Date: Wed, 13 Dec 2017 15:06:21 +0100
From: James Rozo <jrozonavydod@gmx.com>
Subject: USS Independence CV62 - Chapter 13

USS Independence CV62

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Author's Notes: During a ship's entire commissioned life it will always be
crewed by sailors. A constant vigilance must be maintained to ensure the
safe operation of the vessel. A robust system of continuous watches is
employed per OPNAV Instruction 3120.32 which delineates the standard watch
organization, duties, and logs. With over one hundred different types of
watches aboard Independence, thousands of men in every department,
division, and squadron ensure the effective operation of the carrier and
the accomplishment of mission objectives.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Chapter 13: Standing The Watch

"For two-hundred years sailors have stood the watch. While some were in
school, work, or bed at night, sailors stood the watch. When the storm
clouds of war were raging, sailors stood the watch. Many times they would
cast an eye ashore and see loved ones needing help during hard times. But
still they stood the watch. All Americans slept soundly in safety, each and
every night, knowing that on ships in harm's way, sailors stood the watch."
~ Adaptation of The Watch, an anonymous Navy anecdote ~


The shrill of the bosun's pipe commands attention.

1MC: "Lay before the mast all eight o'clock reports. Eight o'clock reports
will be taken by the Executive Officer in Wardroom One."

Every evening all departments provide the XO with a status report of major
equipment casualties and degraded mission critical systems. Two decks below
the waterline in main control, the Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA) is
consolidating Engineering's report of out-of-commission equipment.

The long list reflects poorly on his leadership.

Furious, he's convinced the problem is inattentive enlisted watch standing
and gundecked maintenance. If not corrected immediately it will adversely
affect his performance appraisal and promotional opportunities. Ambitious
and covetous of rank, the Lieutenant Commander has flag-level aspirations.

"God dammit... fucking enlisted dirt-bags," he curses.

Stunned silence fills the large compartment.

The officer is despised by the men. Supremely arrogant, he delights in
tormenting and screwing with sailors. Running 10 hours of demanding
engineering causality control drills, he has unmercifully upbraided the
exhausted main space watchstanders.

Manically animated, jacked-up on caffeine... the life blood of the Navy,
experiencing heart palpitations, muscle spasms, and a pounding headache,
the MPA is being particularly insufferable.

Between working 12-hour shifts, standing 3-section watch, and manning
special evolutions - general quarters, flight quarters, underway
replenishments... sailors do not sleep for 24 to 36 hours at a
time. Exhausted, it's no surprise they consume more coffee than any other
military organization in the world. A valuable commodity, every work center
hoards 20-lb coffee tins to feed their addiction.

"Get me more fucking coffee... now!"

And the messenger-of-the-watch scrambles to refill the cup.

Commissioned an officer and gentleman by an Act of Congress, the Naval
Academy elitist is deeply immersed in upper-class privilege. Enamored with
the military caste system, he is contemptuous of enlisted men... the
indentured servants of the ruling officer class.

"Enjoy your coffee sir," as the messenger hands the MPA a fresh cup.

Attaining a small measure of revenge, whenever possible wily sailors dunk
their sweaty dicks in his coffee. For young sailors in B and M division,
flavoring the officer's beverage is a rite of passage. And sweet enlisted
jam often masquerades as milk and sugar.

Drinking deeply the MPA placates his addiction.

And he unwittingly savors the unique taste of enlisted cock.

In the rear of the compartment two HTs coming off the second dog watch are
playing grab-ass with Midshipman 3/c Klodaski. Under the instruction of an
experienced shipmate, the midshipman has just assumed the evening watch.

Recently welcomed aboard, he was aggressively initiated - striped, shaved,
and baptized while cameras documented the debasement. Surrendering his
masculinity, sucking enlisted cock and being utilized as sea-pussy,
Klodaski is transformed by the experience.

