0 comments/  58011 views/  21 favorites

The USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 01

By: Coxswain



THE USS COCK vs. THE LEATHERNECK BATTLESHIP

Couldn't believe my eyes. Who woulda thunk? The Hulk had a weakness!

I was amazed. Couldn't believe it. A monster like The Hulk with such a teeny weakness! It was like the Statue of Liberty jumping up on a chair screaming it saw a mouse. 

Let me explain. The Hulk was the biggest Marine I ever saw. An oversized Roman statue, a heavyweight Leatherneck bruiser at least 6'9" -- so huge he had to duck his head going through the portals. Over 250 pounds: muscles all over. Everywhere. 

Big, powerful, fast-moving, and dangerous, he was a fucking human battleship! 

What a body. Shoulders like the main turrets on the USS Missouri. Pecs like the upper turrets on the Bismarck. A six-pack belly like a stack of anti-aircraft rounds. Slim (but solid) hips. What a fucking physique!

And not bad-looking, either. He reminded me of the cartoon Joe Palooka -- light blond hair (in a Jarhead buzz-cut), blue eyes, square jaw. He had golden fuzz over his chest, a yellow treasure-trail down his belly, and a cluster of curly goldilocks at his crotch.

And what a crotch! Oh, God, don't get me started! His cock, damn, what a fucking crank! It had to be eight, nine inches soft! Thick as a beer can. And balls like two oranges in a wrinkled bag. One look at The Hulk, and I got a new definition for "hung." 

And how would I happen to know all this? I saw him naked every morning in the showers. Back in the Sixties, The Hulk and I were both stationed aboard the USS XXXXX, an old aircraft carrier, a bird-farm flat-top from the pre-atomic days, a gray-painted metal city cruising the waters off Vietnam. The Hulk was one of the MARDET, the Jarhead detachment assigned to do ship security, a seagoing SWAT team, so to speak. I was a Navy corpsman. 

I first saw The Hulk when the USS XXXXX put in at a Stateside shipyard for some refitting, and the Marine Corps personnel replacements marched aboard while we were there. By coincidence my berth area shared the head and showers used by some of the Gyrenes.  

The Hulk fascinated -- no, intoxicated me because I was exactly the opposite: short, bantamweight, dark -- 5'1", 160 pounds, black hair. All my life I was called "Runt," "Short-stuff," "Shorty," or "The Italian Shetland Pony." The Hulk was a giant. My head came to about the level of his chest. His biceps were bigger than my thighs, and his thighs were the size of my chest.  

He was a hard-charging Grunt, a combat infantryman. As a corpsman I was more into saving lives than snuffing them out (but to be honest, I wasn't the noble, heroic, "my life for theirs" type) -- it always bugged me that if assigned to go out on combat patrol with the Jarheads, I would not carry a rifle.

Frankly, I can't figure out how I got into the medicine end of the Navy. Before I joined up, I worked in a pizzeria! 

But the Navy works in mysterious ways: sensitive, important, destiny-changing decisions are done by the alphabet. My last name was Cacchio (a good Italian name which also means "cock" in slang), so off I went to Corpsman School. I knew a guy named Miller who went to Mechanic School, a Ronson who was a Radio Operator, and there was a sailor named Uncapher who was an Assistant Urologist.

Sorry, am I wandering? Yeah, you're wandering! Get back to the story.

I never saw The Hulk with his clothes on. Our duty stations were in distant parts of the ship. While the ship was temporarily short of doctors, they put me to oversee a little dispensary by myself, where I passed out rash cream and Preparation H, treated cuts and bruises, and gave the occasional injection. Not much call for a SWAT team to protect my stash of Ace bandages, so I never saw The Hulk on duty -- or wearing any clothes. 

The Hulk was a hard-fucking womanizer, or so I often overheard. He and his buddies in the showers always bragged about fucking adventures on shore leave. His deep, bass voice cut like a foghorn over the words of the others: ". . . socked it to her all night . . . she couldn't get enough . . . ran out of rubbers . . ." 

I, on the other hand, have preferred men ever since I found that magical little thing between my legs could rare up and make me a happy little boy. In the showers I hardly dared look at The Hulk's crotch -- always gave myself away by raising my colors to full-mast. His mast was a real Old Glory: uncut, his cock-hood streamlined it into a torpedo with a black, evil radar-eye. And it had locked onto a target -- me. It knew. 

The Hulk himself never noticed me (he would have to look down to see me). But every time I looked at the long ramming-spear in the front of that big, blond battleship, the dark eye was staring back at me. The fucking thing was watching me!

Although The Hulk led a normal heterosexual sex-life, judging by the bragging, I was as celibate as a priest. In spite of the legends of man-sex in the Navy, gay life at sea wasn't that simple, especially for somebody short, and I was short. Very short. Okay, very short!

Hey, being short didn't mean I was out of shape. Short doesn't mean "wimp." I exercised, I did calisthenics, and I could run the same number of laps around the flight deck as the "big" guys. Dynamite comes in small packages. 
And speaking of packages, I had the same equipment as the bigger guys, and on my smaller frame, it looked huge. So you'd think I would have some good scores. 

But mansex interludes always ended up the same. With every new "discovery" in the head, in the showers, somehow, somewhere realizing the other guy was "a player," I always ended up with a big, pushy guy expecting me to be Little Orphan Annie -- or her dog -- and bend over for him.

That doesn't work for me. I'm a top. I don't mind doing double-duty, but I don't like being leaned over a washbasin and fucked only to see the jerk walk off proud of himself as if he'd done me a favor, giving me no chance to get back some of my own (or squirt him my own, as the case may be). 

I had gone without sex for such a long time, the first time I saw The Hulk in the showers, the blood rushed from my head to my crank, and I damn near passed out. 

Am I raving again? Yeah, you're raving again.

Okay, back to the story: once I saw The Hulk, I became an extremely clean anchor-clanker. Never missed taking a shower . Reveille on the USS XXXXX was at 0500, but most crewmen didn't wait for reveille to get up in the morning -- with 20 showers in the 296-man berthing in our area, many guys sometimes got up at 0430 to beat the lines. But I discovered The Hulk was not an early riser; he was usually one of the last to wander into the head with a towel around his waist. 

So, then, was I. 

Damn, that man turned me on! Just thinking of him had me doing autorotation [that's "autoeroticism"—beating off—in the Navy, civilian!] so often, my dong was growing a handle. Several times a day I sat on the examination table in my dispensary beating the meat. But The Hulk was like a Playgirl centerfold -- inspiration for jerking off in the sack, not something I could ever touch or meet. Hopeless case. 

I'd heard of gay Leathernecks, but The Hulk had "Hetero" written all over him, and if I made a play, after snapping my neck with a flick of his wrist, there would be a burial at sea (probably a secret one as he dumped my body out the porthole). Even if he were> into sex with men, one look at me, and he would use me for toilet paper.  

So I watched The Hulk from afar and lived in five-finger fantasies. Those were the sad days. The more I saw him, the more I was a starving man staring through the palace window at the naked king inside. I felt like a dried-up mummy. Masturbation lost its zip; my dick stopped pointing the way. Where are all the horny SHORT guys??

Even worse, nearly every day I passed the Asshole on my way to the chow hall. A pushy jerk, the Asshole kept coming on to me. "How you doin', Runt," he would say as he walked by. "How's about you and me getting together in an empty compartment?"

Who could resist such charm? "Fuck you!"

"Yeah, that's what I mean."

The smart move was to keep away from the guy. He was such a sleaze, no way was I going to get involved with him, but his constant harangues could get us both busted. I couldn't figure out how the bastard knew I was gay -- but on the other hand, he probably didn't know. His come-ons had more to do with the big dog trying to mount the little one, and that pissed me off. "Eat shit and die, Limpdick." It was all I could think of to say. 

With a guy like the Hulk parading before me in the nude every morning, my only choice was sex with the Asshole? Hey, I would rather keep playing 13-button Poker.

Damn, I was depressed. By the time the ship gets home, my balls will be dried-up raisins. What's wrong with me?? How come I can't meet anybody decent? In a ship this size, there's bound to be dozens of horny gay men! I was so bummed out, my dick really was limp. Aw, fuck, I wish I could just dry up and die!

But what I saw one morning in the showers blasted away that attitude like it hit a floating mine. As usual, I stood calmly washing myself at a shower nozzle not far from The Hulk, sadly watching him the from the corner of my eye, when suddenly one of his Grunt buddies sneaked up behind him and goosed him! 

The Hulk jumped a foot in the air! "Hey!" he roared and turned on the guy (who was himself a big Marine). I figured one guy would kayo the other (my money was on The Hulk -- he could have taken the gooser with one sledgehammer fist). But instead of clobbering the gooser, The Hulk dropped both hands to cover his dick and jumped back. "Don't do that, dammit!" he snapped.

And The Hulk was blushing! 

My jaw dropped open. The gooser-Marine, who was a big guy himself and older, judging from his gray-streaked hair, guffawed and walked out of the showers. The Hulk went back to washing-up, but I stood there dumbfounded. 

Okay, check it out: the other guy didn't get killed because he was obviously a friend, and the goose was just a joke. But what was The Hulk's response? Shyness! The man was sensitive and touchy about somebody grabbing at his crotch. 

Okay, who wouldn't jump from being goosed? But think about it: his first act was to cover his bare dick! In the showers?? That's like trying to cover one blade of grass in a lawn. 

After that, I watched The Hulk even more closely. I noticed he didn't take the towel from around his waist until the very last second, and he stood facing the bulkhead until nearly everyone else was gone (except me, and I seemed to be invisible to him). Only then would he turn around to put the stream of water on his back -- letting his cock be seen.

I first thought he came late to the showers because he was lazy, but it hit me: The big son of a bitch is shy about being naked! He's avoiding walking around nude in front of the other guys! 

I also noticed The Hulk had his own version of The Asshole. The same old guy who goosed him often snapped his ass with a towel, squirted him with water, and -- and this really got my attention -- was constantly patting The Hulk on the butt. The Hulk hated it -- he blushed. I can't believe it. Blushing!

And something else: I didn't use a stopwatch, but The Hulk seemed to spend the longest time soaping, scrubbing, and cleaning his crotch. So what? You scrub your face, you soap your arms, you rub your chest -- what man on earth doesn't spend more time soaping his cock and balls?? It's just natural!

Yeah, but I spotted some very up-and-down jacking movements in that innocent cleaning. He's doing more than simple body laundry. Again, so what? You don't jack off in the showers?

