24 comments/ 93879 views/ 75 favorites Now We Are No Longer Strangers By: Sir Galahad Now We Are No Longer Strangers "Hey, sailor, wanna dance?" He looked up to see the redhead he'd seen looking at him earlier standing there, eyes sparkling. The music had just switched to a slow ballad. "Why not?" They walked onto the dance floor and she flowed into his arms, swaying to the beat as they moved across the parquet in a slow fox-trot. "I'm Trisha. And you might be? "Wally. But tell me: won't your date, Lt. Brackett, be annoyed at your disappearance?" "Not for one dance, and he's in the head anyway. Besides, the guest of honor at a wetting-down party deserves a dance with someone his own age instead of women old enough to have been his babysitters." "And how did you know this is a wetting-down party, hmm?" he asked. She chuckled. "This isn't my first time at the ball. I'm a Navy brat. It's unusual to see a lieutenant commander who's been in for only, what? Nine years? Ten?" "Seven." "Even curiouser -- seven years, with a salad bar topped by a Legion of Merit with the Combat V, and sporting a Filipino Legion of Honor. I'd like to hear how you came by those two. Did you get them at the same time?" "No. I'm surprised you recognized the Filipino ribbon. Very few people do." "Daddy was stationed at Subic Bay before it closed when I was a little girl. He has friends in their army and navy. Even there, you didn't see many Legions of Honor; it's not a medal they hand out along with the breakfast bacon. You'll have to tell me about it sometime." A scintillating smile. "And how will I find you to tell you the story?" "Don't worry, Wally. I'll find you." The look on her face said she was not joking. The music ended. Wally took Trisha back to her table. Her escort was there, looking askance at them as they walked up. "Thank you for allowing me to borrow your girl for one dance, Brackett. It's refreshing to dance with someone who isn't old enough to be my mother." Brackett smiled without mirth. "Yes, duty dances are trying. Congratulations on your promotion, Michaels. Or should I say 'sir' now, in honor of those oak leaves?" His eyes flicked over the ribbons and badges displayed on Wally's chest, plainly contrasting them with his own and not much liking the comparison. "Not until October, you shouldn't. I'm just frocked; it was the Old Man's idea. And speaking of ideas, I'm taking a party from the Hull out Saturday morning in the Janus II. We very much appreciate the help the Supply Corps, and you personally, have given us during this refit. Would you and your girl care to join us as our guests?" "Oh, do say yes, Joe," urged Trisha. "It's been a long time since I went out deep sea fishing. We might get lucky and tie into a tuna!" Brackett plainly didn't want to accept the invitation; but with his girlfriend urging him to, he could hardly refuse. "Where and when?" he asked. "0500 Saturday morning, at the yacht basin. We'll see you then. Good night." "Good night, Wally," said Trisha, a purr in her voice. Joe shot his date a dirty look as Wally took his leave. Now We Are No Longer Strangers "Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded. "What about him?" "If he killed that bottle all by himself he's going to have a world-class hangover when he wakes up, but physically that's his only problem. I take it he drove you here? Which car is his?" She pointed to a reddish-orange 1969 Dodge Charger. Wally patted Brackett down, found the keys, and tossed them to her. "Open the doors. I'll get him back to his quarters and then I'll take you home." He squatted, got Brackett into a fireman's carry, forced himself to his feet, and walked to the car, settling the unconscious lieutenant into the passenger seat and buckling him in. He closed the door and fished in his pocket. "The silver Z-3 over there is mine. You know how to drive a stick?" "It's what I learned on," she said. He handed her the keys. "You lead the way, I'll follow." "Yes, sir," she said. Hips swinging, she walked to his BMW. Wally looked speculatively after her, curiosity awakened by the memory of their conversation when they'd danced and what she'd said aboard the Janus II. Enroute to Bachelor Housing, a cross between a hotel and an apartment building where single officers and single senior enlisted lived, Wally gave in to temptation and tapped the horn button. The first eleven notes of "Dixie" sounded. "Figures," he thought. In the parking area by Bachelor Housing, Trisha came over as Wally hoisted Brackett over his shoulders. "Go to my car and wait for me. I'll be right along and then I'll take you home." "Yes, sir," she said, and again treated him to a hip-swinging walk, her long, bare legs an invitation to vivid male fantasies. The duty petty officer was a worldly wise chief who had seen it all and more than once in nearly thirty years of Navy service. It wasn't the first time he'd seen one officer carry in another who'd had too much to drink. He accompanied Wally up to Brackett's quarters, opened the door, and watched as he poured him onto his bunk and loosened his clothes. For his own part, the chief fetched a tall glass of water and aspirin from the bathroom to place on the nightstand with a note advising Brackett to take them when he awoke. He assured Wally that he would check on him in the morning. Trisha was leaning on the Z-3 when Wally returned. "Did you wrap him in swaddling clothes and put him in his crib?" she asked with a saucy look he quelled with a