as he had jerked his hand away
Andre turned his head and pretended to be looking out of the window, barely
daring to breathe. When nothing happened, Andre turned his head and looked
at Nicholas's seemingly sleeping face. Nicholas's head was cocked slightly
to one side and there was a slight smile on his lips. As Andre watched
Nicholas spread his legs slightly wider, offering a little more room for
exploration.

Nicholas had quite deliberately opened his legs wider. What Andre was doing
to him was certainly better than a wet dream and as sure as fuck a hell of
a lot better than when he jerked himself off. If Andre wanted to bring him
off that was fine, though he wondered just how far the young
French-Canadian was going to go.

Andre returned to caressing Nicholas, then bent down and ran his tongue
gently over and around Nicholas's mushroom. Nicholas almost lost it. The
warm wetness of Andre's tongue sent a shock wave of pleasure rampaging
through Nicholas, and he began to moan quietly, thrusting his hips upward,
offering Andre all of his hard cock, which so startled Andre that he
quickly snapped his head backward.  With his hand hovering over Nicholas's
throbbing organ Andre, scarcely able to breathe, watched the face of the
youth he wanted to taste and feel in every way possible. Nicholas was
breathing rapidly through his nose, and making small moues of pleasure.

After what seemed like hours Nicholas settled down and Andre dared to move
his hand again. His right hand grasped the pulsing, silk skinned flesh, his
thumb slowly circling over and around the now almost purple coloured
glans. He slipped his left hand into Nicholas's boxers, cupping and rolling
the finely formed testicles, drawing the soft hairs covering Nicholas's
smooth-skinned sac through his fingers. Though Nicholas squirmed and
muttered Andre did not increase the tempo of his rubbing, massaging the
precum slicked helmet with his thumb, caressing the smooth-ridged crown.

Nicholas could feel his balls tightening and the pressure building deep
within his groin. The wave of intense ecstasy, an ecstasy he had never felt
before, began rising, growing stronger and stronger. He was near, so very
near, and he did not want it to end.

Andre almost had heart failure when Nicholas turned sideways and his arm
reached out to embrace him. Nicholas buried his face in Andre's neck, his
lips and tongue finding and nibbling and sucking the boy's ear. "Oh God,
Andre, don't stop," Nicholas groaned harshly. "Don't stop, petit, don't
stop!"

As Andre continued to rub his swollen mushroom, Nicholas sucked and rimmed
Andre's ear with his tongue. Andre knew that Nicholas was very, very
close. His fear gave way to wonderful contentment. He buried his face in
Nicholas's chest, smelling the crisp, clean freshness of his
gunshirt. Suddenly Nicholas's grip on Andre tightened. He thrust his hips
forward and his body stiffened. "Gonna cum, petit . . . cumming, don't
stop, don't stop, don't stop!" Nicholas thrust again and a stream of semen
flew from his piss slit and smashed against Andre's chest. Again and again
Nicholas thrust forward, each time expelling an ever-decreasing stream of
his nectar onto Andre's chest and gunshirt until finally, he was finished.

Andre continued to hold Nicholas's softening penis, waiting, wide-eyed that
Nicholas had derived so much pleasure from a simple act of masturbation.
Nicholas held Andre in a vicelike grip. "Oh, God, petit, that was good," he
whispered, breathing harshly.

All too soon Nicholas pulled away from Andre. Wordlessly he smiled and
leaned forward. Their lips met and parted and their tongues duelled
briefly. Then Nicholas pulled away. "Be very quiet, petit," he warned as
his hands found Andre's belt buckle.

Andre could feel his heart pounding as he watched Nicholas unbuckle his
belt, then unbutton his trousers and spread them wide. He felt Nicholas's
strong hands slide under the waistband of his underpants, then felt them
and his trousers being pushed down to the middle of his thighs, revealing
his smooth-skinned, hooded erection, which was slick and covered with the
same clear liquid he had so lovingly licked from Nicholas.

Nicholas reached forward and ran his finger down Andre's covered erection,
slowly gathering the precum. Then he lifted his finger to his lips and
sucked it slowly into his mouth. Using his thumb and two fingers Nicholas
slowly retracted Andre's foreskin, exposing his handsome, deep purple
coloured glans. Holding the gathered skin firmly at the thick base of
Andre's straight, engorged erection, Nicholas lowered his head and his lips
kissed just the rounded dome of Andre's mushroom. Then Nicholas's mouth
opened and he slowly engulfed Andre's slim, smooth erection, not stopping
until his nose was buried in the soft, curly forest that surrounded the
base of the French-Canadian boy's penis.

Andre's head flew back and his mouth dropped open. Andre had dreamed of
this night, had fantasized about this night but never, in all his wildest
imaginings, had he conceived that the feelings that rampaged through his
petit souris, his little mouse, would be so magnifique! His whole world was
concentrated on the wetness that engulfed him. He felt the soft, firm,
suctioning of Nicholas's mouth and within seconds every nerve in his body
seemed to short-circuit. He was overcome with the sheer wonder of his
orgasm as his dick pulsed and squirted stream after stream of his boyish
juice into Nicholas's eager, waiting mouth.

Nicholas continued to suck greedily, awed by the amount of cum the little
fellow was putting out. He was so enthralled by the wonderful
bitter-sweetness of Andre that he was only vaguely aware of yet another
orgasm passing through his body. He was so intent on cleaning the
softening, warm, oh, so wonderful penis in his mouth that he barely felt
his semen as it smashed onto his stomach and dribbled slowly down into his
pubic hairs.

Andre writhed as Nicholas's tongue and mouth continued to suck and lick and
finally, unable to bear the delicious agony any longer he pulled away. He
slumped heavily against the side of the bus, breathing harshly, his heart
pounding uncontrollably.

They sat looking at each other for the longest time. Then Nicholas reached
out and with his finger scraped the cooling remnants of his ejaculation
from Andre's gunshirt. He brought his finger close to Andre's mouth. "This
is me," he whispered.

Andre leaned forward and took Nicholas's finger in his mouth. He taste buds
savoured the sweetness. He sucked Nicholas's finger clean. Then he reached
down and scraped the clotted remnants of Nicholas's eruption from his pubic
hair. Once again Andre tasted the dark haired teenager. "And this is you,"
he replied, smiling shyly.

"Did it feel good, Andre?" asked Nicholas. Andre nodded slowly, then
grinned. Nicholas snickered and leaned forward to whisper, "Ten Hail
Mary's, ten Our Fathers, four Glory Be's, and a Novena to . . . Is there a
saint for masturbators?"

"Tabernac! If there is I light so many candles to him the church, it burns
down!"

They laughed quietly as they pulled off their gunshirts, turned them
around, and then put them on back to front. They zipped up the front of
their trousers and slipped on their jumpers, effectively hiding the
evidence of their bliss. Andre leaned back against the seat and sighed
happily. Nicholas looked at Andre and then leaned over and kissed his
cheek. "What we did, Andre, it was good.  I, um, I never felt so good when
I did it to myself."

"J'aussi. It was better than good, Nicholas."

Nicholas grinned. "You're not going to say anything to anybody, are you
Andre?"

Andre's face fell. "Why do you not call me petit?" he asked plaintively. "I
like it when you do."

Nicholas leaned over and gave Andre's parts a squeeze. "Maybe because
you're not so petit," he laughed quietly.

"Maybe so, Nicholas. But I like it when you call me petit. It makes me
feel, you know, special to you."

"You are. Even more so now." Nicholas could feel Andre hardening under the
fabric. "We have to be careful, petit. No one can ever know. You can't even
tell about it in Confession."

Andre reached over and returned Nicholas's gesture. He giggled and
snorted. "There are things a woman should not see. There are also things a
priest should not hear, tu comprenez, cher?"

"Je comprends, mon pas aussi peu d'Andre."

They sat quietly for a while, and then Andre spoke. "Nicholas, maybe, we
can sin again, yes?"

******

Finally, they were back. It was well past midnight when the convoy swung
off of Comox Road, trundled across the causeway and down the Spit, groaning
to a halt in front of the Headquarters Building. They were met by the Duty
Officer, Wally Higman, and Little Big Man, both of whom had been standing
Watch-On-Watch all weekend and were anxious for their relief. Dave Eddy,
still pouting from Chef's stinging rebuke, was not amused when Wally told
him he had the duty, nor was Anson when Little Big Man all but threw the
POOD armband at him.

As The Gunner, Andy and Kyle began supervising the unloading of the buses,
Ray and The Phantom went to Chef's car and helped him take the two sleeping
Makee-Learns from the back seat. "Little bastards are pretending, if you
ask me," rumbled Chef as he handed Joey to The Phantom.

"Count yourself lucky, Chef," replied The Phantom, "At least they aren't
standing by the roadway waving their dicks at the passing traffic."  Chef
chuckled and placed Randy in Ray's welcoming arms. "Put them to bed, and
get some sleep, lads. Breakfast still has to be served at 0630."

The Phantom and Ray carried the boys into their barracks, stripped them
down to their underpants and put them to bed. As he drew the coverlet over
Joey, The Phantom winked at Ray. He reached down and patted Joey's round,
firm behind. "You know, Ray, Joey's got a really nice bum."