One more thing, something very, very interesting: while facing the bulkhead himself, whenever another man stood in the shower on either side of him, The Hulk would give the guy quick glances, turning his head and looking down at the man's crotch but instantly snapping his head back to stare at the bulkhead again. God, The Hulk, owner of the most glorious penis on the ship, is checking out other men's cocks!

And I got one hell of an idea, such a motherfucker of a thought, when it hit me, I caught my breath. That big bastard -- body like a battleship -- he could      [Oh, shit, I put one arm out to brace myself against the bulkhead]     be interested in men!!

I decided to shove off on a great adventure: I'm going to sink the Battleship Hulk -- or at least board it. 

Then I really thought about it. Damn, a single mistake, and I'll get one hell of a beating -- if I'm not outright killed. But the challenge! The excitement! I had to go after the big, naked stud. That day I began making plans. 

But the Battleship Hulk was such a huge vessel, my little destroyer had to pick the right attacks, use stealth and chicanery -- and chemical warfare.


SORTIE #1
The first war cruise for my USS Cacchio against the Battleship Hulk involved getting closer, close enough for the destroyer's little guns to have any effect on the giant opponent. The chemical warfare part of the attack involved soap -- or rather the lack of it. 

Every deck ape in the Navy has a shaving kit with his razor, soap, aftershave, and so on. As I got out of the rack on Hulk-Day, I ceremoniously took the bar of soap out of my shaving kit and put it under my pillow. Then I went to the head. 

There I walked over to stand under the shower nozzle next to The Hulk and started to wash myself. I was nervous. In this first stage, I was very, very likely to end up in a meat-grinder. The USS Cacchio was approaching the battleship in stealth mode -- disguised as a simple native vessel innocently about its business. H-Day was about to begin.

I had psychology on my side: big guys I have known were usually soft-spoken. Bullies were always guys of normal size with an insecurity hang-up. Big guys grew up confident about their strength, which spread out into confidence about anything except, say, math tests or dancing lessons. In The Hulk's case, he was oddly skittish about being naked, but I was betting (and praying) he would be the placid type, not dangerous unless pissed off.

Standard pickup lines like, "You come here often?" or "You're really hung, dude" were likely to get me a broken jaw, so looking theatrically into my shaving kit, I snapped my fingers and said, "Damn!, I forgot to get more soap!" I turned to The Hulk. "Mind if I borrow your soap?"

Dangerous question. Asking to borrow a stranger's soap is just this side of asking to borrow his condom, but I had to roll the dice. 

And I crapped out.

I don't know what he did. It all happened balls out -- so fast, I didn't know what hold or throw he put on me. Instantly I was flying through the air. Next I hit the shower compartment deck, and I think I bounced! I had just enough time to think, Shit, on top of everything else, he knows Karate??

Face-down on the wet deck, shower water splattering over me, I felt something heavy -- his foot -- on the back of my neck. "Fuckin' little faggot!" he roared, "I ain't no goddamned queer! Get the fuck out of here!!" 

I crawled to my feet and stumbled from the showers. Damn, did I ever misjudge that one! The Hulk was not the placid type. So much for male psychology. 

I was lucky all I got was a couple of bruises and an emotional put-down. There was no one else in the shower, so it was not a "public" humiliation -- and not something with witnesses that he could put me on report about (all I had to do was deny it). I staggered back to my rack and got dressed for duty. 

Shit! The destroyer USS Cacchio was sunk with all hands, asleep in the deep. Never fired a shot. Fuck! The Hulk had manhandled me like tossing a biscuit from one table to another! So much for lustful dreams. So much for plans. My dick was so limp, I could've stuck it into a soda straw. 

Worse, the Asshole came striding into the dispensary that day. "How's it going, Little Man?" he sneered. "Gimme some aspirins. You got any condoms?" He lowered his voice. "I could show you how to use them." 

I had one edge on him: he was also of Italian descent. His name was Ansolini, so it didn't take much slurring to say something like, "You know the Navy doesn't pass out condoms, Asshole-ini."

"Yeah, well, at least I can use one, Runt. What do they call those special little things for guys like you -- "condominiums"?

"Ha-hah, very funny. Don't give up your day-job, Bob Hope." The Asshole left the dispensary, and I leaned on the counter, my head in my hands. Damn. Now I'm a straight-man for a moron clipping jokes out of "The Reader's Digest." 

You're raving again! Who wants to hear about Ansolini?

Then He walked in. First time I ever saw him in uniform. I truly didn't recognize him at first. 

Oh, shit, The Hulk! Just as I was about to leap back from the counter and lock myself behind the Examination Compartment door, he spoke: "Sorry, man. Real sorry about this morning."

I was speechless. What? You're what?? This the Marine Corps version of Bait & Switch -- you make me think you're sorry, I don't run away, then you switch attitudes and knock my head off!

He spoke again: "Asked around till I found out who you was . . . want to apologize—

--Apologize?? That's the 11th Commandment in the Gyrene Bible: Thou shalt not apologize!

"Real sorry. Problem with my temper. Gotta control it better. Ain't proud of what I did. Didn't mean what I said. Sorry I said you was a little homo and all. Wish you could let us be bygones."

 "Let us be bygones?" I wonder if he knows how to read. Still, the big son of a bitch sounds sincere.

He held out a huge paw. Wants me to shake on it. Ah, what the hell. I held out my hand, and it was engulfed in his huge mitt. As his fingers closed over my hand -- God, I'll never play the piano again -- I felt the warmth, and I'll be damned if my dick didn't start hardening in my pants! Hope (and lust) were reborn!

And like mystical Atlantis rising from the depths of the sea, the destroyer USS Cacchio once again rose to the surface, water cascading from its turrets, its brass glittering, its guns manned and ready! My ship was squared away, back on the attack to bring down the battleship Hulk.

"You okay?" he said, releasing my hand.

"Yeah. No harm done."

"Well, see ya around."

"Yeah, later." When the door closed behind him, the urge hit me: I adjourned to the Examination Compartment, climbed up on the padded examination table, and pulled open the 13 buttons in the flap of my pants. My rejuvenated crank leaped out to greet me like a happy puppy, and the jackoff fantasy was fucking glorious! Although H-Day sure as hell didn't turn out the way I thought it would, we were under way again, full steam ahead!

SORTIE #2
By the weirdest accident, the USS Cacchio had achieved the goals of the first campaign. For the next foray, the little destroyer had to land some rounds to begin actual combat. For that, the USS Cacchio would use a smokescreen. That afternoon I got a bottle of shampoo from the ship's store. Ordinarily I washed my hair with a bar of soap, but I needed something extra-foamy. 

The next morning I hit the showers at the usual time (late), and sure enough, The Hulk was just walking in. Only two other guys were in the showers. I didn't say anything; I just walked in with him, turned on a shower, and started washing.

"Hey." The deep, bass voice.

I was nervous. Is that "Hey -- how're you doing?" or is that, "Hey -- are you in here again after I told you to get out"? I looked over at him. Damn, what a stud! The sight of him never failed to get to me. They'll carve that on my tombstone. Since he wasn't coming after me, maybe his "Hey" was Meaning #1, so I gave a noncommittal reply: "Hey."


The USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 01



"Again, real sorry about yesterday." He paused. "Still wanna borrow my soap?"

Again, was this "Do you want to borrow my soap" or was it "Have you learned your lesson"? But the ball was in my court. "Okay, yeah, I guess."

He tossed me the bar. Navy issue Ivory. Can it be? Has the Kodiak Grizzly become Gentle Ben? I rubbed myself with it. Gaining a little confidence, I asked some questions. "Where are you from?"

"Little Rock." 

That's hard to believe. Nothing about you is "little." I asked him what he did in the Marines. 

"Grunt." 

I knew that (rhetorical question). "How do you like being a Grunt?" 

"Fine."

Not much for conversation. The key, though, was that he didn't punch me in the face, so at least he didn't suspect me of coming on to him (although I was).  "Who's that guy who keeps snapping you with a towel?"

"Oh him. Sergeant Sansom." The Hulk bit his lip. "He's okay . . . just an asshole sometimes." I'll be damned. Both of us have Assholes.

By that time, the other two sailors had left the showers. I handed back The Hulk's soap then poured out a big gob of shampoo and started scrubbing my hair. When I had plenty of foam and suds, I let it run down to cover my face in a smokescreen of lather. Turning slightly toward him, I stopped hiding my erection (which I always got at the sight of him). 

Scrubbing away as if I couldn't see, I slowly turned fully toward him, my crank hard as iron from the mere knowledge of what I was doing. The USS Cacchio was on the Attack.

I could see The Hulk through the smokescreen, though, through a tiny break in the cascade of soap suds, and sure enough, he gave his trademark quick-glance down at my hard cock -- a Navy close-combat bayonet aimed at the USMC interloper. Excellent! 

I gulped. The moment of truth. It all pivots on this.

Still broadside to him, I wiped the shampoo from my face . . . and when he glanced down at me again a moment later, he saw me watching him. His head up snapped instantly, but he knew he'd been busted.  

I smiled, eyes locked in his. A staring contest. Okay, now either I get a smashed face or we move on. We stared at each other for what seemed like an hour (but was probably only one second). My heart pounded in my chest. 

The Hulk was the first to blink (so to speak). 

In my peripheral vision, I saw his crank stretching down like a firehose! Oh, my God! Sonofabitch! He's turned on! I had to be cautious. One false step here, and I'll ruin everything, including my health. 

I looked openly down at his cock, smiled even broader, then started scrubbing again, going on with my washing. I casually mentioned something about a "morning hardon." But I didn't turn away. I kept looking.

He shrugged. "Yeah." The subject was officially brushed off. No worries. He turned back to face the bulkhead again, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

I kept talking. "In the Corps long?"

"Yeah, two -- no, three years."

"Hard life?"

"Yeah, I'm hard -- I mean it's hard! -- I mean, The Marine Corps is hard!"

I'll be damned! He's nervous! Stuttering! The USS Cacchio scored some hits. He's scrambling to man Battle Stations. "Are you married?" 

"Married? No. Not married. No."

"Never?"

"Naw, never. Never married." He shuffled uncomfortably under the stream of hot water, aimlessly rubbing himself with his Ivory. "Don't have too much luck with women." 

That made me blink. What a thing to say! He had to regret letting that slip out -- not something a Semper-fi stud would admit. I could tell he was uncomfortable looking at me and my full-on hardon, but his cock didn't go down, either. I made sure he saw me looking at his huge dick from time to time. God, it's even bigger, a fucking salami, and still hasn't started the upward rise! Every so often he shot a quick glance at mine. 