stern glance of his own. "The Chief who is concierge here will make sure he's all right tomorrow morning. But you just dealt his self-image a body blow that will take a while to get over. He might go on a bender, do something stupid, drop into a depression, or heaven knows what. Breaking up is never easy on the ego of the breakee; we owe him a little compassion. Now let's get you home." He opened the passenger door and swept an arm toward it "You can take me anywhere you like," she said softly as he handed her in, feeling a little shiver of anticipation run through her, her lips parting. Now We Are No Longer Strangers "Speaking of Star Trek: which series, which ship, and which captain?" "The Original Series and the Constitution class, of course; but the captains are a close tie, Jonathan Archer and James T. Kirk. I give Archer the edge because I like his spirit of adventure and his respect for women as something other than bedmates. You?" "The same, but with the captains reversed, Trisha. Archer's a better diplomat, but Kirk's a much better combat commander. Plus which, Kirk got the exotic girls ... like you." He caressed her breast, one finger circling her aureola; she purred and snuggled closer, her hand reaching to gently grasp his cock. "Which of Kirk's women is your favorite?" she asked. "I think Elaan suited him best. He earned her respect and she chose him as her mate, even though it could not last and she had to know that." She kissed him lightly on the lips. "As I have chosen you, my darling Master, though I hope with happier results. But let's continue. Beef or pork?" "Beef, though I admit to being a sausage fiend. Beer or wine?" "Dark beer with a strong flavor that isn't overwhelmed by the taste of what I'm eating. Whiskey or bourbon?" "Too broad a question. Single malt or single barrel over blended, every time; but single malt whiskey over single barrel bourbon. Now, an important question. Nails: buffed or lacquered? Pointed or straight?" "If I have a choice, pointed and lacquered, with a salon manicure. I usually keep them rounded because I use a computer so much; and I never wear acrylics because sexy as they can be, the glue they have to use to put them on tears up your real nails. Which do you prefer, nylons or fishnets?" "Legs as toned and tan as yours don't need stockings. Bare and silky smooth." "You flatter me, Master. Heels or flats?" "Heels, preferably stilettos; it does wonders for the walk. Do you like spooned or separate sides for sleeping?" "Oh, spooned, preferably with you behind so I can feel your cock on my ass. Cigars or a pipe?" "I don't smoke; never got the habit and don't plan to start. Golf or fishing?" "Fishing, salt water fishing by choice. 9mm or .45?" "You shoot?" he asked. "When I have the chance. When I graduated from college and took up teaching here, Daddy got me a Model 92 Beretta, the civilian version of the M-9, just in case." "I prefer the 1911. I own two of them; a target model with Novak sights, and a combat model with lasergrips. While we're on the subject, M-16 or M-14?" "Neither; I prefer the HK-91, it has a better action. I have one in the hall closet. Cars: foreign or domestic?" "Need you ask? You've seen my BMW. You?" "A '69 Vette I restored with some help from my brothers. I'll have to take you to see my baby; she's not my daily driver. Manhattan or New England clam chowder?" "Please. Manhattan-style is soup, not chowder. Chocolate or vanilla cake?" "Chocolate, always chocolate, the chocolater the better. I think chocolate lava cake is the most important contribution to Western cuisine of the past thirty years. Tea or coffee?" "Again, that's too broad a question. Premium of either over swill of the other. Football or baseball?" "Football, and the game is much more fun to watch with a group that's passionate about the teams. You're from New England, so I guess you root for the Patriots?" "Inevitably, considering where I grew up. It's nice to finally have a team worth watching. What's your team?" "We moved around so much I never felt any team was 'mine,' but I kind of admire the Green Bay Packers. I like that Green Bay owns the team, not a bunch of rich businessmen. Furniture: antique or modern?" "Antique, of course; mahogany by choice, but chestnut and walnut are good too. Country or Renaissance Revival?" "Renaissance Revival, and some of the Gothic Revival stuff is lovely. Just don't mention Provincial or Second Empire, I hate both of them. Can you say, 'overdone?' Ick. Chinese sculpted or Persian carpets? "Persian, and silk or silk-wool blend by choice, not pure wool; they don't hold up as well. Would you rather have Japanese or Chinese food?" "Chinese, though I developed a taste for hibachi and tempura when Daddy was stationed at Atsugi. Would you rather have a cat or a dog?" "What a choice! I prefer cats, though I like medium to large dogs; just not stupid little ankle-biters. One of my aunts had a Shi-Tzu, and I swear that dog had no brain. He'd try to bite you if you stepped out of the room for a minute. Which do you like better, emeralds or sapphires?" "Emeralds; they go with my eyes. A woman should always try to coordinate her jewelry with her eyes. Impressionist or abstract?" "Impressionist. Warner Brothers or MGM?" "Warners wins hands down for cartoons. I mean, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, the Tasmanian Devil, and Wile E. Coyote -- they're part of the world consciousness. But when you talk about musicals, it's no contest; MGM