Joey opened one eye and stuck out his tongue. "You keep feeling it and I'll
show what else I have that is really nice."  Then he grinned.

The Phantom shook his head. "You little stinker! You were pretending to be
asleep."

"Bet your ass on that, Phantom," came Randy's voice. "If we're sleeping we
ain't helping to unload the bus!"

"Well the next time you pretend to be asleep don't scrunch your faces up so
much. Its a dead give-away," said Ray. He tweaked Randy's button nose and
told him to get to sleep.

The Makee-Learns said goodnight and snuggled into their pillows and covers.

******

The buses were quickly unloaded and the cadets dispersed. Tomorrow was
another workday and the fun times were over. The Twins decided that while
the idea of a short session in their special place in the woods was
tempting, even they needed some sleep. After helping with the unloading
they went off to bed.

Harry, with Greg in tow, saw to the storing of the drums and instrument
cases in the tall ranks of metal shelving that lined the main storeroom in
the School of Wind. Although each drummer and musician was responsible for
his own instrument, Harry liked to make sure that everything was back where
it should be.

When the last drum was on its assigned shelf, and the last trumpet safely
nested with its mates, Harry turned out the storeroom lights and headed for
the doors leading to the parade square. Greg stopped him. "Harry, about
this morning," he said quietly.

Harry looked at him and shrugged. "What about this morning?"

Greg looked around. He had decided to have it out once and for all with
Harry and he did not feel like discussing their sex life in the main
corridor of the School of Wind. "Can we go someplace private?" he asked.

Harry sighed. "Greg, it's late. We both have to get up soon, I'm really not
. . ."

"I just want to talk, nothing more!" snapped Greg.

"Okay," agreed Harry. He led Greg down the corridor and into The Unwinding
Room (named in honour of the Royal Marine Band's rehearsal room on board
the Royal Yacht), a long, narrow chamber fitted with comfortable settees
and low tables. The room was the unofficial Cadet Smoking Room. They sat on
opposite sides of the room. From Greg's tone Harry knew that their
relationship was about to take a new course. "Well?" Harry asked presently.

"Harry, do you love me?" asked Greg earnestly.

Harry thought a moment, and then he nodded. "Yes, I do." He held up his
hand. "But not the way you think. He leaned forward and rubbed his hand
through his hair. Then he looked directly at Greg. "I love you, Greg,
yes. I love you for the warmth I feel when we're together. I love you for
the goofy grin you get on your face when you're trying to figure out if I
am serious or just pulling your pisser. I love you for your friendship. I
love you for the way you treat the young kids. I love you for so many
different reasons."

"Not the least being the way I suck your cock!" Greg glared at Harry. "As a
summer fuck I'm pretty good at that, aren't I?"

Harry ignored Greg's crudity. "Greg, the sex between us, the things we did
together, yes, I enjoyed them. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't. Please
believe me, Greg, I enjoy being with you." He was very calm. He had no
desire to hurt Greg, but Greg had to be made to understand that their
relationship was not going to be what he wanted it to be. "Greg, you want
me to give you something I can't give you.  You want me to feel something I
cannot feel."

"In other words, I'm not Stefan!" Greg snorted. "I'm good enough to suck
your dick but I'm not good enough for anything else!"

"Greg, please be reasonable. I never, ever, said that I felt about you the
way I feel about Stefan. I never, ever, made a move toward you. Until we
slept together in Victoria I never expected that we would end up doing the
things we did. From that day in Powell River until that night we first
slept together you refused to even think about having sex with me. You were
the one who protested, over and over again, that you would never be a
queer."

Greg squirmed uneasily. The truth was sometimes hard to take. "I didn't
notice you saying no," he replied coolly.

Harry smiled sadly. "It felt good, it really did."

"But not so good as when Stefan did it to you!"

Harry's fists tightened. He did not lose his temper, but his anger was
rising. "Stefan has nothing to do with us, Greg. What is between him and me
is between him and me. What is between you and me is between us."

"The only thing between you and me is Stefan!" Greg laid his head against
the back of the settee. "Cory warned me, you warned me. Shit, I told myself
that I could make you change the way you feel about Stefan. But I can't,
can I?"

"No, Greg, you can't."

"Even though you know he's only a 13-year-old kid? How the fuck can a
13-year-old kid know what he wants or what he feels? For all you know the
first thing he did when he got home was to latch on to some other guy. For
all you know, you were just his summer fuck!" The look on Harry's face told
Greg that he had crossed the line.

Very slowly Harry stood up. There was sadness in his eyes. "Greg, I was
willing to love you, in my own way. I was willing to hold you and be your
friend. I have never pretended to be in love with you, and I have never
lied to you about the way I feel about Stefan. He's young, yes, but he
knows what he wants when it comes to him and me. I know how he feels about
me. And I know how he feels about other guys. I talked to him the night
before we went to Victoria. There are no other guys. He has never touched
another guy, and he never will."

"Oh, so you're psychic, now?" asked Greg, his words dripping with venom.

"In a way, yes." Harry touched his heart. "When you are deeply, deeply in
love with someone and he is just as deeply in love with you, you know,
here, in your heart. You know that just as your love for him will never
die, his love for you will never die, will never be compromised." He walked
to the door and opened it. He turned and looked at Greg. "My one wish for
you, Greg, is that one day you feel for someone the way I feel for Stefan."
He reached toward the light switch.  "We're finished, then," replied Greg,
his face stony. It was a statement, not a question.

Harry nodded and turned out the lights.

******

Anson glanced at his watch and sighed quietly. He was sitting behind the
narrow counter that divided the room into a small waiting area and the
Guard Room. He yawned, and then unconsciously scratched his parts. 0230,
and no relief in sight until 0345, when the Morning Watchmen came on
duty. Being Duty Petty Officer sucked big time.

Rising from the desk, Anson wandered over to the Officer of the Day's desk
where he glanced through the Shake Book. No one had requested a wake up
call before 0330, when he had to go and shake the cooks. The Night Order
Book contained nothing out of the ordinary. Anson returned to his seat by
the counter, reached into the drawer where the Duty Hands kept their
"reading material" and pulled out the latest skin book making the
rounds. He opened the magazine to the centrefold and held it open, frankly
admiring the photograph of a big, busty brunette. She wasn't bad, except
that her pussy was shaven and the lips of her vagina hung down, which
caused Anson to grimace. Some guys might get off on some girl's gunga
hanging down, but he did not. Anson's slavering was interrupted by an
explosive laugh from one corner of the room where Tim and Gordy, the two
Duty Hands, were playing cards and smoking cigarettes. Ordinarily cadets
were not allowed to smoke at all, but Sub-Lieutenant Eddy, the Duty
Officer, was snoring away in the Duty Officer's cabin and what he didn't
know wouldn't hurt him.

Anson was bored, even with the skin book. A cunt was a cunt, and unless the
body surrounding it was really something, looking at pussy pictures paled
after awhile. Besides, he usually popped a bone, and the more he looked the
hornier he got, which meant that he'd have to nip into the heads and take
care of business. "Jesus," he thought as he put the book away in its hiding
place, "I sure wish that guy would come back."

Anson remembered his first real blow job as if it were yesterday, so much
so that he jacked off almost every night thinking about it. In all his 15
years he had never felt anything like the feelings he felt that night as
his thick boner was sucked into that warm, moist mouth, and when he shot
his wad he had all but passed out from the intensity of it. Shit, he was
rock hard from just thinking about it. Which had never happened to him
after his first, disastrous, attempt with his then girlfriend who, being a
good Catholic girl, had allowed only so much intimacy, and fucking her,
which is what he had wanted to do from the get go, was not on the cards. He
had managed, by whining, pleading, begging, and swearing that it was not a
sin at all, to con her into taking his dick in her mouth, which had felt
great. At least he thought it had been great, not having anything to
compare the experience to. Now he knew better, thanks to that one visit in
the middle of the night.

He reached into his bells and shoved his hand under the elastic band of his
briefs and adjusted his thick, throbbing, seven inches, hoping that the
other two cadets were too involved in their stupid card game to notice what
he was doing. What intrigued Anson, and really set his dick to throbbing,
was his comparison of the two blow jobs. One blow job really since the
first one hardly counted, seeing as how he hadn't cum, and she'd only taken
the head of his dick in her mouth, and hadn't really sucked on it at
all. What she had done was scrape his dick with her teeth, and squeezed his
balls so hard that they swelled the next day, and she had bitten him!
"Bitch," he muttered unkindly under his breath.

Anson instantly regretted the epithet. It really wasn't her fault. He'd
gotten so carried away with what she was doing to him that at the moment of
truth he had tried shoving every inch of his hard dick down her throat,
which caused her to gag and pull on his balls and to bite him. He'd been so
sore that he hadn't been able to beat off for a week! At least she hadn't
blabbed it all over the school!

The guy now - and it had been a guy, Anson was sure of that - had sucked
him from root to helmet and done things to his dick that he never thought
possible, and his orgasm had been so massive he'd sworn he'd almost died
from the pleasure. And the guy had swallowed, which at first had grossed
Anson out. Until that night, a few days later, when, after masturbating,
and thinking about getting sucked off, and cumming a monster load in his
briefs, Anson had reached down and idly rubbed his still warm cum,
massaging it into his skin. Sighing with the contentment that comes from a
really good wank, he had lifted his fingers to his lips. His tongue had
flashed out and before he really knew it he was eating his own thick juice.