Exchanging conspiratorial grins, envisioning a late-night communal meal,
two carnivorous sailors stare at Klodaski's alluring ass. Salivating, they
consume the boy with lecherous eyes... imagining the succulent flavor,
tenderness, and texture melting on their tongues.

"Be down in pump room 4 after watch," an HT3 orders.

Conveying deleterious consequences for noncompliance, the sailor knows the
midshipman has no choice. Excited, their expanding gear searches for
quarters inside constricted coveralls.

The sailors envision a wondrous adventure.

Klodaski not quite as much.


- - - - - - - - - - - - -


"Mosconi shake a leg... you got the midwatch," informs a shipmate.

It's 2330 and throughout the ship watchstanders are being roused.

Repair Division's forward berthing compartment, 3-54-0-L, is home for the
sailors assigned to the shipfitter shop, carpenter shop, and AFFF light
water shop. Awash in an eerie glow the compartment's dim nighttime
red-globed lights are energized.

Stirring in his bottom rack HTFN Karl Mosconi slowly awakens.

With his erotic dream interrupted he is painfully erect.

The product of Northern Italian and German ancestry, the alabaster skinned
sailor is slender with a narrow waist and flat stomach. Possessing
arresting facial features, the elfin boy has flaxen blonde hair and
shimmering azure eyes. And his beguiling ass inherently attracts attention.

Tattooed on the sailor's chest is a dolphin riding a ship's bow
wave. Representing freedom and independence, dolphins have been loved by
mariners since ancient times. Believed to rescue drowning sailors, the
benevolent sea creatures, considered capable of providing absolution, are a
symbol of rebirth.

Parting the rack's curtains the naked sailor displays his
masculinity... relishing the freedom afforded by the exclusive all-male
environment. Rolling out of the rack the somnolent sailor strikes his head
and stumbles over boondockers adrift on the deck.

"Mother fucking shoes," swearing like a sailor.

The miserable black leather milspec footwear, standard navy issue since
World War II, is heavy, clunky, and cause blisters and calluses. Virtually
unwearable, impossible to shine, the ankle-high shoes have tormented
sailors for decades.

Mosconi massages his sore body and stiff cock.

Familiar sounds fill the dark compartment.

Immune to the ambient consonance, seasoned salts don't even notice the
soothing hum of machinery, the ubiquitous whirl of the HVAC system, the
rush of fluids flowing through pipes, the squeak of mattresses, the
conspiratorial whisperings of shipmates, and the squelching of lubricants.

Cloistered in their racks the men are immersed in a timeless
ritual... perusing pornographic magazines and jerking-off. Inport, adult
material is readily available at the Navy Exchange. Catering to the
corporeal needs of America's young sailors and marines, patriotic
publishers provide dozens of stimulating magazines at reduced military
prices.

At sea, with leadership's approval and the Chaplin's compassionate
understanding, supply department stocks the ship's store with a generous
assortment of entertainment - Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Oui, Gallery,
Asian Dolls, and Black Bitches.

Exceedingly popular, thousands of issues are sold every month... generating
handsome profits for the crew's welfare and recreation fund.

A boon to morale, the magazines are in every work center and berthing
compartment. While occasionally containing stimulating articles, the
undeniable lure is the beautiful women, hardcore themes, and plentiful
depictions of curvaceous breasts, inviting open pussies, and tantalizing
lesbian sex.

For the more adventurous and sophisticated Chief Petty Officers, a
substantial collection of prized magazines procured in foreign ports
depicting underage girls and boys with barnyard animals is maintained in
the Mess for their consumption.

Taking matters in hand the sailors are doing what they do best.

Relieving pent-up desires, 5200 swinging dicks aboard Independence are
aggressively manhandled. And collectively over 10 gallons of jam are
discharged every day.

Slaves to the undeniable biological imperative to expel seed, the shameless
exhibitionists have no qualms if others know of, hear them, or watch them
spank-the-monkey. Not always a solitary endeavor, shipmates often lend a
helping hand. Forging strong bonds, sailors routinely share erotic stories,
sordid experiences in foreign ports, secret desires, and bold fantasies.