His slip about bad luck with women was the perfect setup for the next attack. I took a deep breath -- another Potential-Fist Moment -- and the USS Cacchio fired a torpedo: "Can I ask you a personal question?" 

"Uh . . . guess so."

"You haven't had sex in a long time, have you?" To another sailor or a typical Jarhead, this question would've earned me a punch or at least a bullshit answer like "Naw, I get it all the time, blah, blah."

But The Hulk blushed again with a weak smile. "No . . . I ain't." then silence. Just the sound of the water jets splashing over us. 

The big son of a bitch is shy around women. Hell, he's shy around men! I smiled. "Really? I'm all aback, man [that's "surprised," civilian!]. I thought a big, handsome guy like you would have the women crawling through the portholes to get at you."

Again the feeble smile, again shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, clearly wishing he were somewhere else. "Yeah, you'd think. To tell the truth, too busy with my duties." 

Ever notice how lies always start with, "To tell the truth"? 

And it hit me like a ton of jockstraps! Son of a motherfucking bitch! HE DOES PREFER MEN!! The USS Cacchio's torpedo hit a vital spot in the Battleship Hulk! 

Wait a minute! If he likes men, then why the bragging about scoring with shore-leave whores? -- Hey, what gay has never put on a hetero disguise among strangers? 

Nothing about him hints of an interest in men. -- What's so strange about that? My own career in the US Navy depends on staying in the same closet. Maybe he's gay and doesn't know it yet.

That last thought took my breath away. He definitely has a hang-up about being naked, probably strict parents or something. I decided to go for it, one more giant step. The Cacchio fired another torpedo. Please, God, don't let me get my face busted! I pointed down at his burgeoning crank-- Damn, a good 12 inches and still not fully hard! -- "Looks to me like you need a little release." 

He didn't take the bait, though. He turned off his shower. The session was over. He couldn't take any more embarrassment, and turning away, he dodged the Cacchio's second torpedo.

"What's your name, Jarhead?" A parting shot. My voice was firm (scared shitless inside, but firm).

"Johnson." He turned and walked out of the showers.

The Hulk had a name. Johnson. Well, I'll be a son of a bitch! Cacchio and Johnson! Both of us are just another word for "cock"! The occult power of the situation had me weak in the knees. 

Wait a minute! "Occult power" from somebody's last name? You're beginning to make as much sense as the Navy! 

I watched Johnson as he walked away, licking my lips. God, what an ass! Like footballs! The overhead lights highlighted his yellow hair as he strode powerfully away. But I knew the battleship Johnson was limping back to port. We hit him, we hit him good -- although he might not know it yet. 


SORTIE #3 
We got major hits on the Battleship Hulk, but we had to press our advantage. In the next battle, we had to use another chemical attack. 

Wednesday morning, I waited a long time, grinning when I saw Johnson walk into the showers, again late. Johnson was a bell-tapper (in the Navy, a bastard habitually late to relieve watch); that day he was late enough to be the last guy there -- except for me. My shaving kit was carefully stocked with soap and shampoo, also a small jar of Vicks Vapo-Rub. 

Once Johnson was washing himself across the compartment from me, his personal Asshole, the Sergeant Sansom, walked past him on his way out of the showers, and as he passed, he reached out and patted Johnson's ass. "Hurry it up, Marine." 

Johnson watched the sergeant leave, his face blushing beet-red. Damn, he's embarrassed. What's he so upset about?

After the Asshole left, Johnson and I were alone in the showers. I walked over, my fully hard dick swaying back and forth with each step. "Hey, Johnson, how's it hanging?" The USS Cacchio no longer needed camouflage.

He looked over at me uncertainly, then his face smoothed out -- he made a decision. He turned from the bulkhead to face me, and my jaw dropped. Oh, my god in heaven! Johnson had the biggest hardon I'd ever seen. I couldn't believe it. As big as my arm! Hard as iron. Jutting up from his groin like a main-battery cannon in its turret on Big Mo! The battleship is aiming at us! God, look at that thing, it's—

--Jesus, get a grip! Yeah, right. 

Anyway, I could see why he was upset! Sansom almost caught him with a monster erection!

I realized my mouth was hanging open when I heard him chuckle, "Yeah, the morning hardon." He looked at mine. "Just like you."

Critical moment. For as much as his big cock and its big, black, evil eye had me hypnotized, I had to keep up the conversation, anything to keep this from becoming an awkward moment. I started to wash myself, still facing him, and I made casual conversation, changing the subject: "How old are you, Johnson? Twenty-two, three?" 

"Oughtn't to ask a man's age, but I'm twenty-one." 

"Oughtn't to ask a man's age"? What does that mean? Girls say stuff like that! 

Ohmigod, he's flirting with me! And something else: Johnson The Hulk had actually continued a conversation. And he went on! He asked me my name. He asked me about my duty station.

"Corpsman," I said. "I work in the 3rd Level Dispensary."

He smiled. "Hey, Doc." All Navy corpsmen assigned to the Gyrenes go into battle with them, and they end up being called "Doc."

I smiled back. Time for the USS Cacchio's next major attack. "When was the last time you had a physical, Johnson?"

"Year ago."

"You're due for another one. Stop by the dispensary, and I'll schedule you." Then I took a deep breath, the USS Cacchio steaming Full Speed Ahead: I took the Vicks from my shaving kit, hiding it in my washcloth, and stuck my finger into the little jar. Counting on that higher regard Devil-dogs have for Navy corpsmen, I said, "Ever had a rupture, Johnson?"

"A rupture? Nope, Doc, never had one."

Another moment of truth, and a motherfucker of a risk, but I went for it. "You could have gotten one in your duties. I'm a corpsman, Johnson, let me see. This is part of the examination." 

Before he could react, I stuck my finger under his scrotum, jamming it up against the cords and tendons of his left testicle. He jerked in astonishment, but I quickly barked, "Turn your head and cough!"

Recognizing the familiar command, he automatically turned his head. "Ah-hack!" 

Damn, feel those nuts! Big. Huge! And warm. Soft, pliant skin, furry -- like jamming your finger into a sweater hot out of the dryer. "You're okay. No rupture." But I had stuck a small dot of Vicks under his scrotum, a time-bomb placed on the battleship's hull underwater by a USS Cacchio frogman!

"Hey, Doc, get your hand away from there!" he hissed. "Sansom could come back in here any second!"

I stood back and smiled. "Come up to the Infirmary later today," I said. "You still need an examination." 

"Naw, Doc, can't do that."

"Yes, you can. Come when you're off duty." 

He turned and walked out of the showers without saying another word, and I let the air out of my lungs with a big sigh. At least he didn't knock my head off. I'll keep after him tomorrow morning. But I had touched The Hulk's balls! What other guy on the ship could say that?

When I was a randy teenager I discovered smearing Vicks Vapo-Rub on my scrotum set my cojones on fire. The small dot of Vicks I placed on Johnson's balls would soon make him feel funny down there -- not painfully hot, more of a strange, unfamiliar warmth -- and even if he were a straight-arrow, Johnson would be thinking horny thoughts for several hours, wondering why his testicles had thrilled so much to my touch.

Damn, that worked out fine! I vote medals for all USS Cacchio personnel!


SORTIE #4
At the dispensary I handed out the usual aspirins and gave the usual dental hygiene instructions to the usual sailors, but my head was buzzing with plans for The Hulk. The destroyer Cacchio landed some great hits on the battleship that morning -- Johnson allowed me to get close to him, we were showing wood to each other --but the battle is hardly over. I leaned back in my chair, thinking. The battleship's defenses are all physical, and it outguns the Cacchio completely. The Cacchio must play psychological warfare. I have to play with his mind -- have to make some unforgettable impression. Before he came to the dispensary for the physical, I thought up a secret weapon.

But hell, he might not even show up.

Anyway, for the USS Cacchio's next sortie, I made up a little artificial sperm. Yeah, yeah, I know, what in hell is "artificial sperm"?? Simple: take several cartons of white yogurt and pour them into a big jar. Mix in a bottle or two of salad oil to make it more runny and a little clabbered with clear spots. Piss into it to give the appropriate smell and add a couple dashes of Clorox to complete that spermy odor. 

I put the jar of slime in a cabinet to warm up until Johnson arrived -- if he came at all. 

And what in hell are you going to do with a jar of fake jism?? Hey, think about it: the very idea of an entire gallon of sperm has a tremendous emotional significance. I'm not sure how, but I have to use it on Johnson at some pinnacle moment -- how, I still don't know. I'll have to play it by ear.

Sure enough. Johnson didn't show. Shit.

Hours passed. The sun was low in the sky, and I'd missed Chow Call. I was discouraged and pissed. The USS Cacchio lost its prey in the fog. I gave up. Muttering to myself, I signed out on the log, checked the drugs cabinet door to make sure it was locked, grabbed my keys, and got up from my chair. But as I did, the compartment grew dark. Something in the entranceway blocked out the light. I looked up. 

He stepped through the hatch. Man-mountain. A giant in cammies. Johnson The Hulk filled the whole opening. "Hey, Doc. I, uh, came for a . . . an examination." A nervous lion, he looked uncertain, about to bolt. 

I'll be damned. "Yeah, sure, come on in."

He was blushing, embarrassed, and I smiled inside. My ee-vill plan was working. He's nervous for an underlying reason -- I wonder if his balls are still glowing.

I was strictly business. I filled out the paperwork, saying, "No medical officer assigned here yet. I'll perform the examination." I led him back to the Examination Compartment, and the routine began with the scales (278 pounds --God!), the measuring rod for height (I couldn't reach; he had to stretch it up to his head by himself -- 6'9" -- sonofabitch!), then the good stuff. 

"Okay, Johnson, come over here and take your shirt off. Let's listen to your heart." Annoyance flickered over his face, but he unfastened the buttons of his fatigue blouse, baring his chest. Technically this was a legitimate physical examination, but I had a rough time staying legitimate. The battleship was right where I wanted it. The USS Cacchio could fire at will.

But the Cacchio's guns were not big enough to punch through the battleship's armor. We had to be sneaky. I held the stethoscope to his chest, but my thoughts were far from his heartbeat. I'm touching the big bastard! His skin is hot! And that yellow chest hair! I want to bury my face in it! As I poked, prodded, and took his blood pressure, I gritted my teeth and asked the usual questions. "Full name?"

"Johnson, XXXXX."

"Any history of diabetes in your family?" The usual stuff. Blah-blah. He nodded or shook his head for anything that could be answered Yes or No. I wondered what he was thinking. 