Up to that point Anson had thought that he was like most other guys, and
like most guys even thinking about actually eating cum was repugnant to
him. However, once he'd tasted the salty-sweetness of the fluids his body
produced, he had changed his mind. It wasn't all that bad, really. In fact,
it was pretty good; so much so that he had licked his fingers clean almost
every time he beat off. He groaned quietly. Enough was enough. Every time
he moved and squirmed the fabric of his underpants rubbed against the
screamingly sensitive underside of his helmet and he was afraid he'd pop
his puppy right where he was sitting. And just thinking about that night,
when his dick had been licked and sucked outside his underpants, and when
the guy had put his mouth over the top of his dick . . .

Anson had to leave. If he didn't beat off, like right fucking now, he'd
explode. He quickly adjusted his throbbing stiffy and headed for the
door. "Off to do Rounds," he called out hurriedly as he walked out the door
and into the night.

All but running across the road and into the shadows cast by the looming
bulk of the Mess Hall, Anson hurried around the corner of the Mess Hall and
quickly unzipped, pulling his throbbing, leaking erection from his pants,
spat on his hand and rubbed his spit-coated fingers around the tip of his
dick. His large, mushroom-shaped head was deep red and engorged with
blood. With his thumb he rubbed the tight surface of his helmet and with
his forefinger the small bit of scar tissue just under the curve of his
crown.

Almost immediately his dick began to spasm and Anson felt his cum-laden
balls tighten, readying the explosion that soon overwhelmed him. His eyes
rolled back and he groaned loudly. He thrust his hips forward, fucking the
air as a huge stream of his thick cream blasted out of his distended piss
slit and onto the gravel pathway. Three more equally huge jets squirted
outward from Anson's dick, and then, as his balls began to empty, the force
of his ejaculation diminished and small streams of cum oozed down his
fingers and over the back of his hand. He leaned against the wall and
continued to squeeze and pump his heated organ, until only the smallest of
drops oozed out. Breathing harshly, his face contorted with the
indescribable pleasure he had just visited on himself, he lifted his hand
and slowly licked it clean, savouring every drop of his juice.

When his breathing returned to normal, or at least as normal as it was ever
going to be after that orgasm, Anson stuffed his shrinking dick into his
pants and hurried into the Cooks Barracks. He went immediately into the
wash place and cleaned his hands and the front of his bell-bottoms with a
wet paper towel. He splashed some water over his face and then looked at
himself in the mirror. His normal, pink, healthy complexioned face was
splotched and flushed. "Jesus," he thought with a grin, "that was almost as
good as when the guy did me."

Reaching down, Anson felt his inflamed balls through his trousers. "I have
got to get me girl," he decided as he massaged himself into another massive
erection. Then he thought, "No, fuck buddy." He breathed into the night and
whispered, "A fuck buddy, a buddy who would . . ."

Anson began squeezing his hard, slick penis rhythmically. "Yeah," he
thought, "a fuck buddy who would do to him what the guy who had come in the
night had done!"  He whimpered with pleasure as his penis throbbed and the
tingling feeling began to swell from his groin.

As he manipulated his throbbing erection Anson asked himself where in hell
would he find a guy like the one who had done such wonderful things to him
that the memories of that night were engraved in his brain? Where would he
find another guy who could lick and suck his dick through his Hanes and
send him soaring through the ether and make him feel like fireworks were
exploding in his drawers? Was there another guy out there who could cause
his dick to swell so much that it popped out of the front of his briefs?
Could there be another guy who could suck on the head of his dick so hard
that he came like a racehorse?

"A fuck buddy," Anson thought again. "Yeah, a fuck buddy just like that
guy. A fuck buddy who can make me have an orgasm so powerful that I just
have to look down to make sure that there isn't a mushroom cloud rising
above my crotch. A fuck buddy who is so good that when he leaves my dick
will stay so hard I'll have to jerk off twice more before the damn thing
will go back to sleep. A fuck buddy who . . ."

"God damn, God Damn!" Anson muttered angrily. He was hard again and he
could feel his erection pressing firmly against the fabric of his
underwear. He left off squeezing himself and splashed more cold water on
his face. "I have got to stop thinking this way.  Shit, I have Rounds to
do!"

Cold water did nothing for him. Anson's dick refused to go down so he
opened the front of his trousers and pulled down his briefs. Standing on
his toes Anson pushed his dick down until the head was pointing into the
sink. Breathing heavily he closed his eyes and began to masturbate
furiously, pumping madly and within minutes a shock wave of delight set his
body to trembling. Grunting, he blew a massive load into the sink, biting
his lip to keep from crying out as four thick, successive streams of his
thick cream splattered across the porcelain.

******

When he had finished cumming Anson cleaned first his dick, then washed his
semen down the drain of the sink. "Gosh, I sure hope nobody heard me," he
thought as he hurried from the washplace and into the barracks. He moved
his flashlight, which was fitted with a red plastic lens, around the
sleeping area, and when he saw that nobody was staring back at him,
grinning, Anson breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was normal and the
cadets were all sound asleep.

As he stood there, listening and watching, Anson wondered if this Mess was
anything like his own when the lights went out, with half the guys trying
hard not to listen to the other half trying hard not to make any noise as
they jerked off!

Anson had to smile at the thought of what really went on in the dark. After
the guys had stopped coughing, grunting, groaning and farting, and settled
down, would come the soft, rhythmic rustle of sheets and the barely audible
heavy breathing as guys who thought they were masters of the silent jerk
off took care of business. To be fair, Anson was one of them, and he always
put his pillow over his head. It helped to muffle his groans when he came.

Shit, everybody did it, even the younger guys, who didn't have to take a
shot mat, or a towel or an old sock to bed with him because they weren't
old enough to squirt anything yet.

The red tinted light passed over the sleeping Ray, who was bundled up, with
just the top of his head showing above the covers. Anson wondered if Ray
might . . . Then he dismissed the thought. Ray was a nice guy, very quiet,
but didn't seem to be the type to fuck around with a guy. Not that Anson
knew what that type was. You could never tell, as he had learned one night
back home when his brother's team-mates (football, what else?) had held a
celebratory beer bash and sleep over after winning the Provincial High
School Championships.

They were all such jocks, his brother Phillip, called The Assistant,
included. Always bragging about how big their dicks were, even when they
all knew that not one of them could muster over seven inches, although
Phillip's was as thick as a good-sized cucumber. To hear them talk they all
had ten inches, minimum, and balls as big as tennis balls. And they were
always crowing and going on about which chick they'd fucked, or wanted to
fuck, and how they could always tell when some other guy was queer. His
brother's best friend, a jerk named Duncan claimed to have anti-fag
"gaydar" and hooted that he could tell a fag from a hundred yards on a
rainy day.

Anson snorted. There must have been a major systems failure, or else how
come, after boozing the night away and watching porno flicks that Mikey
Dorion had filched from his father's stash, how come Duncan had ended up
stretched out on the living room floor with his Jockeys around his ankles
and his dick in Kip Massinger's mouth? Sometimes it paid to sleep on the
couch.

Jocks could be such assholes! "Anti-fag gaydar!" thought Anson. "What a
crock of shit!" As if he needed anything like that around here. All you had
to do was keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Everybody knew about the
Twins. Not as well known was Harry's passion for Stefan. Even less known
was that Brian and Dylan were getting it on together. Anson had seen them
together. He'd seen them, long after Lights Out, after some sort of an
argument, when Brian had pulled down the front of Dylan's briefs and sucked
him off. He hadn't said anything, and pretended to be asleep. What they did
was their business, the lucky sods!

A couple of times after that, when he'd been on duty, and done early
Rounds, Brian's and Dylan's bunks had been empty. Well, at least they were
discreet and didn't flaunt what they were doing. Which was okay. At least
the two biggest jerks on board didn't know anything about what Brian and
Dylan were up to. Two Strokes wasn't too bad. He had actually calmed down
quite a bit since that sailing trip, and hadn't cracked off too much with
his anti-gay remarks.  If there was anybody they had to worry about it was
Little Big Man, the little fuck. That little bastard was trouble from the
word go.

Anson's light passed over the sleeping Randy, who was lying on his side,
hugging his pillow, in his own bed for a change, and not in Joey's bunk,
all cuddled up with his friend, their arms entwined and heads touching.

In a way Anson envied the two Makee-Learns. They were closer than brothers,
really, and sometimes it was nice to just cuddle up to someone you
loved. He'd slept with his brother, Phillip, when they were in Victoria,
but they had both stayed well on their own side of the bed. Not like when
they were little, when they used to sleep together, and laugh and giggle
half the night, or at least until their mother yelled at them to settle
down and GO TO SLEEP!