Other sailors prefer the services of the division's compartment cleaner and
duty cocksucker. Designated on the watch bill, reaffirming his lowly
position in the hierarchy, the dedicated watchstander makes nightly rounds
and enjoys fresh midrats.

"Hurry up already," complains a shipmate driven by desperation.

"Fuck you... wait your turn," responds an engaged HT2.

A well-established nautical shibboleth, cock sucking isn't considered gay -
it's just new sailors paying homage to superior males. Demonstrating
respect, it's customary for fresh seafood and non-rates to service
shipmates and take a turn over-the-barrel.

"Take more," directs the petty officer.

Experienced at feeding inferior males, the aggressive sailor tilts the
young bluejacket's head back, correcting misalignment. Advancing,
insistently moving deeper, viciously thrusting forward, he enters the
restricted channel and with lethal proficiency secures quarters inside the
convulsing throat.

"Aughhhhh...," gurgles the impaled squid.

"Fuck yeah choke on it."

Searching for maximum pleasure, he drives balls deep inside the twitching
conduit. Savoring the amazing sensation, enthusiastically throat fucking
the hapless young sailor, he's thankful for the many unparalleled
privileges of rank.

Firmly holding the boot's ears, encouraging him to keep sucking, the petty
officer rapidly approaches release. Without warning he suddenly
explodes. Four voluminous jets of scalding navy jam are deposited into the
startled sailor's throat.

"Swallow it all!" the HT2 demands.

And the obedient bottom dweller enjoys another hot meal.

Standing the watch for the past three hours, sore from the constant barrage
and battering, the surfeited sailor isn't sure how many more shipmates he
can effectively service. Thankfully, after a long day no one has the
inclination to fuck him. So he can turn-in to his rack soon.

With midshipmen aboard for summer cruise sailors usually defer designs on
pedestrian enlisted sea-pussy... an item on the menu year-round. Preferring
to sample collegiate NROTC and Naval Academy cuisine, they focus attention
on the midshipmen... helping with nautical mile certification.

"Get over here," another shipmate demands, "it's my turn."

And the cocksucker dutifully moves to the next watchstation.

Mosconi is sympathetic to his shipmate's plight. Still, better that squid
than himself. Memories of his turn standing the watch suddenly flood
back... the indignity and humiliation. A nominal heterosexual, he swallowed
his pride and more than his fair share of jam. Exceeding shipboard
qualification standards, the sailor is now a certified fleet cocksucker.

To his great consternation his ass was also utilized indiscriminately and
to excess by alpha males exercising their inherent rights. Standing the
watch as designated sea-pussy, large military objects were unceremoniously
stuffed up inside the miserable sailor's accessible chute.

Enjoying youthful recuperative powers, his ring eventually recovered.

And now Mosconi is a full-service port-of-call.

Comprised of over 3,000 compartments, the carrier has many secluded places
to discreetly meet willing shipmates or engage reluctant prey. New sailors
naively harbor pollyannaish hopes of completing their enlistment with their
masculinity and dignity intact. But it rarely happens.

Time is running short and Mosconi needs to report for duty.

With practiced efficiency he gets dressed in the dark.

Avoiding needless complications he pulls on his blue engineering coveralls
sans underwear. Although Navy regulations require undergarments be worn to
preserve the dignity and appearance of the dress blue and white uniforms,
no such requirement exists for coveralls.

Providing no discreet place to stow his gear, the well-worn cotton
coveralls leave nothing to the imagination. Going commando, Mosconi proudly
flaunts his masculinity...showcasing his distended shaft, low-slung
testicles, and enticing ass.

Exiting the berthing compartment he makes for Damage Control
Central. Heading aft, traversing the 2nd deck port passageway, he opens a
gray Ellison door.

Breaking the pressure boundary, entering the access trunk, oppressive heat
and noise radiate upward from No. 2 Auxiliary Machinery Room (2AMR),
7-132-0-E.  Descending to the 4th deck via inclined ladders Mosconi undogs
a quick-acting ballistic door.