I looked for a bulge in the front of his fatigue pants, but those loose, shapeless trousers could disguise a watermelon. God knows I had a monster hardon, but it wasn't very obvious under my dungarees, either. I reached down to adjust myself, drawing attention between my legs, showing him I wouldn't hide an erection from him. I hoped we were past that. I also hoped he was here for more than a physical.

Johnson was bare only to the waist, but to get his pants off, I couldn't use the usual command to drop trou, which meant "get squared away for a prostate exam." A routine physical like this didn't require dropping the pants. I continued with things I made up: measuring his chest (60 inches, God!), measuring his waist (44 inches, that iron-hard six-pack, damn!), measuring his biceps (30 inches, God!), and I stepped behind him, still poking, prodding, and measuring. 

I was hot. Trying to keep from breathing hard. From the back, I ran the tape-measure around his hips to "measure his buttocks" (something else I made up), and as I reached the tape measure around the front, I "accidentally" grazed my hand across the fly of his pants—nice bulge! And he felt it: he flinched.

I moved close, my chest almost against his back -- my throbbing crank almost touching his bubble-butt. "You're a big guy, Johnson." I placed a hand on both his shoulders then slid my hands down his arms. "Big muscles." I moved my hands to his waist. "Great build." He didn't move, staring straight ahead. I wished I could see his expression.

I couldn't take it anymore. "Okay, unbuckle your belt. Let's get your pants off." He turned around to face me, and he wasn't smiling.

"Don't . . . don't like to take my pants off."

"What? But we're both men -- Johnson, you and I see each naked every morning in the showers." Damn, this boy really has some hang-ups. 

His lowered his voice. "Yeah, but that's different. There I'm forced to. Gotta take 'em off to take a shower."

"So you take your pants off only because it's out of your control?" 

"Yeah." He's classic! Mentally constricted unless he can find an excuse.

"And you won't take them off here even with an official Navy medical order from me?"

"Don't rightly see how you can give me an order."

My mind went 100 miles an hour. This guy has so many knots inside, a Boy Scout couldn't untie them all. If we sink the Battleship Hulk, we may actually be fixing some of his hang-ups. Johnson looked at me intently. He wants the sexual stimulation (we have been showing our cocks to each other) -- otherwise why come here? -- but he can't let himself go further unless he can find an alibi. He's looking for an excuse. 

I gave him a grim, Marine Drill Instructor expression. God, I hope this works! "Then you will have to be restrained, Marine." 

Johnson clamped his jaw shut and tensed up, alert and combative, ready to strike out. 

I put all my chips into that single roll of the dice. If it worked, the USS Cacchio would take the battleship captive. If not, my life would be measured in seconds. I bit my lip: I sure as hell can be wrong!! Everything he's done so far can be taken two ways! But I went for it. The USS Cacchio opened fire:

I took a roll of toilet paper from a shelf, and walking around him, I unrolled the strip of tissue over his chest, over his left arm, around his back, over his right arm, and back to his chest. When I tucked it in, I looked him in the eye. "You are now restrained with nylon lines, Johnson. Your arms are lashed to your body. You can't move." 

He gritted his teeth. "Take this off me!" His muscles flexed, and he clenched his fists. But he didn't move under the paper!

Oh, God, it's working!! He's going with the fantasy! I reached down, and with a few clicks, I got his belt loose. He groaned and writhed as I pulled open the buttons (fatigues had button-flies in those days), but still he didn't tear the strip of paper. "Don't," he growled in that deep voice. "Lemme go!" 




The USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 01



When his pants were loose, I dropped them. And gaped in astonishment. Ohmigod, no skivvies! 

Johnson's huge rod came into view as the olive green cloth slid down over it, swelling and stretching, glad to be free of its cloth prison. I was stupefied. No wonder he didn't want to take his pants off! Okay, okay, don't jump to conclusions! This can be legit. Some guys never wear underwear. 

I gulped, my throat dry with excitement. But bet 99 to 1 Johnson was not that type. Johnson had UNdressed that way for our meeting! Jesus, we're both on the same wavelength. The battleship is in our power! The men from the USS Cacchio were about to board it! My crank spurted a glob of precum into my own skivvies.

"Good man," I croaked, barely able to speak. "No skivvies makes the (gulp!) examination easier." I stared at Johnson's Johnson.

Crimson with embarrassment, he muttered, "Another morning hardon -- why I didn't want my pants down."

I smiled. "But Johnson, it's not morning. Why are you hard?"

Beet red, a vein throbbing in his forehead, he gasped, "Dunno . . . just came on me . . . I ain't queer!"

His pants were a wad at his boot-tops. I knelt to run my fingers gently run up and down his bare legs -- "checking your calf muscles and knees." At first he moved back nervously from my hands, but I followed him, and when I touched him again, he allowed me to finger his legs. I ran my palms up the back of his legs, up to the bottoms of his buttocks. "You have fine muscle tone." 

"Thanks, Doc." His voice was husky. Horny. He also smelled good. Sweaty. Exertion and hard work. And I could smell his balls. Drunk with lust, I was on my knees staring at his (by then) fully hard cock. Again I saw The Hulk at Ramming Speed. God, a jackoff fantasy in real life.

I licked my lips and looked up. His face was concerned, his muscles clenching -- but still not tearing the tissue. It was my move. The ball was -- no, his balls were -- in my court. 

Legally, technically, from the Navy's point of view, to this point, everything was "explainable." Once more, I would either win the tournament or be kicked off the court. I tried my luck. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and slurped his big rod into it -- or tried to. Damn, what a mouthful!

"Agh, God," he gasped, "don't! I ain't queer!" But he didn't move, didn't escape from his "chains." Battleship Hulk is dead in the water! The USS Cacchio has it under control!

"Don't, Doc," he muttered again, "don't do this." His hands clenched into fists, and a slight movement of his arm tore the paper. 

Oh, shit. My whole life passed before my eyes. 

But Johnson The Hulk did nothing more. I went on sucking, and he did nothing but moan. I cupped his giant balls in my hand. They were very warm, actually hot to my touch (and not from Vicks Vapo-Rub). Johnson was breathing hard. And he remained "bound."

My heart pounded. The big bastard could have escaped in a hundred ways -- anything from yelling for help to beating the shit out of me -- but he didn't. He slowly bent over me as I worked his giant manhood. Excused of the debauchery because he was chained. 

I needed to rip out some of those inner knots. To make him admit his own submission, I reached up and pulled away the tissue completely. Johnson was free. No chains. He could either escape . . . or remain a captive.

To the sound of his panting, I felt his hands on the sides of my head -- which could have been the first step in snapping my neck, but his crank swelled even bigger in my mouth, and Ka-BLAM! 

Spurts of jism in globs the size of golf balls gushed into my mouth, and no way could I swallow it all. I gulped and gargled the slime, but his boiling sperm gushed from the sides of my mouth like I was a chocolate éclair somebody stepped on. 

What balls! Ever try to gulp down a pint of milk at once? I had his boiling, pearlescent slime all over my cheeks and chin, down my neck, globbed over the front of my shirt, and pools of his milt smeared the deck beneath us.

In ecstasy, Johnson stumbled backward to lean against the examination table, and I followed, keeping that huge dong in my mouth (or a lot of it, anyway). I licked at his big penis, cleaning it, fascinated by its size. 

Finally I pulled back, smacking my lips, and Johnson sighed, his eyes closed. I could imagine a USMC recruiting poster: "Join the Marines, and You'll feel Like This!" 

When I stood up, he looked down at me with a dreamy, dazed expression, still in his afterglow. "I . . . ain't queer, Doc . . . not that queer . . ." 

Time to rip out another knot. I raised both hands to his face and pulled him gently toward me. He bent down, bringing his face close to mine, and when he felt my breath on his cheeks, on his chin, on his eyes, a soft moan came from his throat. I kissed him. 

It was a forceful kiss, a man's kiss, not gentle. He kept his teeth clenched together until I reached down to grasp one of his big, brown nipples. When I squeezed it, he opened his mouth in shock, and my tongue slid in, swirling around inside his mouth, finding his tongue and jabbing it into self-defense -- also swabbing the inside of his mouth with his own seed.

I knew he tasted it. He opened his eyes, grunted, and surrendered, pulling me closer. His mouth opened wide on mine --he likes the flavor of jism. This is too easy! This boy is coming right along! I grasped both his nipples, squeezing and tweaking, turning his heat valve once more up to Boil. When I finally broke the kiss, Johnson was breathing hard again, sweat on his face. "I . . . I kissed a man," he murmured.

I bent over to suckle one of his nipples and reached down to heft his big crank, which was expanding again. Slowly, gently I pushed him back against the examination table, and he lay back on it. "Lettin' you suck me," he said as he lowered his head back, "don't mean I'm queer enough to . . . "

Dropping my pants, I climbed onto the table and crawled over his big muscles until I was straddling his waist. Only then did he realize his predicament, "No, wait. Doc," But it was not a shout, it was more like a soft murmur. "Hey, I can't do this." I reached back to grip his pecker and return him to full hardness. "No, let me go," he breathed. "Don't do this -- I came here for a medical exam —"

"—You came to see me!"

"—Yeah, Doc, okay, to see you, but not, not to . . . No, I ain't queer . . . not that queer!"

--"You've got cum in your mouth, Johnson. Taste it. You like it, don't you?"

He said nothing, truth fighting denial. My throbbing crank was inches from his face, drooling a little spittle of precum. "Lick it, Johnson, go on. You know you want to."

His eyes wide -- with horror or eagerness, I couldn't tell -- he writhed, turning his head away, but when both of us realized it was an act (he could have brushed me away anytime like a fly), he looked at my throbbing prick, then up at my face. "It ain't queer, you know . . . if I just touch it with my tongue." He found his excuse. He stuck out his tongue and licked at my cockhead, lapping up the precum, and he swallowed it. 

"Yeah, that's it, man," I said softly. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

"No, goddamn, it, no!" He pushed me off his chest! 

I grabbed an overhead pipe and managed to land on my feet beside the examination table as Johnson jumped down. "I ain't . . . I ain't so queer! I can't do this!"

We stood facing each other, our hard cocks like construction derricks, his so hard it was shiny, foreskin rolled back, slimy with precum. "You see, Johnson? You're hot for me. You want me . . . you want to suck me!" 

Do you realize how weird this is? You're saying this to a guy almost two feet taller! David asking Goliath for a Hong Kong haircut!

"No. . . " Johnson groaned, but a long, pearly string of precum oozed from his dick and sank almost all the way to the deck. He stared over at my pole, also throbbing and red. 

"You know you want it. Go ahead. Don't chain yourself." 

I waited. Make or Break moment. Johnson was a statue. Thinking. 