Anson wondered if Phillip and Mike ever fooled around. They did just about
everything else together. They were tight, but Anson thought that they were
more interested in their silly body building and working out routines than
fooling around. It was too bad, because actually Phillip had a pretty nice
dick. He was smaller than Anson (who, by actual measurement was 7 1/4
inches, hard), and not nearly as thick, but his six-inch dick was smooth,
and curved, sort of like a banana, which always made Anson snicker when he
thought of it. His own woody stood up straight and true, and he could cause
it to bounce up and down when he flexed his ass cheeks which, when combined
with the length and thickness of his prize rosy-headed bone, had been quite
a show stopper last year when he did QUEST.

Anson glanced over at Joey, who was lying on his back, his face grimacing
and his hands clutching at his sheets. "Poor little bugger," thought Anson,
"It looks like he's having a bad dream. But then at times this place would
give the Devil nightmares."

******

Joey was dreaming. He was not having a nightmare or a bad dream. He was
dreaming things that many boys on the cusp of puberty dreamed about. He was
standing on the parade square. Joey could tell it was the parade square,
because Val was out there yelling drill orders at all the guys. In the
background he could see the Headquarters Building. The Band was there too,
marching up and down and making a lot of noise. The funny thing was, nobody
had any clothes on and their willies and their balls were bouncing in time
to the music, and what was Greg doing up there? Harry, who had a really
nice willy, which was fucking HUGE, and sticking straight out and dripping
something, had his arm straight up in the air, holding Greg, who was
spinning around and around, which Joey thought looked like fun, though he
didn't think letting Harry hold his willy and spin him around, like he was
doing to Greg, would be all that much fun. But if it wasn't fun why was
Greg grinning like that?

In his deep subconscious Joey's brain took him around and around the hugely
colourful parade square, whirling and turning. He heard Randy's high
pitched giggle and stopped. Jeez, what was Randy doing like that? Randy was
on his hands and knees, with his bum stuck in the air, which was really
funny 'cause Randy was all brown, except for his bum, which was really
white and, my goodness, why is Ray kneeling behind Randy like that? Why is
Randy making those sounds, like a cat, mewling and growling? Oh, I
see. Jeez, Ray's got a long tongue, and red too! Oh, he's licking Randy's
bum! Gross! But if that was gross how come was Randy squirming and
whimpering, and giggling, as Ray's tongue, like a long snake, slurped up
and down his bum crack?

He heard moaning and turned. Hey, there were Todd and Cory. Jeez, they
don't have any clothes on and hey, look at Todd's dick! Gosh it's big and
look at the way it sticks straight out and . . . it's DRIPPING STUFF! And
why was Cory sitting on Todd's shoulders that way? They weren't going to
win a water fight with Cory sitting facing his brother that way and
. . .oh, Todd was holding Cory really tight and Cory was pushing his bum in
an out and OH LORDY! Cory's willy! Cory's willy was in Todd's mouth! And
Todd was sucking on it like it was a big straw in a can of Coke and . . ."

Hey, something's happening . . . Hey, my willy is really hard and . . . Oh,
that feels sooo goood, and Jeez, I think something is going on and
. . . hey, Phantom why is my willy so big and in your mouth like that
. . . Oh, my, don't stop, 'cause that really, really feels sooo goood and
hey, what . . . oh, look out Phantom, something's gonna come out of my
. . .

****** Joey awoke with a start, his body rigid. He was gripping his pillow,
his hips pushed so far forward he thought his back was going to break. He
could feel his willy jerking and oh, the feeling that he was feeling was
like all the good things that had ever happened to him were all jumbled
together like one big GIGANTIC fun time and, oh, Jesus, Jesus MURPHY! He
felt the warm wetness and the stickiness, but could not stop his pumping.
God it felt so goood, please God, don't let it stop . . .

Breathing rapidly, in short, raspy pants, Joey finally felt the head of his
willy screaming at him to STOP, and he slowed, then lay there, grunting
happily. He was wide-eyed now, covered in sweat, and, gosh, his body was
hot. He rolled onto his back and wiped his hand across his forehead. Then
he reached down and pushed his hands into his briefs. His willy was still a
little hard, and slimy, and sticky and . . . and . . . Joey sat up sharply
and banged his head against the bunk above him. "Fuck!" he swore, and then
he tossed his covers aside. He opened the front of his briefs and peered
in. "Yep," he thought, "it's wet.  And the tip is all shiny." He reached in
and ran his finger along the top of his bright red helmet, which caused him
to yelp and wince. "Jeez, that's nice, but jeez, it hurts."

And what a mess! There was white stuff in his pubies, which was okay,
'cause he didn't have all that much down there anyway, but more than Randy,
who only had a few scraggly ones and . . . Joey lifted his hand and sniffed
the thick glob on his fingertip. He wasn't all that sure just what had
happened to him, or what was on his fingertip, but his tongue inched slowly
out of his mouth and licked the tip of his finger. "Wow!" he muttered in
amazement. "Wow!"

Then Joey realized what had just happened to him. He quickly forgot that he
had just tasted his own juice and reached over. He shook Randy
violently. "Randy, wake up!" he whispered fiercely. "Randy, come on, I just
cummed!"

Randy shook off Joey's shaking hand and struggled awake. "What's the
matter? Is the place on fire?" he asked sleepily. "It better be, Joey,
'cause . . ."

"No, Randy, I just cummed," interrupted Joey as he shook his friend again.

"Wha . . .?"

Joey stood up and thrust his crotch in Randy's face. "Look, I cummed! I
squirted!"

Randy quickly drew his head back, then leaned forward and sniffed
loudly. "Smells funny," he said. He reached up and touched the front of
Joey's underpants. Joey's extremely sensitive dick jerked under Randy's
touch. Randy snatched his finger back. "You're all wet."

"Of course I am! I cummed. Look!"  Joey pulled down the front of his briefs
and proudly displayed the evidence of his first ejaculation. "I got it in
my pubies, and my willy is all sticky."

Randy reached out and touched the circumcised head of Joey's semi-hard
penis. "It sure is, and it's warm." He watched as Joey's semi grew into a
full-blown boner. Somehow it seemed bigger and thicker than it had been the
morning before. Looking at Joey's willy getting stiff caused his own penis
to tingle and harden. He ran his finger down the underside of Joey's
stiffy, which was sticking straight out and up from his friend's
body. "It's warm all the way down to your balls. And slimy."

Randy's stroking finger felt so good that as it passed up and down his
silky skinned penis Joey pushed his hips forward and groaned. Then he
looked down at his grinning friend. "Wanna cuddle?"

Randy nodded, and pulled back the covers. "Yeah."

******

"Bloody," thought Mike Sunderland, the Chief PTI. "The whole fucking world
is in a bloody, mean, miserable, cocksucker of a mood!" He looked around
him and shook his head at the sight he was confronted with. Before him
stood 182 of the surliest, most ornery, BLOODIEST cadets ever born!

Behind him stood Andy, Kyle and Dirty Dave the Deacon, none of whom seemed
to be in any better mood than the cadets. Off to port stood the Senior
Staff Cadets, and a big help they were, too, sniffed Mike. Tyler looked
like he was constipated. Val was listless and out of sorts, looking like
he'd just been told that he had a dose. Nicholas was a million miles away,
with a goofy look on his face. He was also constantly rubbing the front of
his shorts!

"God Damn!" Mike cursed for at least the thousandth time over taking this
fucking job. He wondered just what the fuck he was doing, standing in the
middle of a dusty patch of hard packed dirt, with a fucking Sirocco blowing
up his shorts, with the Master at Arms and Cadet Chief Gunner Instructor
mooching around, looking as if they were suffering from massive hangovers
(they were, having killed one of the last two bottles of Val's grappa),
while the fucking Yeoman of Signals was busily giving himself a hand wipe
and dreaming about getting laid (he didn't have to dream. Andre had come
into the Flag Locker to "help him put away the flags" and they had sinned -
twice).

In front of the Sea Puppies Harry, who could almost always be counted on to
keep the pot boiling, and at least to be good for a laugh, was quiet and
subdued with a face on him one usually associated with funerals.

The Twins were looking daggers at each other, always a sure sign that
they'd had a tiff (they had, Cory having taken exception to Todd accusing
him of stealing his last pair of clean boxers), while Thumper, usually one
of the happiest little fuckers in the world, was in a pet about something
(a most justifiable pet, so far as Thumper was concerned, since his wanking
routine had been disrupted, not once but twice! First by Greg, who had
crashed and banged around the Gunroom half the night, then this morning by
The Twins).

Mike sighed unhappily. About the only two cadets not suffering some form of
distemper were Andre, who was grinning and blushing happily away in the
Band Platoon, and Mal, who was a half-fucked diver and acted as if he was
zonked out on nitrogen. He realized that this was unfair. Mal was a good
friend, most of the time. Hell, they worked out together. He liked Mal,
although after the weekend in Victoria he was determined never to share the
same bed with Mal again. Mal was a restless sleeper. He tossed, he turned,
he moaned, he groaned. When he wasn't huffing, shuffling or snorting, he
was farting. It was like sharing the bed with the switch engine down in the
railroad yards back home.

Mike realized that everybody was tired, with very few of them having had
more than four or five hours sleep last night. He knew that he was
frustrated as all get out, so he expected that there was a whole shit
locker full of cadets who were just as frustrated as he was. Even Phillip,
called The Assistant, had bitched about being hornier than a two-peckered
owl.