"Request permission to enter Main Control."

"Granted," responds the Engineering Officer of the Watch.

Located amidships and on centerline above 2AMR is Engineering Main Control
and Damage Control Central, 4-132-0-C. The command center is manned
continuously by duty section engineering officers and enlisted men. When
steaming the plant the number of watchstanders increases exponentially.

The MPA is bouncing off the bulkheads.

Pulsing with activity the watch is changing. The synchronized ritual,
performed 7 times every 24-hours, is broken into 5 four-hour periods and 2
two-hour periods (dog watches).

The sailors in Repair Division stand the Sounding & Security Watch. A
roving patrol, they continuously inspect pump rooms, shaft alleys, and
other designated spaces for fire or flooding. Soundings of remote tanks and
voids, accessed via tubes located throughout the 2nd deck, are accomplished
with a brass weighted coiled steel tape.

An exhausting patrol, with no time to skylark, the watchstander walks
miles. Besides locating access tubes, deploying the sounding tape, and
recording readings on log sheets, the sailor must descend / ascend 40-foot
vertical ladders in access trunks for each of the six 7th deck pump rooms.

And then repeat the process twice in 4 hours.

Inherently sailors look to reduce their workload... searching for and
finding the cracks and crevices between requirements and regulations where
trouble lies. Conspiring to game the system, they risk skipping a pump
room, sharing sounding data from one watch to another, and falsifying data
in the damage control logs.

Conducting random spot checks for discontinuities or repetitious data,
Ensign Rozo easily identifies gundecked soundings - a UCMJ Article 92
violation which includes dereliction in the performance of duties. The
offense carries a maximum punishment of a bad-conduct discharge, forfeiture
of all pay and allowances, and 6 months confinement.

Looking to avoid CO's non-judicial punishment, pragmatic sailors offer the
Ensign assorted concessions. Demonstrating contrition, they beg for
leniency and willingly accept extra military instruction, physical abuse,
and psychological emasculation.

Most sailors receive favorable adjudication.

Possessing a harmless paraphilia, the authoritative officer enjoys spanking
naked sailors. An undeniable pleasure, there's something innately exciting
about exercising dominion over an inferior male - caressing his sweet
enlisted ass, kneading the supple flesh, and inflicting brutal punishment.

Signing the logbook, the off-going watch is ready to be relieved.

Taking custody of the sounding tape Mosconi assumes the watch.

Departing DC Central, he makes good progress and in 40-minutes completes
half the soundings. Striking below to the forward pump rooms 1, 2, and 3 in
succession, the sailor measures the liquid level in the bilges below the
deck gratings.

Heading down the port passageway, abaft the beam and through quick-acting
water-tight doors, he enters mess deck six, 2-183-0-L and rests for a
moment. Located on centerline off the transverse watertight bulkhead is the
access trunk for pump room 4.

The 30-inch x 36-inch watertight hatch, with 6-inch raised coaming, has an
18-inch diameter quick-acting escape scuttle in the middle. The small
circular opening, accessible only by lithe sailors, is too narrow to permit
access/egress by overweight crewmen.

Challenging gymnastics are required to reach the first rung of the ladder.

And short limbed sailors are severely disadvantaged.

A circle yoke placard on the scuttle permits the fitting to be opened
without requesting permission from Damage Control Central. Turning the
upper brass hand wheel, engaging the spindle, Mosconi undogs the scuttle
and opens the hinged fitting.

Shimmying through the orifice, closing the scuttle, climbing down the
trunk, Mosconi hears unexpected sounds. An experienced watchstander, he
knows the rhythm and vibrations of pump room equipment pulsing below: salt
water fire pumps, JP-5 fuel pumps, and remote-activated manifold valve
operators.

No this is something different.

Listening closely he detects muffled voices and staccato groans.

And there's no doubt about it, someone is getting fucked.