The universe pivoted on this instant. Everything was silent. God, even the ship noises have stopped!

Then I saw it: the slightest, tiniest movement in his knees. 

Slowly, fighting all the way, Johnson sank to the deck. But on his knees, his head was still at my chest. To bring his head level with my crotch, he had to sink to complete submission -- on his hands and knees. Mental wiring was ripping loose inside him. He was going through major changes.

Down he went until his face was at my crank. I made it easier -- I rubbed my throbbing rod across his face, then on his mouth. "Open up." The big Leatherneck opened his mouth and licked the tip of my dick, tasting my precum again. I thrust it deep in his mouth and pulled at the sides of his golden head, forcing his nose all the way to my cockhairs. 

It was terrific! He gagged and pulled back, coughing and gulping, but I commanded, "No, go on, Marine, suck me hard!"

His whole body shivered. He's never been violated like this before. Nobody's ever dared to do this. But brave Gyrene, he sank his head back onto me, deep-throating me, forcing himself to get used to it. On the out-strokes, his tongue licked and diddled around my shaft, and he suckled at me like a calf. I smiled. The big bastard was trying to please me, sucking me as best he could. "Good boy. Johnson, my man, I'll be damned if you aren't a natural cocksucker!"

He backed off. "No, Doc. No, I ain't completely queer. Not a cocksucker!" But he closed his eyes again and without a word from me slurped his mouth over my crank again. He bobbed his head up and down, doing all the work, pleasuring me. In denial.

He was incredible, the most erotic moment of my life, and I couldn't fight the feeling. The dynamo started spinning, the pleasure built, and soon, past the point of no return and on fire, I pumped boiling spuzz into him, seeing stars and trying not to pass out from pleasure.

When I could open my eyes, the big guy had swallowed my load and was licking his lips, his eyes shut in pleasure. I couldn't see his crank from my position -- just his long, muscle-armored back and his incredible bubble-butt -- so I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a spurt of whitish slime splatter onto the deck under his chest. I'll be a sonofabitch! He's cumming from giving me an air start!! [Navy lingo for "blowjob," civilian -- from the big air blowers that start diesel engines]. 

He had not been jacking himself. One huge hand was cupping and caressing my testicles. The other held onto my butt. God, he is one horny bastard! If only I can get him to admit it.

I enjoyed every last second of my afterglow, aided and prolonged by Johnson's tongue. Then he rose to his knees. He had just given me a AAA-Deluxe hum job, and I was out of breath, hardly able to remain standing. "That was fine, man," I whispered weakly. "Damn, you're good." He smiled sheepishly. 

I looked down at his Superdong. Another long string hung from it, again almost reaching to the deck, but this was his white, coagulated sperm from his own orgasm. A big, splattered puddle of jism smeared the deck between his legs. "You turn me on, Doc," he said. "Can't figure it out. I ain't totally queer . . . Can't believe what you got me to do."

Then, his eyes intent, he looked into my face. "Okay, Doc, I . . . I sucked your cock. But I ain't queer completely. I ain't into men . . . just you."

I kissed him again, tasting my own sperm. "So how did you like it, Johnson?"

His face clouded with another struggle between Yes and No. Finally, "Okay, I liked it . . . liked it a lot." He sighed and dropped his head. "I'm a cocksucker. Now I got the name."

I took his face in my hands. "Yes, but why is that bad? Do you feel any different? Aren't you the same guy?"

He lowered his eyes. "Yeah, I'm the same guy. But I do feel different. Never wanted to suck a guy's cock before." 

"Does that mean you're suddenly somebody else? Does that mean you're suddenly a sissy? You're still a stud, a man, a good Gyrene. Does sucking a cock mean you can't do your duty?"

He paused. "No. . . don't see how it matters."

Moment of truth. I lowered my voice. "Want to do it again?" 

He looked at my crotch. "Yeah." He dropped to hands and knees again and slurped at my softening crank -- which immediately developed new interest and started swelling.

"Good man," I murmured, "good man." We're on our way to turning him , but we've got a way to go. "Want to be my bitch, Johnson?"

He backed off. "Don't call me a bitch," he growled. "I ain't a bitch. Just sucking a guy's cock doesn't mean I'm a bitch. It don't mean I'm queer to the bone."

It doesn't? I thought that was pretty much the definition. I nudged my cockhead at his lips again, and he sucked it back into his mouth. I let him suckle away for a few minutes, then I suddenly pulled back. When my dick slipped out of his mouth, he looked surprised and thrust his head out to follow it, his lips reaching. "Want to suck my cock, Johnson? Say it."

He crouched quietly before me, not moving. I could almost hear the fight going on in his head. "Okay, man," he hissed in a deep, bass whisper, "lemme suck your cock. I wanna suck it!"

I sank it back into his hot mouth, and drunk with power and conquest, I came again in just a few strokes, even after ejaculating just a few minutes ago. This is so fine! I ran my fingers though his short, yellow hair like Midas playing with his gold while my cock inlaid him with mother-of-pearl. When it was finally over and I pulled out, breathing hard and weak-kneed. Johnson arose and sat back on his haunches, licking his lips. 

"So what do you think, Johnson?"

"Don't know what to think. So much has happened." He paused. "I like it. I like to suck your cock. But I ain't absolutely queer! I don't want to suck everybody's!" 

"So you're mine, Johnson? You belong to me?"

"No. You don't own me." Another pause. "But if you want, I'll . . ."

"You'll be my cocksucker?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Guess you're right. Far as cocksucking goes . . . I'm yours."

I pulled my pants back on. "You've got to get your uniform back on, and clear out now. I've got some guys coming in for shots in a couple of minutes." Then I got a flash of inspiration! "No, wait! Take your boots and pants off! I've got something for you!"

I reached into the desk-drawer and grabbed an XL jockstrap (the dispensary stocked them for guys needing ball-support for medical reasons). While Johnson took off his boots and pants, I opened the jar of "sperm" in the cupboard and, holding the jock's pouch in the palm of my hand, I scooped it down into the slimy mess. 

"You don't have any underwear, Johnson. Here, wear this." I held out the jockstrap. 

He took it from me, put his legs through the straps, and pulled it up. As the pouch slid up over his balls, there was a wet, shplushing sound, and he looked shocked. Big strings of slime oozed out from the sides of the pouch and through the mesh. "What the hell?" 

"My cum, Johnson. I jacked off in that jockstrap before you got here. How does it feel to wear my sperm?"

His mouth dropped open. "Your sperm?" He looked like I hit him with the fire extinguisher. "Your sperm? . . . over my balls? . . ." And with that, he rolled his head back, his eyes closed in ecstasy, and his cock, not yet inside the jockstrap, shot a big jet of (real) sperm high into the air. 

I'll be damned! Another orgasm! This guy is a cathedral of sexual repression!

The Hulk fell back against the exam table, reaching down to stroke himself in the final moments. "Oh, god, what you do to me, you little bastard."

Again with the "little bastard" stuff! What's so fucking wrong about being short?? It just so happens this short little bastard got you to cum with the power of suggestion! But all is fair in love and war, right? And, God, did it work! The USS Cacchio scores again!

My seamen had overrun the Battleship Hulk (and my semen had overpowered Johnson), but I had to do something to keep his crew from escaping and his mind from changing. I needed to imprison his crew and brand him somehow as my property.

With another inspiration, I grabbed a black felt-tip pen from the desk and grabbed his penis before he could wrestle it into the slimy jock. I gave it a few jacking strokes to make it harder. "Yeahhhh," he sighed hopefully. But when I got him good and hard, I stripped back his foreskin and wrote JC in big, black letters across his cockhead. 

He opened his eyes and looked down. "God! Your initials!"

"Our little secret. Every time your hood slides back, you'll know who you belong to."

He stared. Dumbfounded. "I'll be damned . . . initials on my . . . "

I held out his pants. "C'mon, get back in your cammies. You have to go now, but when I see you next, you can be my cocksucker again." 

He looked off into the distance. "Never woulda thought. Never been . . . queer . . . never before . . ." But when I reached my hands up to him, he bent over, and we kissed. I bit his tongue, and he jumped. 

"See you when you get back, Johnson." 

As I closed up the dispensary, I chuckled to myself. He'll think about me whenever he takes a piss. The slightest pull on his foreskin, and I'm in his head—both of them. The felt-tip pen was a permanent marker, so the black letters would not fade away for weeks. I wonder if he'll get a hardon when he thinks about our next meeting. 

That naval battle would be delayed a bit because we had put in to port during the night, and Johnson's detachment was leaving to do some training at the Marine base nearby. I wouldn't see him for a week. 

And that week was slow. No Hulk in the showers. Hours of boredom, days of looking at my watch, a week of hearing my cock yelling in my pants, "Is he back yet, is he back yet, is he back yet?"

And Ansolini the Asshole kept giving me a hard time. "Hey, Swabbie, you getting any? I got a guy in aircraft maintenance can't get enough of my big dick. You're lucky you chickened out. A big crank like mine would split a Runt like you in two." And he shouldered me hard into the bulkhead, fucking bully. His words were never spoken in public, of course. Both of us would be in deep shit.

"Fuck you, Knuckledragger!" He didn't like that. Ansolini was in the Black Gang, the engine-compartment crew, and for as dirty and oily as they got, they considered themselves "engineers," not common sailors like the deck apes doing routine stuff on higher decks. 

Ansolini couldn't really bother me: after nearly a week, I could still taste Johnson's cum on my tongue. 

Occasionally I saw Johnson's Asshole in the showers. I figured Sergeant Sansom at 35, maybe 40. Ugly, brick-jawed face. Heavy beard -- constant five-o'clock shadow. Also built like a brick shithouse. Nothing like Johnson, but nobody to mess with. I didn't like him. He had Asshole written all over him. Nice dick, though. Uncut, like Johnson. I like hooded cocks.

(to be continued)



The USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 02



SORTIE #5 
The night Johnson's detachment returned to the ship, I could hardly sleep. Before the sun was up, I was wide awake. I couldn't help myself. Fuck, this is stupid! It's only 0500! I heard reveille over the loudspeakers, the noise of sailors getting up to start the day, and the flip-flops of shower shoes on the march to the head. Finally, finally, FINALLY the hands of my watch moved around to 0630, long after most men had finished in the head. I got up, grabbed my towel, and hurried to the showers.

There he was. Wet and magnificent in the splattering, warm streams. He looked back and saw me, glanced around – everyone had gone -- then turned to face me and showed me his rock-hard erection. I dropped my towel and showed him mine. (I had the jug of "sperm" with me and set it on the deck). "Good morning, Corporal."