Mike stared at the cadets (who stared back) and noted that there were a few
unfriendly faces missing. Greg, who usually stuck so close to Harry that
they seemed to be joined at the hip, was missing. He was a Day Man and
should have been on parade. Little Big Man was also among the ranks of the
missing, which meant that he was grabbing an unauthorized Guard and
Steerage. Anson too, was not on parade, as he had stood the Mids and was
authorized a Guard and Steerage. Brian and Dylan were not with the Gunners
(which was not surprising seeing as how they were, at the moment,
scrambling around The Gunner's office, where they had spent the night
together, looking for their pants). David represented the Supply
Department. Rob and Ryan, who should have been on parade, were nowhere in
sight (they were spooned together, in a most compromising position, in
Linen Stores, sound asleep).

All in all Mike was definitely not a happy Chief Physical Training
Instructor. Nobody gave a fuck if they did their morning routine or not,
and it was obvious that most, if not all of the cadets on parade would have
much preferred to be in their beds. Which was not going to happen. The
course outlines clearly stated morning exercise and morning exercise they
would have.

With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm the morning routine began. Rather than
beg, yell, cajole, scream or pout, Mike was content if most of the troops
at least went through the motions, which the troops did with as ill a grace
as possible and with a maximum of grumbling and complaining. When the last
exercise was mercifully over, Mike turned the parade over to The Assistant
and stomped off to his office in the Drill Shed.

The office was a spare, oblong cabin furnished with a desk, two chairs, and
two lockers, where he and The Assistant stowed their extra clothes. It was
a bleak, windowless chamber that smelled like a locker room. No matter. The
cabin was a private space in a place where private spaces were valued more
than rubies and fine gold.

There were other advantages. The door could be locked from the inside and
there was a shower attached, which meant that the PTI staff could shower
whenever they felt the need and, at least in his case, he did not have to
suffer the slings and arrows of derision about the size of his parts, which
happened every time he showered in the Gunroom washplace.

Mike sat behind the desk and looked despairingly at the pile of Cadet Trade
Qualification books that covered most of the desk. Each and every cadet,
from the Master at Arms down to the newest Sea Puppy, whether on course or
not, if he did not bring such a book with him, was issued one when he did
his In Routine. Each book was printed with a series of neatly printed and
lettered squares, each square representing a part of the Trade
training. Each square had to be initialled and certified to show that the
owner of the book had actually completed the training. Each cadet, as part
of his training, was required to participate in physical training exercises
and it was Mike's job to certify that they had swum the required laps,
performed the required number of push ups and knee bends, and managed to do
the mile-and-a-half run in the time allotted without dropping dead from
exhaustion.

Mike loathed the task. When all was said and done he would sign his name to
upwards of a thousand books by the time the Training Year ended. He could
have delegated most of the work to Phillip, but only if the holder of the
book was subordinate in rank to him. This would have worked out well if
Phillip had not been such a fucking jock and given to whining whenever he
had to do some paperwork. Rather than listen to him, Mike signed all the
books.

His stomach grumbled, telling him that it was breakfast time. This was, as
far as Mike was concerned, another pain in the ass. If he wanted to eat
breakfast he had to change into the rig of the day as sports gear was not
allowed in the Mess Hall. He stood up and walked to his locker where he
began stripping off. He sighed with relief as he pulled his jock down. Mike
hated wearing it. The straps chafed his inner thighs, and he felt foolish
wearing it. Given the size of his genitals he hardly needed a jock. The
only reason he wore the damn thing was because Queen's Regulations for
Cadets said he had to.

Mike rummaged in his locker and found the can of talcum powder. He shook a
generous portion of the powder onto his hand and then rubbed it into the
raw flesh between his legs. Then he examined the stubby growth of hairs on
his upper lip. His new 'tache was coming along nicely. Now, if only his
dick would grow a few more inches . . .

The door opened and The Assistant entered.

******

Phillip, called The Assistant, grinned. Mike was an okay guy and now that
he'd gotten rid of those silly posing straps and had stopped shaving
various and sundry body parts, he was actually starting to look
human. Phillip sat in the chair in front of the desk and bent down to untie
his sneakers. That done he pulled his sneakers off his feet, kicked them
aside and began taking off his clothes. He looked at Mike who was
scrunching up his face and looking in the mirror, probably wondering what
he would look like when his moustache grew in. Mike saw him
looking. "What's so funny?" he asked. "Don't think I can grow it?"

"Don't see why not," replied Phillip as he dropped his shorts and pushed
down his jock. Like the Chief PTI, he was not wearing underwear. His thick,
deep pink and tan penis hung softly over his large oval testicles. He did
not fail to notice the quick once over Mike gave him and returned the
inspection. Mike was small, but perfectly formed. The mushroomed shaped
knob of Mike's penis curved gently and was just slightly larger that the
thick shaft.  As he reached down to unconsciously tweak the knob of his own
penis Phillip said, "You've stopped shaving!" He indicated with a nod of
his head the sparse patch of dark brown pubic hair growing around and above
Mike's dick.

Mike chuckled and scratched his pubic bush. "Yes, I did. I thought this
fucking bush of mine would never stop itching once I stopped shaving it."
He pulled down on his penis and looked at his public bush. "It looks better
this way, I think."

Phillip nodded, sat down in the chair and spread his legs. He reached down
and began fingering the rosy pink head of his dick. Mike gulped as he saw
Phillip's soft dick thicken and rise and he could feel his own dick
stirring.

Mike continued to examine his face in the mirror, pretending to be looking
for zits, his eyes riveted on Phillip's crotch. He had seen Phillip naked
on a hundred occasions, and had never given the sight a second thought. But
now, somehow, Phillip was . . . hot!

Phillip stood up, his now fully erect dick jutting at an upward angle from
his body. He walked to where Mike was standing and slipped his arms around
Mike, nesting his hardon in the crack of Mike's tight, round butt.

Mike jumped as Phillip began fondling and pinching his nipples. He stared
into the mirror and saw Phillip staring back at him. Phillip smiled and
bent his head. He gave Mike's broad shoulder a long, wet lick. Mike could
not believe what was happening. Phillip was putting the make on him! "Phil
. . . um . . .

Phillip, what are you . . ." He groaned as Phillip's fingers began rubbing
his nipples.

"I like guys, Mike. I like them a lot," murmured Phillip as he moved his
hands south. "And so do you." He began stroking Mike's small hardon.

Mike shivered with desire as Phillip's warm hands caressed him. He began to
stammer a denial.

"No, Mike," murmured Phillip. "You like boys. You love getting your dick
sucked and I love sucking dick."

"Phillip . . ."

"I saw you, Mike," whispered Phillip. "I saw you when that guy came into
the Mess. I heard you." Phillip's voice was low, and full of passion.

The colour drained from Mike's face. "You saw us when we . . .?"

Phillip nodded and kissed the nape of Mike's neck. "And heard you beg for
more."

Mike could feel a sticky wetness dribbling down the crack of his ass and he
groaned as Phillip rubbed his thick, hard penis up and down. "Feel good?"
asked Phillip in a deep whisper. Mike nodded. Phillip nuzzled Mike's neck
and his hands again found Mike's small hardon. "Turn around," he directed.

They stood face to face and Phillip kissed Mike's lips. He reached around
and his hands began kneading and pulling on Mike's muscular buttocks. Their
crotches met and they began grinding their cocks together. Phillip
giggled. "What's so funny?" asked Mike defensively.

"Your stubble. It tickles," replied Phillip referring to the new-grown hair
around Mike's dick. "I'd better be careful. If I keep this up I'll blow my
load and I don't want to do that yet."

Mike loved the feelings that were racing through him. He buried his head in
the curve of Phillip's shoulders and began sucking gently. "Why me?" he
asked between kisses.

"Do you want to ask questions or do you want to fuck?"

Mike stopped his kissing, shocked at Phillip's blatant sexuality. "Fuck?"

Phillip grinned and nodded. "Sure. I also like to fuck and be fucked."

Mike's jaw dropped. "You've fucked a guy?" he asked incredulously. "A guy's
fucked you? But, Phillip, you, p . . . p . . . you play football!"

Phillip laughed so hard he lost his hardon. He sat down in the chair, his
legs akimbo, shaking his head at Mike. "Playing football and being gay are
not mutually exclusive," he said when he had calmed down. "Just because a
guy plays football it does not mean that he doesn't like to fuck and suck."
He beckoned Mike closer. "Shit, Mike, half the guys on my team would rather
fool around with each other than some skinny cheerleader." He began sucking
Mike's dick. Mike began moaning and his hips thrust in and out of Phillip's
sucking mouth. He was very close to the edge when Phillip took his mouth
away. "Not yet," murmured Phillip. He stood up and embraced Mike.

******

Andy and Kyle walked slowly across the parade square toward the Wardroom
and as they neared the entrance Andy stripped off his tee and rubbed his
chest and armpits. "These morning exercises are getting to be too
much. I'll be glad when September comes and I'll hopefully just be a lazy
freshman."

"I already am a lazy college dude," grinned Kyle. "I am also looking
forward to September. At least then I can sleep until oh, eight or nine."