- - - - - Flashback 30 Minutes - - - - -


Midshipman Klodaski climbs down the vertical ladder.

Descending into the ship's bowels, he enters pump room four,
7-183-0-E. Feeling uneasy, the pale light from an overhead explosive-proof
fixture provides sparse illumination, casting portentous shadows. The
overpowering stench of JP-5 fuel permeates the stale air.

Painted in shades of gray four figures emerge from the shadows... the
gritty interplay of light and dark obscuring all but their feral
eyes. Moving deliberately like a pack of wolfs, the skilled predators
quickly converge and surround the midshipman.

The young faun is trapped.

Glancing at their tented coveralls he knows what they want.

Remote and isolated, disconnected from all activity five decks above, the
pump room is an ideal location for uninterrupted shaftings. Bearing sharp
teeth, minatory grins, and a voracious hunger, the pack's excitement is
palpable as they anticipate an easy meal.

The predators recognize that Klodaski provides an opportunity that they
might not otherwise enjoy. A rare and wondrous delicacy, there is nothing
quite like young succulent 3/c midshipman sea-pussy. And everyone wants a
piece.

Blanketed by the din of pumps, gurgling pipes, and sloshing liquids in the
bilges, extended conversation is difficult and completely unnecessary.

Everyone knows the agenda.

Accepting his subservient position in the military food-chain Klodaski
doesn't offer any resistance. Escorted to a large fuel oil transfer
manifold, feeling the unmistakable hardness of an enlisted cock pressing
against him, the midshipman's heart rate accelerates.

Perspiring, his body exudes the enticing scent of Polo cologne by Ralph
Lauren. Popular and contemporary, the masculine fragrance with notes of
leather, tobacco, and wood is just right for a casual evening with friends.

Reminiscent of sacred ritual, Klodaski is stripped and positioned over the
sacrificial manifold. Working with practiced efficiency sailors secures his
hands to an 18-inch transfer valve hand-wheel with rough hemp line. Another
repositions the ass at the perfect height, spreads the legs, and rotates
the hips to the correct angle to facilitate deep penetration

Immobilized, Klodaski is defenseless.

Removing an emergency battle lantern from the forward stanchion, a sailor
illuminates the midshipman's amazing ass. Spreading the boy open,
boondockers pound on deck plates as pack members gather around the manifold
and maneuver for unobstructed views.

Their attention is riveted on the sweet fucking hole.

Beautifully exposed, a trichroic hue... bluish-blackish-purple surrounds
the battered orifice. Agape, the puffy ring of muscle, having lost numerous
battles, valiantly stands watch and ineffectively guards the ramparts to
paradise. Inside, the twisting crimson canal invites exploration.

"Damn that hole is wide open!" a predator remarks.

"We got to it just in time," notes a pack mate.

Reflecting on the transient nature of beauty, he laments the fleeting
magnificence of the once pristine and taut pussy. Rapidly degrading, it
will soon be stretched beyond mil-specifications for optimum pleasure. Once
rendered unserviceable for routine shafting, sailors will repurpose the
fitting... teaming-up with a buddy to experience some delightful
double-penetration.

A sailor smears a dollop of grease around the bruised opening.

The pack's breeding alpha moves into position.

Klodaski braces for the inevitable.

Dispensing with needless formalities, grabbing the hips, he presses against
the swollen lips. Thrusting forward, encountering only token resistance, he
impales the midshipman balls deep in one smooth fluid motion. The warm
velvet glove embraces the thick shaft like an old friend. Savoring the
pleasure of penetration, the Alpha releases a calliopean spine-tingling
howl.

It's another fine Navy day underway aboard Independence.

And the voice of the sea speaks to the soul.

An incorrigible sea-pussy enthusiast, the breeder delights in shafting the
whimpering midshipman. Demonstrating superiority, his dominance is
arousing. The appreciative pack members watch the spectacle, offer
encouragement, and applaud the performance.