"Been waiting for you."

Since the showers were deserted, I soaped him down -- more like a massage -- and I soon had him purring like a cat. Behind him, my face only at his shoulder-blades (so I couldn't whisper in his ear), I said out loud: "Who do you belong to, Johnson?"

He turned around to face me, looked me straight in the eye, and groped at his crotch. I glanced down. 

JC 

But it was different lettering! I looked closer. I'll be a sonofabitch! He had it tattooed on his cock!!

When I looked up, he grabbed me in a big hug and lifted me literally off the deck. And he kissed me. We didn't dare kiss long, but it was a good, hot one. "I want to suck your cock," he whispered as we broke. 

"Not here." We stood under the splashing water for a few moments. I still couldn't get over the tattooed initials. "What will you do if they send you for a short-arm inspection? What if somebody sees my initials on your cockhead?"

"Tell 'em it stands for Jane Collins." He was squared away. 

But it was brainwashing time. The USS Cacchio was on patrol.  "Wait a minute!" I turned off the water nozzle over his head and picked up the jug from the deck. I reached in, came up with big handful of white slime, and slathered the smelly stuff over his cock and balls. Johnson gaped in astonishment. Scooping up more, I spread it over his groin and lower belly. "More of my sperm, Johnson. I saved a couple of cummings to mark you as my bitch."

"Jesus."

I sloshed still more over his buttocks, paying special attention to sliming up the crack of his ass, and sure enough--

"Ahhh, GOD!" Johnson's big crank shot out another load of his spuzz, and he fell back against the shower compartment bulkhead, his legs almost collapsing under him. Man, can I ever play this guy! He's like my own electric guitar. 

"You little fucker," he gasped, "God, you turn me on -- can't stand it!" 

I looked up into his face, rubbing a handful of the white smarm on his chest. "This marks you, man. This marks you as my bitch."

His looked down – his whole body was smeared with "sperm" – and his eyes glazed over. I can actually hear the knots snapping in his head! I smeared more "seed" over him, rubbing it up his neck, over his ears, in his hair, and over his face. "You're baptized in cum, Johnson. My jism all over your body." I pulled him down to look in his eyes. "And all your old hang-ups are washed away! You're a new man."

He stared back, his eyes dark with lust. In a voice slurred like a sleepwalker, he muttered, "Yeah . . . " Then he paused. "But I ain't a bitch."

One last knot, a tough one. But I was getting so fucking horny, breathing hard, I was losing control, too. "You're my man, Johnson—"

"—Your man," he growled. "I'm your man. Not your bitch." His deep voice sounded drunk. "Let me suck that big cock of yours." –the big cock of mine?? He's the one with the ICBM! – "I need it, Doc, right here, right now!"

Johnson actually got down on one knee, a big, smarm-covered, naked man with a gigantic hardon, and his voice was a desperate hiss: "I'm beggin' you, Doc. Lemme suck your cock! I'm your man!"

I looked around. Fuck! If one single pair of eyes sees us – I grabbed the shower knob and turned on the water again. "Not now," I yelped. "Too dangerous. Wash yourself off now!" His eyes closed, Johnson stood up, washing the slime from his body under the splattering water, rubbing himself, massaging himself, breathing hard. 

I stood watching. Damn, I figured some symbolic, "tribal ritual" might push him over the edge, but hell, the ol' home-brew jism really did the trick! I wonder if he has any hang-ups left – he's sure a dyed-in-the-wool cocksucker now. "I'll see you at the dispensary, Johnson. Usual time. Don't be late. And wear a tight uniform if you have one. You should show yourself off." 

With that, I turned and left the showers. I stopped in the doorway and looked back. "And, Johnson, my man, I'm going to fuck you." 

His jaw dropped open. Poor man, it's been a morning of shocks. The big, strapping Devil-dog stood there with what he thought was my jism slithering down his legs and dripping from his cock. "I-I ain't queer," he gasped, ". . . anyway, not that much . . ." 

Okay, still a few snarls in there.

I didn't know what Johnson went through for the rest of that day, but I spent the entire time with a hardon. I own a battleship! By the time his duty day was over and Johnson was due to show up, the front of my boxers was soaked with precum.


SORTIE #6 
Since Johnson still had mental hang-ups, the USS Cacchio's mission was not yet accomplished. But the battleship was dead in the water. The destroyer had to deliver the coupe de grace.

When Johnson finally walked into the dispensary that afternoon -- Hell, yes! -- he wore the tightest uniform I ever saw, probably borrowed from one of his buddies, a couple sizes too small. He had to be uncomfortable. The slightest flex of arm, leg, or chest would split out seams everywhere. 

His pants were so tight, I could see the shaft of his crank clearly, and the twin bulges of his cojones looked like hidden hand grenades. He was mind-boggling. Even mightier than before, a monster, a huge, blond gorilla shoehorned into a Marine Corps uniform. 

Precum spurted into my shorts. "Welcome, Marine. Please step into the Examination Compartment." I followed him and locked the door behind us. He immediately began to strip, unlacing his boots and kicking them off, unbuckling his belt. When his pants hit the deck, I saw he was still wearing my jockstrap. He stepped out of it and lovingly set it on his boots. And there was the handsomest crank in the US military surging up, freed from the undersized clothing, swelling into the gigantic club that never failed to hypnotize me. 

He looked down at me, smiled, and pulled back his foreskin to show me his brand – JC. He then lowered his head, capturing my lips with his, kissing me with excitement. I forced his mouth wide with my tongue, showing him who was in control. And I felt him succumb – not in a way I can describe clearly -- a sort of relaxation without losing tension, a vague but unmistakable submission. 

When we finally broke the kiss, he moved his lips to my ear. "I'll suck your big cock," he hissed. "I want to suck it. Anytime you want. I'm your man, your cocksucker." He paused. "But I don't fuck. That's queer. It ain't . . . manly. I ain't a bitch."

"Lie back on the examination table, Corporal. This is still a US Navy physical exam" (which was bullshit). 

The big, naked man crawled up on the table and nervously lay back. "I know what you're gonna do, Doc, I know what you're gonna do!" It was a desperate whisper. "I've heard about this! I know what you're gonna do! And I don't want it!"

Damn, he's really scared! "What am I going to do, Johnson?"

"You're gonna fuck me!" He writhed on the table – but he didn't try to get up. I was fascinated. As if he were tied down. Invisible chains. The paper line again, only this time it's invisible. 

"You're gonna stick your big cock in my ass," he went on as I rubbed my hands over him, stroking him like trying to calm down an excited stallion. He struggled and writhed in his invisible bonds, but this huge man, who could have flicked me away like a flea, didn't. "They say once you let a man do you," he raved, "you can never go back! You ain't a man anymore!" 

I looked at him. He's probably been gay all his life, watching other men, craving to touch their cocks, dying for some sort of stimulation. Something or someone has given him a mental tourniquet, and his brain is strangled. 

His cock was an iron bar, but Johnson's face was not eager. He wants it. He wants it so bad, his body is giving him away. The big bastard is now up against the biggest knot in his brain. 

Standing beside the table, I bent over and took his crank into my mouth again. "I'll kick your ass," he said, but not in a growl; it was a whisper, and he ran his fingers through my hair as I sucked. If the USS Cacchio can sink the battleship, Johnson will get out of a long, long prison term. 

I jigged my tongue under his foreskin, tickling his cockhead, and I brought him to sizzling heat. "Don't do this to me, please don't" he whined, "it's evil!" but I had one hand in a jar of Vaseline in a shelf under the exam table, and I brought the hand up under his balls, finding his puckered hole, smearing it with lubricant and working a slimy finger into it, all the while sucking his cock. 

"Agh, God!" he grunted at the intrusion, shivering. "No! Please! Don't! Don't turn me into—" but his words drew out into a long groan when I inserted two fingers into his stretching rectum. Once he had adjusted, I slid them slowly in and out. Then I stuck in three fingers. Again, he groaned, but I knew he had grown to enjoy the feeling. After several minutes of finger-fucking, I withdrew my fingers and moved to the end of the table, between his legs. With my hands under both mighty knees, I began to lift his legs.

"N-no! God, NO!" he gasped, and I felt some resistance in his legs, but considering that he could snap me in two with either of them, he wasn't truly fighting. I rolled his legs up until his knees were above his shoulders, his feet in the air above his head, his grease-slick asshole aimed at the sky and my dick – but I wasn't through lighting his fire. I bent over to bring my tongue to the fleshy rosebud of his porthole. 

Johnson squirmed, but not in resistance, more in lascivious enjoyment. I licked more furiously around his puckered anus as he writhed and moaned in ecstasy, his cock drooling a constant stream of precum. Nobody can resist a rim-job. 

"Ohhh, GOD!" he gasped, and I felt his leg muscles trembling. What is he doing? Could it possibly be? 

I raised my head to look. Johnson's head rolled back and forth, his eyes tightly shut, out of his mind with lust. Well, I'll be damned! -- Johnson's huge dong throbbed and jerked, and huge gobs of white, sticky spuzz shot out of it, slathering all over his chest and belly. The horny bastard got off on being rimmed!

That raised the heat level 100 degrees. I took my hands off him and his legs remained in the air! I wasn't touching him! He was cooperating, surrendering, submitting – again, I could almost hear the snapping of chains in his head. 

I reinserted my fingers into his asshole, and he lurched, grunting with pleasure. I moved my fingers slowly in and out, drawing out his afterglow until it lasted long, long minutes. Finally, breathing hard, exhausted, he wheezed. "Jesus, man, have mercy! I can't fight you! You're too much!"

I watched the poor bastard. His brain fought for control. "Don't fuck me! Don't turn me into a faggot!" But his body ruled: his feet remained in the air, his buttocks flexing, his asshole clenching. I had never seen such an eager man, such a wanton virgin, such a horny sight in my whole goddamned life. He's ready.

He watched me with wide-open eyes as shucked down my pants, kicked them off, then climbed onto the table. I knelt between his mighty legs, wiping my cockhead up and down his ass-crack. I scooped some of his own cum from his belly and used it for added lubrication. He watched with eyes wide as saucers. Dilated. Scared. Maybe even horrified. But powerless to resist. And I also saw in them an ancient prisoner begging for release. 

"You want it, Johnson," I croaked in a husky voice. "You want my cock up your ass. Your hole is slick with your own cum, and your feet are up in the air. You're mine, Johnson, I'm going to fuck you . . . and listen for it – you're going to be begging me!" 

He gasped, "No! No, I'm not a quee—" The rest was a loud groan as I pressed my crank past his tight ass-ring. "Annghh!" 