They entered the Wardroom, avoiding the lounge where Dave Eddy was sitting
and staring morosely into the unlit fireplace. Last night their hopes for a
quiet drink before bed had been shattered by Dave's bleating and moaning,
not only over what had happened to him in the pool, but also about what
Chef had suggested he do. Rather than listen to him moan they had gone to
bed where they had made love and fallen asleep in each other's arms.

In their room they began getting ready for their day. They chatted about
nothing, avoiding a subject they both knew was ultimately
unavoidable. Their determination to talk the night before had been replaced
by slow, wonderful, sex. Andy knew that they had to talk. His time at
AURORA was limited, and would end the day after the final parade, which was
not all that far off. He would return to Seattle and Kyle would go home, to
Kingston, and Queen's University. He watched as Kyle carelessly pulled the
covers off the bed that he was supposed to be sleeping in. This had been
part of their morning ritual, as commonplace as taking a shower and
shaving, and kept the maids from asking any embarrassing questions as to
why, if there were two officers in the cabin, only one bed was slept
in. "Kyle, leave that and sit down for a minute," he asked.

"The last time you asked me to sit down you jumped me." Kyle grinned and
sat down.

"I didn't hear you screaming rape," retorted Andy. "While I do want your
body I think we should get something settled."

"Yeah? What?" Kyle stirred uneasily. He knew what Andy was getting at and
dreaded the answers he would give to Andy's questions.

"Us.  Our future. That's if we have a future."

"We'll miss breakfast and I really don't want to talk about it right now."
Kyle stood up and began looking for a clean shirt. "I want us to have a
future, Andy, but . . ."

"The inevitable but," groaned Andy. He lay back and stared at the deckhead.

Kyle sat on his own bed and looked at Andy. "I love you, Andy, you know
that. I want us to be together, always. But we have to be realistic. It's
not going to happen."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it!" Andy said harshly. "You just
cannot say in one breath that you love me and want to be with me always and
in the next tell me it's not going to happen." He sat up and stared angrily
at Kyle.

Kyle stared back. He felt very sad and hated what he was about to
do. "Andy, you're right, we have to talk. Now is as good a time as any."
Kyle ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. "Andy, I have three
more years before I finish university. You haven't even started. You want a
career in the Marines, a service that just happens to be the most
homophobic of all the U.S. Services. If you get caught living with me, in a
homosexual relationship, I get deported, shipped home to Canada. You get
court-martialled and sent to some dismal Navy prison, and I can imagine how
you'd be treated!"

"I'm willing to risk that, Kyle," snapped Andy. "And I do not have to join
the Marines, and who said anything about a career?"

"Andy, every time you talk about the Marines it's like your saying Mass!
You're so intense and sooner or later you're going to realize that the
Marines are where you want to be. I see it in your eyes and I hear it in
your voice."

"Maybe I do," replied Andy with reluctance. "But if it means losing you
. . ."

"Andy, do not ever lay that shit on me! You haven't lost me but you will if
you say one more word about not joining the Marines. I'll move into Cabin 5
and you can spend the rest of your time here beating off to whatever
fantasy you can dream up."

"Kyle, I . . ." he looked at Kyle pleadingly.

Kyle shook his head. "Andy, sooner or later we have to face the fact that
what we want to do is not on the cards. Are you prepared to tell your folks
that you're gay? I sure as hell can't tell my folks! Your career will take
you all over the world. Where does that leave me? I just can't show up
outside the gates of some barracks and announce that I'm your live-in
lover!" He moved to Andy's bed and ran his hand along Andy's bare leg. "I
love you, Andy, and I don't want to lose you. But I have to make my own way
in the world. I want, no, I am, going to stay with the Sea Cadets until I
leave Queen's. I love them and I won't desert them."

Andy could feel Kyle's hand moving slowly upward. "I don't want you to
leave the cadets. I know how much they mean to you."

"We both have to look at the future, Andy. You won't leave the States, will
you?"

"No. I can't. I need my VA benefits and the ROTC pay just to get through
college. After that, I'm going to have to give back four or five years of
service."

"With the option of staying in and making it a lifetime career?"

Andy sighed and nodded. "Yes. It's what I want. America is my home, Kyle."

"And Canada is mine." Kyle stopped molesting Andy and lay down beside
him. "I want you, Andy, and I always will. I want to make a life with you,
but it's not possible. We're two gay men who love each other and in both
our countries what we do when we make love is illegal. What we want we
cannot have, not in that world outside."

They embraced and kissed. "We better stop, or you know what is going to
happen, Kyle," said Andy when they parted.

"I want it to happen, Andy," murmured Kyle. "I want it to happen every
day. I want you near me always."

"But it's not to be." Andy's embrace was strong.

"In the future, no, but in the here, in the now, in this room, yes. We can
be ourselves, we can love each other."

****** "Oh, my sweet God!" exclaimed Mike as he rolled off of Phillip's
sweat-slicked body. They lay side by side on top of the desk where Mike had
just spent all of two minutes fucking his brains out, pounding Phillip's
ass, climaxing in an orgasm so thunderous that his balls ached. Turning his
head Mike looked at Phillip, who was breathing steadily, with his eyes
closed and a smug, satisfied smile on his face.

Lying beside Phillip, his body flushed with the afterglow of his first true
sexual experience, Mike was at a loss as to what he should do next. He
rolled on his side, raised himself on his left elbow and with the tips of
the fingers on his right hand traced the outline of Phillip's
profile. Phillip opened his eyes and his smile widened. Mike looked into
his eyes. "Thanks, for . . ."

"Don't, Mike," snapped Phillip with a slight frown. Phillip did not mean to
be curt, but he was beginning to have feelings for Mike that he was not at
all sure he wanted to have. He had come into the cabin intent on seducing
Mike, had done the deed, and now he needed to put things in perspective. He
sat up and swung his legs over the side of the desk. "Look, Mike, what we
did was great. You don't have to thank me for having a little guy fun."

Mike was not surprised at Phillip's tone, and words. He'd more or less
suspected that Phillip had only fucked him out of pity. "I'm sorry," he
said slowly. "I've never done anything like that before, and . . ." He sat
up abruptly and buried his face in his hands. "You can't have gotten
anything out of it," he half-sobbed. "I didn't know what to do, and
. . . shit, Phillip, my dick is so small, even when it's hard, that . . ."

Phillip reached around and put his hand on Mike's wide shoulder. "Come
around and sit beside me, Mike," he said quietly. Mike got off the desk and
walked around it to sit beside Phillip, who took his hand and slowly moved
it up and down, first his chest, then his stomach, and then his pubic
bush. "Feel the end of my dick," Phillip ordered softly. Mike did as he was
told. "What do you feel?" asked Phillip.

"You're dick, it's sticky, and your chest, and . . ." Mike's eyes
widened. "You're covered in cum!"

Nodding, Phillip reached down and gently rubbed the head of Mike's soft
dick. "This little dick of yours made me blow a load. I've been fucked by
guys with dicks four times as big as yours and none of them made me cum
while they were doing me." He gave Mike a long, even look. "That alone
should tell you something."

Mollified, Mike accepted that his dick was big enough to do the job. What
he couldn't understand, however, was why Phillip had come on to him. He
decided to adopt Phillip's attitude. If this was a one off, fine. Mike
wanted to be told it was. "I want to know something, Phillip," he said
carefully. "Why did you let me fuck you? Was it out of pity? Was it to
satisfy your curiosity? Or was it that you had an itch that needed to be
scratched and my little dick just happened to be handy?"

Phillip chuckled mirthlessly. "Mike, when I let a guy fuck me, it's because
I want him to fuck me. I want him to be with me." He looked into Mike's
eyes. "You've obviously figured out that you're not the first guy I've ever
fucked."

Mike nodded.

"Understand, Mike, I'm not the village mattress who fucks every guy in
sight and gushes and pretends to have an orgasm and then rushes off to
giggle with her girlfriends about what a lousy lay you were."

Mike immediately thought of Two Strokes and of what had happened to him the
year before. "Like that girl did to Two Strokes?"

Nodding, Phillip grinned. "That should teach him not to fool around with
girls!" He reached down and cupped Mike's balls. "I like guys, Mike. I like
being with them. Guys are always honest when it comes to sex. If a guy
likes what you do to him, he tells you. If he doesn't like it, he tells
you, and you both move on." Phillip's face softened and a whimsical smile
formed on his lips. "I like having sex with guys, Mike," he said with
whispered firmness. "I won't lie about that, not ever. I like it." He ran
his thumb around the firm, warm knob of Mike's dick. "I like the way a guy
feels, the way he smells, and the way he tastes." He gave Mike's hardening
dick a firm squeeze. "Mike, I came in here because I wanted to have sex
with you. I didn't come here out of curiosity, or pity, or to help out a
guy with a small dick. Pity wasn't part of it, nor was the size of your
dick."

Phillip jumped heavily to the deck, stretched, and rubbed his back. "That
desk is fucking hard!" he said as he moved and sat down in the chair that
they had pushed into the corner of the room when they had cleared the desk
for action. He raised an eyebrow. "Mike, you're a nice guy, and I like you,
a lot. There's a side of you that sort of gets me going." He cocked his
head and smiled. "Your only problem is that you let the size of your dick
get you down. Believe me, you don't have to worry about it."