Spreading his legs to facilitate penetration, Klodaski is once again
emasculated by bluejackets. Vocalizing wordless vowels, he moans and
harmonizes with the pump room machinery. Impossible to refute, the
midshipman has grown to love being used by superior males... providing
meaning and direction to his rudderless existence.

The Alpha relishes the vibrant and timeless experience. Satisfying an
ingrained imperative, he drives in-and-out... maximizing the length of each
stroke. Changing angles and widening the hole with every plunge, he's
focused solely on his own pleasure.

Taking a heroic shafting, Klodaski is a monument to duty.

And he earns valuable mileage towards certification.


- - - - - Return to The Present - - - - -


Mosconi reaches the bottom of the access trunk.

Cautiously entering the pump room, scanning the compartment for danger, he
identifies silhouettes clustered around the JP-5 transfer manifold. Moving
as if controlled by one mind, the shapes are distinguishable from one
another yet inexorably linked together in deed.

Surprised by the emergence of the unknown, the pack pivots and
instinctively assumes a defensive posture. Like wolves guarding a kill,
sailors aggressive defend midshipmen assigned to their division and
vigorously fight off opportunistic poaches.

The intruder is instantly sized up and evaluated.

In the Navy rank is everything.

Quickly conducting a threat analysis, scanning for uniform type and
insignia, they ascertain it's not an officer or chief. Stray light
illuminates flaxen blonde hair, shimmering eyes, and the glint of a metal
sounding tape... revealing their shipmate making the rounds on sounding &
security patrol.

Relaxing they gesture for him to join the feast.

An omega sailor, Mosconi occupies the lowest position in the pack
hierarchy. During desperate times when resources are scarce the bottom
dweller provides necessary accommodations and satisfies the requirements of
the superior males.

In turn they provide protection from other predators.

Moving closer he notices the bound midshipman.

The Alpha resumes breeding Klodaski. Thrusting forward with jarring force,
confidently navigating the dredged and well established channel, he keeps
count for entry into the midshipman's log book - advancing the kid 300
inches closer to certification.

The compulsion to watch is overwhelming. For Mosconi there is something
magical about seeing an academy midshipman getting shafted by enlisted
men. The juxtaposition of circumstances and reversal of superior - inferior
rolls is immensely appealing.

Regrettably he is on watch and can't stay too long.

Already delayed, he will have to hustle to accomplish required
soundings. While tempted to take a turn fucking the midshipman, he doesn't
want to gundeck readings, face deleterious consequences, and provide Ensign
Rozo with another opportunity to educate his ass.

And yet the sea-pussy is calling to his soul. Primal and undeniable, the
irresistible siren song has lured sailors since men set upon the sea in
ships with adolescent boys. Captivating his imagination, Mosconi struggles
to resist his baser urges.

Being only human, his resolve to duty weakens and evaporates. Consequences
be damned - he needs a piece of ass. Extracting and stroking his tumid
shaft he joins the queue.

Shouting expletives, the Alpha thrust deeply into Klodaski, stiffens, and
floods the anfractuous chamber with a fusillade of sticky jam. Breathing
hard, completely drained, the contented sailor is thankful to be a petty
officer in the Unites States Navy.

Descending the climatic high he withdraws his deflating cock.

The pack's beta sailor immediately steps up to the manifold.

Since boot camp he's heard sea-stories extolling the virtues of midshipman
sea-pussy. Desperate to satiate his curiosity, he takes station astern the
quivering ring and positions the large mushroom head. Although possessing
standard girth, the sailor's cock is exceptional long... exceeding 10
inches.

Trembling with anticipation, feeling an overwhelming sense of power, he
mounts and impales Klodaski in one brutal thrust. Aggressively advancing
down the pervious passageway, pushing internal organs aside, he explores
the midshipman's inner most reaches.

Running out of habitable real estate, encountering resistance, he backs up
and grabs Klodaski's hips. Lunging savagely forward, throwing his whole
body weight into the endeavor, unconcerned about tearing the chute's
lining, he successfully entrenches the entire cock balls deep.