I knew it hurt. He was a lifelong virgin, and he was damned tight. In fact, I worried for a few moments about the big fucker's ass-muscle. He could break my arm with just his little finger, so I fretted for a moment about his rectum being strong enough to chomp right through my cockshaft. Damn, imagine the tombstone: 

Here lies poor JC. 
Johnson's asshole bit off his cock.

But by then I had worked my cockhead inside him, and I held it there to let him adjust to being a host for the first time. After a few minutes I pushed in a few more inches, again letting him savor my size, letting him stretch, feeling his ass-ring slowly round out into the big O of pleasure. "I knew it," he gasped, "this is fucking wrong! It hurts!"

"But you've done it, Johnson. My crank is in your ass. Just relax. The worst is over. It gets better now." Gradually he relaxed a little, and I slowly slid in a couple more inches. Again he stiffened in pain, but when I stopped, he relaxed. He was panting, eyes open, staring into mine. His eyes were dark with lust, but also like a Golden Retriever's: eager, trusting, loving – and grateful. He's waited a long time for this. 

I gave him another thrust, then another, and another, and finally, "I'm in you, Johnson. To the balls."

"It ain't right, Doc," he hissed. "It ain't—" but when I pulled back -- slowly, sensually, my cock slick and slimy with Vaseline and his cum -- he cut himself off again with a long, low moan. Johnson's ass, stretched tight and ultra-sensitive, sent him thrills of pleasure. At the end, he was panting hard. 
When I started the next in-stroke, slowly and seductively, his mouth fell open with the dazed, drug-addict look of porn-movie actors in orgasm. I lunged in and out again, and sure enough, his struggles ceased, his eyes closed, and the magic began. 

Another straight Marine learned the joy of his own asshole. Johnson was hot, breathing in rapid gasps, his hands gripping the sides of the table, his hips working with me, matching my strokes, his whole body begging me for it.

I fucked him in long, slow, tantalizing strokes, letting him experience every thrill in slow motion as my veined and textured cockshaft slid over the nerves in his guts. Occasionally his eyes opened to stare into mine with wonder and excitement. As my length retreated from him and slowly pushed back in, his tortured psychology made its last stand. "I ain't a homo," he moaned, "I ain't no queer!" 

My rod slid slowly back and forth, fucking away his last defense, and finally he gnashed his teeth and surrendered "—but . . . go faster! Faster!"

I kept fucking him slowly and gently, torturing him with the new experience, trading the agony of repression with the agony of a slowly approaching orgasm. "Say it, Johnson, say it."

He reached up with both huge hands, grabbed behind each of his knees, and pulled his legs even farther back, spreading them, opening himself up even more. "Do it, you bastard," he roared, "stick it in harder! Do it faster! Faster! C'mon, goddamn it, FUCK ME!!"

I let myself go, lunging into him with full-length rams, slamming our pelvic bones together, out of my fucking mind. All my dreams were coming true! The biggest motherfucker in the USMC had his feet up in the air for me, and I was drilling his ass! Damn, this is fabulous!

I wanted it to last forever and fought against climaxing, trying to think of anything but that hellfire moment. I succeeded for maybe 20 minutes of hard-slogging fucking, but Johnson pushed me over the edge when he finally let out a long, low moan. "Ahhh, God. You got me," he gasped. "They were right! Oh, God, this is good!" He opened his eyes and stared into mine. "I'm yours, you bastard! Take me! Fuck me DEEP! DEEPER!" 

I looked down. He's cumming! His cock spurted his sperm all over his chest in gigantic globs. The big bastard gets off from being fucked! Didn't even touch himself!

That did it. With a crazed ram I let nature take over, jackhammering my hips against his, driving my crank into him with short, powerful jabs, clawing to the ultimate, fucking max! And the powder magazine exploded in my balls. I shot what felt like a Gulf Stream of boiling cum up his ass, my cock a torpedo in his guts, big, round, and hard, and with that explosion the Battleship Hulk was sinking for good. 

What an orgasm! Every cell in my body was on fire. I was a statue of solid male ecstasy plugged into the big Leatherneck's body. And it went on and on and on. Through the red haze I saw Johnson still cumming, his huge dong shooting more rounds of baby-juice onto his chest. 

Never! Never had I cummed so hard, so long, so intensely. And Johnson was a sight to see. As a top, I had always secretly believed that the fucker got more pleasure than the fuckee, but the giant man under me writhed back and forth, his head lolling loosely, eyes clenched shut, in such an incredible orgasm, if he weren't still holding his feet in the air, I would suspect an epileptic fit. Long, grunting moans. God, I've seen guys like this after taking heroin!

And his long joy was so fucking intense it actually sent volts of pleasure back through my cock, incredibly drawing out my own ecstasy until I was literally exhausted! I wanted to stay locked into him forever, but my muscles gave out, and I collapsed onto him, splatting into the pool of jism on his belly, in such an intense afterglow, I felt a little epileptic, myself. God, that was good!

I don't know how long it lasted. I swear to God it felt like 20 minutes. But as the volcano cooled, I finally came to, and I wallowed in the muck on Johnson's body until, like ten minutes later, he slowly lowered his legs. His huge arms rose to hold me closer, my cock still in his ass. I wished I could go to sleep there on the big, warm, wet body. 

"Wish we could go to sleep like this," he murmured. "I like to feel your weight on me." Sonofabitch, we're in each other's thoughts! 

He pulled me up and kissed me, and this kiss was much gentler. Still manly –no cutesy little nibbles-- but softer, not as frenzied. 

The drawback of being short is that I can't kiss a giant like Johnson and fuck him at the same time -- my cock popped out of his ass as he pulled me up to kiss, and when the kiss ended, he lay back with a faint little smile. "You got me, Doc, you really got me." 

He looked up at the metal bulkhead. "They were right. I can't go back. Never dreamed my asshole could feel as good as my cock." He hugged me again. "You were great, man. You really brought me off." He looked around the room and took a deep breath. "Never felt this good in my whole, fuckin' life."

Poor guy. I guess any man would have the Mother of All Orgasms if he had been waiting 21 years. Johnson grew quiet, and we lay peacefully in each other's arms for a few minutes. Then he spoke: "Does this mean I'm a queer?" 

"It means you're a man who knows more about himself than most men do."

And the session wasn't over. He kissed me again. "I know one thing: I wanna do it again." 




The USS Cock vs the USMC Battleship Ch. 02



He looked into my eyes, and his voice was deep: "Anytime." He lowered his eyes. "How 'bout right now? I'm your man. Do me." 

I couldn't withstand him, either. "Good man. My man. On your hands and knees, man!"

Then his face tensed up. "Ah . . . no, man, anything but that—" 

Now what? Another hang-up? Damn, what is it this time?? Can the Battleship Hulk be firing back even as it slips under the water? 

"Fucking like that makes me a bitch! I ain't a bitch!" He pushed me away and slid down from the table to stand beside it, his feet spread wide, hands on his hips. "I'm a man! I ain't a bitch!" My sperm was running down his leg.

"Yeah, you're a man, Johnson. A man who craves a hard cock up his ass." I reached down to stroke myself. "You want this cock up your ass, Johnson." Not a question.

". . . but not like a dog. Not like a bitch!" He leaned back against the table. "C'mere, Doc, and fuck me like a man!"

I stood looking at him and jacked my cock – Jack the little Beanstalk looking at the horny Giant. I played my last card. I gave him an excuse:

"You're not the man in charge here, Corporal. This is a US Navy Examination Compartment, and you are under orders!" His Marine Corps training would be his final undoing.

Or so I thought. 

"I ain't gonna let you fuck me like a dog, Doc." But he was staring hungrily at my cock. "Let me suck it, Doc. I'm your cocksucker. Lemme suck it!"

"You're going to do what I want or you can just forget it! Johnson, fucking from the rear gets in even deeper, touches places you never knew you had. Johnson, I'll fuck you to a pile of smoldering ashes. Look at me!" He raised his eyes from my cock. "Nothing more is going to happen until you beg me to fuck you like a dog!"

He looked at me hungrily, and turned away, facing the bulkhead – almost like standing in the showers trying to isolate himself from the other naked men. More mental agony. The last sexual hang-ups being shredded. 

And sure enough, the big, naked man turned back toward me then lowered himself to the deck, finally crouching on his hands and knees. He was incredible. The most magnificent male I had ever seen was submitting to me. "Say it, Johnson."

"Fuck me," came his hoarse gasp, "fuck me!" A long pause. "Fuck me like a dog! Make me your bitch!"

Now, from his knee on the deck to his hip, Johnson's thigh was only a little shorter than my whole leg, meaning I walked up behind him, squatting only slightly to slide my crank up and down the crack of his ass. "Ahhh, God," he groaned, "do it, do it, please! Fuck me! I've gotta have it!!"

Then I mounted him, pressing my cockhead against his pulsing hole. He could hear my panting behind him. I reached one hand around his leg to stroke his big cock. The only sounds were the grunts, panting, and sweaty friction of our exertions. I grabbed Johnson's balls. "Don't tease, Doc, fuck me! Stick it in!" 

He lowered his shoulders to lay his head on the deck, aiming his ass skyward, inviting me to invade him. I thought about lube, but then, my cum was still oozing from his ass. We wouldn't need it. I slid my cock up him, this time viciously, gouging into him as hard as I could, sliding in full-length – to my balls in one stroke!

"Annnnnh, God, it still hurts!"

"Want me to stop, Johnson?"

"Oh, fuck, No! The pain is good!" 

Johnson's training was over. I shoved my cock in and out, forcing it through his tight hole. And Johnson liked it. "Got me pinned, Doc . . . Couldn't move if I wanted to . . . " Johnson's psychology was writing him another excuse.

But as I got ready for a real porking session, I felt strangely cool on my ass – a breeze! Oh, no, the fucking portal is open!! I looked back. Oh, Fuck! 

In the opening stood Johnson's Marine buddy, the one who goosed him in the shower. Sergeant Sansom stared down at us. Oh, shit, how long has he been there?? – Well, long enough, I see,  to pull his pants open and start jacking off.

"I knew it, Swabbie," he growled. "I knew you were queer." His face was grim, dangerous. "But tell you what, faggot, I just won't say anything about this if I get a piece of that ass you're fucking."

I pulled out of Johnson and stood up. Johnson looked back over his shoulder, his face a mask of horror.

"Jesus Christ! Corporal Johnson!!" 

The Hulk and I both froze, not knowing what to do.

"Well, I'll be a motherfucker, Johnson! I had no idea you were a fag! Let's just see how good you are at being fucked!"