Mike squirmed uncomfortably. "Shit, this desk is hard," he thought. "You
don't have to listen to the guys calling you Tiny, or Gerbil Dick," he
complained softly to Phillip.

Phillip sniffed and reached down to fist his soft organ. "You see this?" he
asked as he waved his penis at Mike. "It grows to just under seven
inches. It's a handsome weapon and big fucking deal! Nobody snuck into the
Mess and sucked it, did they?" Uncertain of what he might actually have
slept through, Mike nevertheless shook his head, no. Phillip's eyes flashed
briefly. "Somebody did you, Mike, not once, but a couple of more times!
Think about that! This guy came in and sucked your dick! There are two
hundred-odd dicks on this shit ass piece of dirt and yours was the one he
picked to suck!"

Mike thought a moment. "Are you saying that he wanted me, for me?"

"Don't look so surprised," returned Phillip. "The guy, whoever he is, snuck
into the Mess. He sucked you off. He didn't go near Willy, or Jack, or Mal,
or me! He went right to your bunk." Phillip shrugged. "And I went right to
this cabin."

"You really mean that?" asked Mike, his tone doubtful.

Phillip nodded firmly. "I really mean that," he replied. "I did not come in
here simply because I was, and am, horny. I told you, there's something
about you that turns me on. I wanted to have sex with you. I didn't care
about the size of your dick." He giggled. "I've seen it before, Mike." His
face sobered. "I came in here because of you." He pointed his finger at
Mike. "You."

Mike gave Phillip a steely look. "All right, you've had me. What does that
make me, another notch on your belt? And what happens next?"

Phillip ignored Mike's tone and shrugged slowly. "You will never be a notch
on my belt, Mike. As for what happens next? Well, that's up to you. I can't
make you want to have sex with me again, and I wouldn't even try."

"Other fish to fry?" asked Mike snidely, afraid that Phillip would answer
in the affirmative.

"Don't be silly," returned Phillip with a snort. "There are no other 'fish'
around here that I'm interested in. You're the only guy I've been with all
summer and I am not some slut that bends over and spreads his cheeks every
time some horny messmate comes sniffing around with his hardon in his
hand!"

"That's not likely to happen," said Mike. "Nobody knows that you like
guys. Everybody thinks that you're straight, and a jock." He laughed
caustically. "You sure had me fooled."

"And you me," retorted Phillip. "You are the last guy I would have thought
would enjoy a little one-on-one with another guy."

Mike did not reply. He was surprised himself and would not deny that he had
enjoyed everything that had happened to him.

"The same can be said for you," continued Phillip. He smiled softly. "It's
best that nobody knows about such things. It avoids . . . unpleasantness."

Mike caught the note of cynicism in Phillip's words. "It wouldn't do for
people such as Little Big Man, or Two Strokes, to find out that we like
dick, you mean."

Phillip nodded his agreement. "Mike, I like dick. I don't deny that. But, I
am very careful and having the other guys think that I am as straight as an
arrow is exactly the way I want it. I don't go looking for sex and I don't
advertise the fact that I like sex with guys. I only go with guys I know
are willing and I do not do anything unless I am absolutely certain that
he's willing. I try to avoid doing anything to cause anyone to think that
I'm queer." He snickered. "Which is why I do not play the five two-fours
and three porno flicks game."

"The what?"

Phillip leaned forward in his chair and looked at Mike. "Guys fool around,
Mike, a lot of guys. They like getting their nut. They don't want the other
guys thinking that they're fags or that they let some guy fuck them, or
blow them, or that they sucked a dick. Being queer or liking sex with guys
is a big no-no in the football team game, or the swimming team game, any
sports team setting. The players are all GUYS, if you know what I mean."

Mike did. He'd seen the Senior Varsity, strutting and carrying on after the
team had won a game. He'd seen the groupies hanging off their tall,
muscular bodies. Football players were gods. "They have their reputations
to think of," Mike said, thinking aloud.

Nodding, Phillip grinned. "Like I said, they're guys. They like sex,
though, because, let's face it, only a guy can really satisfy another
guy. Only a guy knows which parts of his body make him feel good, knows
which buttons to push."

"So they play the game?"

"They play the game," confirmed Phillip. "They can't just come out and put
the moves on a team mate, or ask to suck his dick. There are rules, and so
long as you play by the rules, and keep your mouth shut about it,
everybody's happy. So long as you stay within the team, because your
team-mates are your buddies, and buddies help each other out, everybody's
happy. So they play a little game called the after-the-game party."

Mike leaned back on his hands. "Back home the football team is always
having a keg party at somebody's house. They all get drunk, is what I
hear."

"They all get laid!" returned Phillip. "They go to these parties, which are
just for team members. They drink beer, they watch some porno flicks, and,
when the lights go out the fun begins. All cats are grey at night, Mike,
and if a hand drifts over and starts playing with your dick - which you
knew was going to happen in the first place - you are not going to yell
rape now, are you?"
	
Mike thought a moment. "Not if you went to the party knowing that sooner or
later some guy was going to go down on you. You can't rape the willing."
	
Laughing, Phillip said, "You are so right, because that is exactly what
goes on."
	
"Not mention that if the word gets out you can always say that you were too
drunk to know what you were doing and that somebody took advantage of you,"
replied Mike, joining in Phillip's laughter.
	
"Ah, but nobody talks about it," said Phillip. "They all play the game and
keep their mouths shut. They also keep going back for more. The guys know
what they like, and where to get it and . . ." he shrugged expressively. "I
can get it on with just about every guy on my football team."
	
"Could, or have?" asked Mike pointedly.

"Could," affirmed Mike. "Since I don't care to let anyone know about me, I
prefer not to play games when it comes to sex. There are 22 guys on my team
and I could get in the sack with each one of them, if I wanted to." He
paused, and then said quickly, "Well, 19 of them. Three don't turn me on."
	
"Too Neanderthal?" asked Mike.
	
"Not circumcised," returned Phillip. "I prefer guys who are."
	
Mike chuckled. "You sound like Cory."
	
"Cory? What has he got to do with it?"

A softness came over Mike's face. "Something bad happened to Cory when he
was little. I only caught bits and pieces of the story so I really don't
know what happened. All I know is that Cory won't go near a guy who isn't
clipped."
	
Phillip shrugged. "I'm not that radical. I prefer guys who are circumcised,
but it's not a requirement."
	
"Then why. . .?"
	
"They don't turn me on," replied Phillip, answering Mike's unasked
question. "If a guy turns me on the state of his dick doesn't come into
it." He began to fondle his soft penis and low-hanging testicles. "Mike,
I've had sex with six guys on my football team. They pretend that it's just
a guy thing, just sex between buddies. They never talk about it and the
next day and pretend that nothing happened. Still, they keep coming back
and I let them come back."
	
"You let them come back?"
	
Phillip looked steadily at Mike. "You have to understand that I'm not into
sex just for the sake of having sex. I know guys - a certain quarterback
comes to mind - who are so horny that the crack of dawn had better look
out. He's also drop dead in the street gorgeous, with a beautiful set of
parts . . ."

"And you haven't gotten into his pants?" asked Mike, a surprised look on
his face.
	
"I haven't," replied Phillip with a shake of his head. "I haven't because,
well, he just doesn't turn my crank." He saw the querulous look on Mike's
face. "Mike, it doesn't matter how big a guy's dick is, or how beautiful it
is, or if he's got low-hanging balls, or is circumcised." Phillip left off
feeling himself and tapped his chest. "It's sort of like I have a switch in
here. Most of the time it's in the off position. Then, along comes a guy
and the switch moves up to 'on', and I get a tingling in the head of my
cock and only six guys have done that to me." He smiled warmly. "Belay
last, seven guys."
	
Mike's eyes widened. "I turn you on? I set the head of your dick to
tingling?"
	
"Yes, Mike, you do," replied Phillip in all seriousness. "And the rest of
me as well," he thought, not daring to say the words aloud.

******

Mike slid slowly from the desk and knelt before Phillip. He lowered his
head and kissed the head of Phillip's soft dick. "I really turn you on?" he
asked looked up at Phillip.
	
Phillip nodded slowly. "Yeah," he breathed.
	
Smiling, Mike took first the spongy head of Phillip's dick in his mouth,
and then sucked in the full length of The Assistant's soft penis. Phillip
sucked in his breath sharply. "Jesus, Mike."
	
"Mm?" Mike sucked slowly and gently, feeling Phillip's dick harden to
sweet-tasting glory.

Phillip groaned and squirmed as Mike continued to suckle. "Mike," he
gasped, "you keep that up and I'll nut!"
	
Mike withdrew and smiled a coy, enigmatic smile. "Oh, you're going to nut,
but not just yet." He stood up and looked around for the jar of Vaseline,
which had rolled into the opposite corner. He picked it up, opened it and
then began coating Phillip's rock hard erection with the lubricant.
	
Phillip eyed Mike, knowing what was coming, and wondering how Mike planned
on accomplishing his task. Mike silently finished lubing Phillip, tossed
the jar aside and then reached down. Mike was a strong boy and he lifted
Phillip from the chair with ease. Before Phillip could protest he was on
the floor, on his back, his boner bouncing gently against his stomach. Mike
continued to smile, his eyes twinkling, as he straddled Phillip and
positioned his pink rosebud directly over the head of Phillip's dick. He
reached down and grasped the slim, hard rod of flesh upright, guiding it as
he began to lower his body.
	