Astonished by the succulent glove, he experiences unimagined pleasure.

Ascending a euphoric pinnacle, the rapturous sailor luxuriates in
perfection.

Fully plugged, penetrated to unfathomable depths, physically and
spiritually bound, Klodaski experiences intense pain and
pleasure. Embracing his reality, understanding that sailors are inherently
entitled to dominate 3/c midshipmen, he savors the profound joy of total
submission.

"Mmmmm... fuck me. Fuck me," he moans.

And the Beta grants the midshipman's request. Increasing speed, the
collision of his hips slamming against the midshipman's ass reverberates
throughout the pump room. Thrusting with powerful legs he fucks Klodaski
with reckless abandon.

No mercy is shown. None is expected.

Maneuvering closer for an unobstructed view, Mosconi leans over a network
of fuel transfer piping and valves. Exquisitely handsome, slight of build
and boyish in appearance, he looks fifteen years old. Smooth and hairless,
his alluring ass draws attention like a navigational beacon on foggy seas.

Mesmerized, he barely notices the Alpha's caressing hand.

United by a common purpose, men at sea develop strong bonds. Enjoying
camaraderie and deep emotional attachments, sailors frequently engage in
grab-ass play and roughhousing. Immersed in a sea of masculinity, physical
intimacy is just a reality of life underway.

And many shipmates have admired Mosconi's ass.

Unconcerned, he pays no attention to the exploratory hand.

Under ordinary circumstances the Alpha would bend the Omega sailor over the
manifold. But with Klodaski and other 3/c midshipmen aboard, non-rates,
fresh seafood, and other bottom dwelling sailors are relatively safe from
serious predation.

Still, he enjoys exercising dominion over Mosconi.

And the boy is an exquisite fuck.

The Beta is nearing completion, thrusting fast and hard, punishing the well
fucked hole. Stiffening, anticipating the undeniable joyous release, his
balls suddenly explode... violently impregnating and flooding the sea-pussy
with potent enlisted seed.

And another satisfied sailor is served.

A hierarchical organization with clearly defined levels of authority and
privileges, pack members are acutely aware of the order of
precedence. Interceding, adjusting the order, the Alpha grants Mosconi
access to the midshipman before the boy's rank would normally permit.

Grateful, barely able to contain his excitement, Mosconi's eyes sparkle
with youthful exuberance and vitality. Pressing his desperate need into the
slot, hammering it home with one savage thrust, he dives into the deep
waters of depravity.

And now he understands the attraction of sea-pussy.

Intoxicated, he wants more. Much more.

Infinitely better than jerking-off, there is something exhilarating about
fucking a midshipman - physically and psychologically. Aggressively
pounding Klodaski, navigating the channel, pushing in and pulling out,
quivering with delight, he now understands why shipmates enjoy shafting
bottom dwellers so much.

Clearly, it's better to fuck than be fucked.

Of course nothing in the Navy is free. Incurring a high price for advancing
in the queue, once all the midshipmen depart Independence and return to
Annapolis Mosconi will resume standing the watch as the omega sailor. And
he will be utilized indiscriminately by the Alpha and his pack.

But for now he isn't the low man on the pole.

And he adds significant mileage to the logbook.

An hour later, after servicing the pack, Klodaski is relieved of duty.

The exhausted midshipman has earned good mileage toward nautical mile
certification. Stuffing an oily rag inside the damaged chute to stem the
leaking, clenching his sphincter as much as possible, he pulls on his
uniform and gingerly ascends the pump room ladder.

Like countless midshipmen before, he professionally stands the watch. With
only two weeks remaining in his summer cruise aboard Independence, he
understands that significant additional sacrifice will be required to
achieve certification.

And unavoidably, double-penetration is in his near future.


- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The voyage aboard USS Independence CV62 continues in Chapter 14: Water
Wars.

Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, shipboard or ashore, are
always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com