With that, the big Marine dropped onto the still-crouching Johnson, and since Johnson's ass was lubed-up with my jism and a long session of fucking, the Leatherneck's cock slid into him with no problem. Sansom started humping away, and I saw Johnson lower his face to the deck, beet-red with shame.

"Ungh . . . Johnson . . . hot ass . . . never knew . . . " panted the Marine until "Ohmigod! . . . Cummmmmmming!" He froze, trembling, his cock shooting another load into Johnson's hot butt.

And Johnson himself shot another load onto the deck. Damn, getting off even from a rape! He is one horny stud!

When the big Marine sergeant finally backed off, his cock dripped juices, and I had a quick urge to suck it. God, you're disgusting! He's the Asshole! But Sansom looked at us and grunted, "Okay, you bastards, this is how it is: from now on, both of you are my fuck-slaves! Anytime I want it, you're mine – or I'll have you out of the Service in a day!"

Now the USS Cacchio sinks the pirate ship. "Oh, I don't think so, Sergeant." I walked over to the corner, reached up into a metal framing, and pulled down the camera. "Check out some of these Polaroids."

Shocked, the big Marine grabbed at me, but I tossed the camera into the drug-cage and kicked shut the door. It automatically locked. 

"I'll kick the shit out of you, you little prick!"

"No, wrong again, Sergeant. As a matter of fact, since you've already got your pants down, I think you ought to strip down and get more sociable."

"Motherfuckin' queers! I ain't no faggot!"

"That's not what the pictures will show." I nodded my head toward the drug-cage. "Medical camera setup to record shipboard medical procedures for G-2 review. It takes Polaroid pictures two seconds apart. It can take 500 pictures, Sergeant, and it's been running from the time you stuck it to Johnson." 

I smiled. "I was out of the scene. Johnson's face was turned away."

I stepped up to the awe-struck Marine. "Sergeant, the only face in any of the pictures will be yours. That's enough to send you to Leavenworth for 15 years."

He gulped. I reached out and grasped his cock, quite soft at that moment. "I think you ought to get friendlier, Sergeant."

"Goddamned faggots," he growled, "got me trapped!" I'll be damned. Another Leatherneck looking for an excuse! He cocked his arm to slug me, though, but Johnson grabbed him, pinning his arms. They struggled. Oh, shit, if one of them gets hurt, this will be out of control!

Johnson wrestled with the sergeant for a few moments . . . when suddenly the older man went limp in his arms. Surprised, Johnson lowered the him to the deck and looked at me with surprise. 

I grinned. "The Navy knows how to get the job done, and we don't have to use excessive force, ether!" I held up the white cloth and the bottle of ether I had grabbed from the cabinet. "He'll be out for about 10 minutes."

When Sergeant Sansom came to, he was on his hands and knees on the deck, bent over a physician's padded footstool. His hands and feet were strapped to the floor, attached to loops in the deck plates used to secure gurneys. He stared at me with fury then looked around, realizing he was naked. I slapped Johnson on the shoulder. "Go ahead, man, you can do it."

Sansom struggled in his bonds as Johnson dropped to his knees and crawled between the spread legs. Positioning himself, Johnson wiped his big prong up and down the sergeant's buttocks, gradually focusing in on his ass-crack, then sliding up and down in it, just as I had done to him. 

I held out the Vaseline jar, and Johnson scooped out a gob and spread it over the sergeant's ass, poking some in the hole. From my angle I could see the Sansom's face. Horrified. 

"Oh, yeah," came Johnson's bass voice in a low, dangerous growl, "we gotta grease you up good. Tight ass like that, you could be split in half." No shit. Johnson's giant cock could make an elephant walk bowlegged.

"You bastards," Sansom roared, "I'll kill you both!" But Johnson pressed his cockhead against the sergeant's tight anus, and Sansom's attention became completely local. I winced. I knew it had to hurt. Sansom's asshole was clenched, virgin, and tight. I heard him gasping through clenched teeth. 

But gradually, gradually, gradually Johnson worked his cockhead inside the man until it slid in with a greasy pop. Johnson looked up at me, and I motioned for him to hold on, to wait, to let the Marine adjust to a dick in his ass. Sansom writhed, keeping himself from crying out, but unable to hide his agony.

After a few minutes, I nodded, and Johnson pushed in a few more inches, pausing once more to let Sansom adjust. "Men," the sergeant finally gasped, "Don't do this to me, it's wrong! God, it hurts!"

"Check it out, Sansom," I said. "A big cock is in your ass. And it's all on film."

"Just relax, Marine." Johnson bass voice crooned. "The worst is over." And I'll be damned if, after a couple of minutes, the outraged sergeant didn't actually relax a little – probably realized there was no escape (another excuse), and when he did, Johnson slowly sank in a couple more inches. Both men were panting – hell, so was I! I'd never seen anything so fucking horny in all my life.

The sergeant's face was still furious, but something else: his eyes were angry – but also darkening, dilating with another emotion. Johnson gave him another thrust, then another, and another, and finally, "That's it, Sergeant. I'm in you to the balls."

"I'll never forget this, Johnson!" he hissed. "I'll put you in the penitentiary if it takes the rest of my life! I'll" -- but his voice cut off in a sudden gasp. Just as the sudden knowledge had silenced Johnson when I did it to him, Sansom was dazed as the slow, sensual, teasing pull-out of Johnson's huge cock sent jolts of pleasure through him like a the bullets from a strafing fighter plane. 

I looked down. Yep, Sergeant Sansom's cock was hard, upjutting, and drooling precum. "Oh, fuck, no," he gasped, "Please, God, no!"

"Johnson," I said, "your sergeant is about to cum. Go slower. Let him enjoy the ride." 

Johnson made the next in-strokes even slower and more seductive. The sergeant raised his head, his eyes glazed over in lust, and -- he couldn't help himself -- he closed them in pleasure, trying to fight the feeling by biting his lip. But he lost.

Sure enough, Sansom's struggles weakened, he relaxed, and his body betrayed him. Yet another straight Marine overwhelmed by his own asshole. Sansom lurched his hips, unconsciously working with Johnson, matching his strokes.

I smiled and nodded to Johnson to speed up his lunges, and he skewered the older man in faster strokes. I knew what Sansom was going through -- the giant cock stretched him taut, exposing his ass-nerves to the pleasurable friction. Johnson's gnarled, veiny cockshaft vibrated every cell in the man's ass. Nobody can withstand it.

Johnson's dick balled away the sergeant's last defenses. After a few minutes of grunting, panting, sweaty fucking, Sansom gnashed his teeth. "All right, you sonofabitch! Go faster, Faster! HARDER!"

I reached down and loosened the lines holding the sergeant's legs to the floor, then the lines to his wrists. Taking away his excuses. The sergeant was free.

But he crouched there, taking it, his ass lurching back at Johnson's driving cock. And Johnson himself was close to cumming, fucking his first man. He shifted into Automatic, gripping the sergeant's hips and going into short, fast, violent jackhammer jabs. And that broke through Sansom's last resistance.

"Oh, God, you bastard," he roared, "do it! Harder, you sonofabitch! FUCK ME!!

I couldn't help beating off as I watched the two fuckers. Johnson The Hulk was fulfilling his rite of manhood! And when he raised his head, letting out a howl of ecstasy, I knew the big Gyrene's manhood was filling-full the Sergeant – whose own cock was sputtering USMC jism all over the deck. Damn, he, too, cums from being fucked? What, are all Marines oversexed horndogs? 

As he finally burned down, Johnson fell forward to rest on the sweating back of the sergeant, and the two crouched there, panting and moaning. I was impressed: their afterglow lasted several minutes.

Finally Johnson arose and rocked back onto his haunches. His cock came out of the sergeant's ass with a slurp – and a stream of white slime ran down the sergeant's leg. This is a great day for sperm running down Marine Corps legs. Johnson's eyelids were half-shut. He was still in the afterglow! "God," he murmured softly, and I smiled. Johnson had learned to be a man. To give and take.

The sergeant rolled over onto his back, his face a combination of satisfied drunkenness and real confusion. "Never woulda believed . . ." He paused a long time. "You got me, Marine. Gotta admit it." He sat up. "Oh, God, what's gonna happen to me now?"

Johnson answered: "You just know something about yourself that other men don't know. Both of us are good Marines. Still are. We just got a little private knowledge ain't nobody else's business." He smiled. "You wanna do it again, don't ya, Sergeant." It was not a question.

The sergeant frowned. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, "Yeah." He shifted nervously, facing the truth. "I like that big cock of yours. But I ain't nobody's bitch," he snapped. "You can't fuck me anytime you feel like it!"

"Naw, Sergeant, that goes without sayin'. We can take care of each other . . . when it's convenient." Johnson reached down, scooped some of the cum from the sergeant's cock, and licked it off his fingers. Then he stood up, took the sergeant's hand, and pulled him to his feet. "Fucking is good exercise. I slept like a baby after every time the Doc got me."

That ended the session. I had to close the dispensary. We got dressed. I wiped the cum from the examination table. I'll have to wipe down the deck and bulkheads with cleanser to get the fuck-smell out of the place!  I locked up, and we walked out into the passageway. 

"Lemme tell ya somethin', Squid-boy!" The sergeant's voice was hard and loud. "You will get the fuck out of the way, Swabbie, when you see me coming!" But he reached down and squeezed my butt. "But," he said low and quiet, "I'm interested in seeing what the Navy can do with a willing Marine." With that, he walked away.

Johnson looked down at me. "Thanks for teaching me to fuck like a pro. God, I feel good!" He lowered his voice. "I'm your bitch, yours anytime you want me." He smiled. "Lemme see some of those pictures sometime."

I grinned back. "Pure bullshit. No 'medical camera setup' – the camera was just there on the shelf. And there was no film in it." We laughed, looked around, then took each other in our arms for a kiss!

We split up and headed to our quarters by different routes. Life was good! Everything was great!

Life went on. Johnson and I saw each other on an irregular basis, always careful. Every so often the sergeant would come up to the dispensary for what he called "health lessons." 

None of us were never caught, and on that cruise I had the best sex of my whole goddamned life. On a weekend pass in Saigon, we got a hotel room and the three of us fucked each other in every imaginable (and unimaginable) way all night long. 

They were both transferred away when the USS XXXX returned to the States a year later. We agreed not to write to each other – too dangerous – and we bid farewell. 

I never saw Corporal Johnson or Sergeant Sansom again. I often wonder what became of them. I hope they're still alive somewhere. The times with them are still the most potent images in my autorotation memories of the Navy.