"Mike, you don't have to do this," said Phillip with a grunt as he felt the
broad, curving head of his dick slip into Mike. "Trust me, it's going to
hurt like hell if you've never . . ."
	
"I want to give this to you," growled Mike. He gasped loudly as the head of
Phillip's dick slid into him, biting his lip to keep from crying out as a
bolt of excruciating pain streaked through him.
	
Phillip saw the grimace of pain on Mike's face and tried to pull away. He
remembered with startling clarity the afternoon of his own deflowering, on
a hard wooden bench in the high school locker room, at the penis of the
star running back of the Junior Varsity (a stunning, dark-haired
14-year-old Adonis), a wild, animalistic coupling which left the running
back a whimpering, exhausted wreck and Phillip, so lost in the thrall of
his first fuck, and so physically satisfied, that he forgave the running
back the suffering he had caused when, oblivious to Phillip's pain, he had
rammed his sleek, slim penis into him.

Because he remembered his first experience, and because he did want Mike to
reach the ultimate plateau of ecstasy, Phillip reached up and began to
slowly rub Mike's hard nipples. "Take your time," he whispered. "Don't
force it. Set your own pace and wait until your body gets used to me being
in you."
	
Breathing heavily, Mike nodded and, after several minutes the pain
diminished as the muscles of his rectum relaxed and accepted the
unaccustomed intruder, the pain slowly being replaced by a feeling of
magnificent fullness. Guided by instinct, Mike lowered his body and another
inch or so of Phillip's throbbing erection slid into him. He could hear
Phillip's heavy panting, and feel the blood as it surged through the vein
that lined the underside of Phillip's cock, and groaned loudly as a lesser
ribbon of pain rippled through his body.
	
Phillip lowered his hands and began to gently rub Mike's firm, thick
thighs. "The worst is over," he murmured consolingly. "I promise you it
will get better."
	
"It's . . . it's not too bad, now," replied Mike. He wasn't lying, or
trying to be brave. The pain was leaving his body. He didn't know just how
much of Phillip's dick was in him, but he was determined to take it all. He
pushed his body lower suddenly a wave of SOMETHING flashed through him,
obliterating any thought of pain and causing his dick, which up to then had
been lying limply over his balls, literally to spring out, rock hard and
pointing directly at Phillip. "Holy SHIT!" he yelped.

Phillip, who had felt the head of his cock nudge Mike's prostate, laughed
softly. "Looks like I hit the right button."
	
"Oh yeah," groaned Mike as he raised, then lowered his body again. He
shuddered with delight as the feeling roared through him again and he
moaned loudly.

Phillip began to thrust upward, meeting Mike's downward movements. He
carefully watched Mike's face for any sign of pain or discomfort. When it
he was sure that Mike was enjoying their actions as much as he was, Phillip
told him to stop.

Mike growled his displeasure. "What the hell do you mean, stop?" he
demanded.

A smile broke Phillip's face. "Mike, you're driving me crazy," he
declared. The combination of taking Mike's cherry, and the tightness of
Mike's ass, was bringing Phillip closer and closer to the edge. "You keep
that up and I'm gonna cum!" he glanced at Mike's boner, which was jutting
into the air like the bowsprit of a sailing ship. A long, clear string of
clear pre-cum joined the head of Mike's dick to the hollow of Phillip's
navel. "And so will you!" he struggled against Mike's weight, pushing him
backward and ignoring Mike's loud protests. "Just get off me and lie down
on your back," instructed Phillip.

Mike rolled away from Phillip, and did as he'd been instructed. He watched
as Phillip found the jar of Vaseline and re-lubed his thick, smooth
penis. Phillip dropped to his knees between Mike outspread legs and grasped
Mike's ankles. Before he knew it Mike's knees were brushing against his
shoulders and Phillip's face was buried in his but crack. Mike felt a warm,
sweet wetness cross the wrinkled flesh of his rosebud and all but leaped
into the air.

Writhing and groaning Mike felt his dick trembling as Phillip's tongue
washed his rosebud and then probed the wrinkled hole. He threw his arm over
his mouth to muffle his screams of pleasure as Phillip's tongue entered
him, raising his hips, demanding more, unable to control himself as the
great pleasure overwhelmed him and his dick spasmed, sending a huge jet of
semen to spatter across his chest. "Oh, shit! Oh fuck!" he moaned as two
more jets of his thick cream shot from his enraged dick and he experienced
his most monumental orgasm ever!

Satisfied that his gifted tongue had achieved the desired effect, Phillip
straightened, shuffled forward and pressed the head of his iron-hard,
dripping cock against Mike's rosebud. Mike pulled his legs back and raised
his hips. "Do it," he ordered harshly. "I want to feel you in me!"

With slow, steady deliberation Phillip pressed forward, urging his partner
to relax. Mike's sphincter resisted, then surrendered and the head of
Phillips dick was again engulfed with the warm wetness of Mike's
rectum. Phillip sucked in his breath and continued to push inward,
resisting the urge to ram his dick into Mike, using every ounce of his
willpower not to savagely pound Mike's ass. He set a slow deliberate pace,
thrusting slowly in an out - long dicking the guys back home called it -
and with every inward thrust the head of his penis brushed Mike's swollen
prostate, which caused him to thrash and moan and his dick to buck.

Mike felt wave after wave of indescribable pleasure overwhelm him. He
thrust back and whimpered, groaning louder and louder as he approached the
inevitable plateau. He let go his ankles and reached out, pulling Phillip
to him. "Fuck me, Phillip," he whispered in Phillip's ear as he wrapped his
legs around Phillip's waist.

Phillip slid his hands under Mike's shoulders and pressed his lips against
Mike's. They kissed deeply as Phillip continued his thrusting.

Overcome, Mike clutched at Phillip, his raspy bursts of breath breaking the
silence of the room. Phillip increased the pace of his thrusting. He could
feel Mike's dick, slick with pre-cum and sweat, rubbing against the heated
skin of his abdomen. He could feel Mike's ass muscles tightening as he
approached explosion. Phillip was close, so close . . .

Mike suddenly buried his face in the valley of Phillip's shoulder, his
whole body tightening. This drove Phillip over the edge. "MIKE! I'm gonna
cum . . . I'm gonna cum!" he moaned." He thrust upward and his body shook
as his erection pulsed a stream of his thick cream deep into Mike.

Mike felt the first stream of Phillip's juices slam into him. His eyes
rolled back and he felt his whole body stiffen as his dick began jerking
and pulsing, his orgasm overwhelming him. It was for Mike the ultimate
experience and he clutched Phillip's quivering body close.

They lay together, caressing each other's body, murmuring soft endearments
until the were startled out of the reverie by the sounds of crashing,
banging and instruments being tuned penetrated the stillness of the small
room. Phillip leaped up and Mike rolled heavily away. "God damn it!"
snarled Mike. "The fucking Band is out there!"

Phillip grew pale. "Shit man, I hope they didn't hear us!"

"I don't care if they did," returned Mike. He scowled at the scarred wooden
deck, rubbed his sore butt, and then turned and enfolded Phillip in his
thick, muscular arms. A tremor of desire passed through him as their dicks
rubbed together. Mike looked deep into Phillip's eyes. "You said that it
was up to me if we were to go on."

Phillip nodded.

"Good. It's settled then," said Mike. The firmness in his voice brooked no
argument. "I'll be your summer fuck."

"But, that's not what I want," wailed Phillip silently.

Mike's head bobbed and he reached down to squeeze Phillip's dick. "We
better think about cleaning up," he said, nodding toward the shambles that
had replaced the normally neat and tidy office. The books and papers that
had been spaced with neat precision on the polished surface of the desk
were now an untidy heap, scattered around the desk where they had fallen
when the impassioned lovers had swept the desk clean. Mike frowned
slightly. "We have to get this place cleaned up," he said absently. He
turned and reached into his locker for a towel and soap. "But first, we
clean each other!"

Phillip grinned and ran his hand down the fine curvature of Mike's firm
behind. "A shower sounds nice," he said, laughing.

Mike playfully pushed his newfound lover away. "Oh, no you don't, Phillip!"
he warned. "We're going to shower, and nothing else. I'm hungry and I need
my victuals. Cock and cum are all right for a light snack, but they sure
aren't filling."

Pretending to pout his disappointment, Phillip found his clean towel and
shampoo, and opened the door leading to the shower. He was about to enter
when Mike's voice stopped him.
	
"Once I shower and dress, and after I have some breakfast, I think I'll
wander over to stores and see if I can talk Rob out of one of those air
mattresses that the Venture cadets use." He grinned and rubbed his ass
again. "That floor is too damned hard!"
	
"See if they come in doubles," asked Phillip.
	
Mike laughed and put his arm around Phillip's slim waist. "There is just
one thing, though," he said as he pulled Phillip into the shower.
	
"What's that?"
	
Mike nodded toward the door. "Don't you think that it might be a good idea
if the next time you locked the door?"