made the best film musicals ever. For modern animation, do you like DreamWorks or Pixar?" "Pixar, no question." Wally got out of the bed. "On your feet, woman. Or more exactly, on your knees." He tossed a pillow onto the floor. With no hesitation, Trisha knelt on the pillow and pulled him to her. Opening her mouth, she began to lick and then to suckle Wally's prick, cleaning her pussy juice off it. Opening her mouth wide, she fellated him, taking more and more of his cock into her mouth. With an effort, she relaxed her throat and suppressed her gag reflex so she could take all of him in until her nose rested in his trimmed pubic hair. She hummed as she bobbed her head back and forth, licking and sucking him. Looking down, Wally could see her nipples, hard little buttons sticking proudly out from her firm tits. She sped up, her hands coming up to grab his ass cheeks, urging him to pump her mouth. He did, reveling in the feeling as she sucked him off, working his cock, tongue lashing the underside of his cockhead until -- "Oh god, YES!" His cock jerked and shot his sticky spunk into her mouth. As it continued to spurt, he grabbed her hair and shoved it all the way down her throat. She didn't fight him, just accepted the deposit of his sperm in her. When his climax was over, she once again gently and carefully cleaned his prick, licking and sucking to get every drop. Looking up at him, she showed him his cum on her tongue, then slowly and deliberately swallowed, opening her mouth again to show it empty. She smiled. He raised her to her feet and for the first time they kissed, mouths open, tongues dueling as they disputed right of way. One of her hands latched onto his ass and pulled him to her while the other dug into his back to lock them together, while his kneaded her buttocks and twined into her hair to control the kiss. Guiding her to the edge of the bed, he pushed her down. Without being told, she lay back and spread her legs, offering her pussy to him. Putting the pillow under his own knees, he leaned forward and began to lick her labia, savoring her sweetness. He began to stroke her clitoral shaft with a fingertip, just brushing it with a feather touch. Trisha sighed and spread her legs wider. He spent a few minutes licking her inner and outer lips from bottom to top and back again, continuing to tease her clitoral shaft but avoiding the supersensitive tip that was fully unhooded. She moaned and whispered as he worked her body. "Oh yes ... oh yes ... oh, what you're doing to me, Master! So good. So very good! Don't be coy, make me cum for you! Let me please you! Please! Please!" He reversed functions. Two fingers slipped into her cooze, moving in and out; her hips involuntarily bucked to meet them and pull them deeper. He began tonguing her clit and she bucked harder, crying out. "Oh god! Oh god! More! More! Please, Master! Lick me! Lick my clit! It's so gooood! Oh god, I'm gonna -- gonna -- AIEEEE!" Wally had just put his mouth over her clitoris and clitoral shaft and sucked hard. She orgasmed, her hips locking her twat against his face, her hand beating the mattress as she came with an awesome force she had never before experienced from oral sex. As her ass dropped back onto the bed, Wally added a third finger to the pair already soaked with her female oils and began to flick his thumb and tongue on her clit as his digits slipped in and out of her cunt at a presto pace. She screamed again, a second climax crowding in on the heels of the first, writhing on the duvet, her mind retreating and her primitive self coming to the fore. The primal woman that lived deep inside her was very aware that a dominant male who was pleasuring her powerfully was using her. She was only too eager to do whatever he wanted if only he would make her cum again the way she had before. "YES! Use me! Use me! Use my pussy! Make me! Make me cum for you! I want to! Make me cum on your hand, in your mouth, any way you want! Use me! I love it! Don't stop, Master, please don't stop! Use me! Make me cum for you!" She squirmed and tried to pull his whole hand into her as his mouth worked her clit, gasping as the pleasure waves rolled over her and crashed into her mind, the electric jolts of sexual power running from her cunt to her nips to her brain, inexorably driving her out of her mind until only the ecstasy remained. She surrendered to it and felt another orgasm explode in her loins, burning through her like a white-hot ball of fire as it expanded. The whiteness overwhelmed her and she faded to black, exhausted by the pleasure she had been given. When she awakened from her short nap, she found herself in her bed, a blanket covering her. Wally, dressed in slacks, a white sport shirt, and a blue blazer with the "golden chicken" of a Strategic Sealift Officer embroidered in gold wire inside a shield on the breast pocket that he'd taken from his dry-cleaning on the back seat of his car, was sitting on the edge of the bed stroking her hair. "Grab yourself a shower, and dress as if you're proud to be seen with me, Trisha. I've made reservations at the Capital Grille in Jacksonville for dinner." "I am proud to be seen with you. I want our first appearance as a couple to be memorable, something people will talk about. How much time do I have, Master?" "The reservation is for 2100, and I have in mind making a couple of stops on the way, so don't dawdle." Trisha showered and attended to her personal hygiene in record time. Wally watched her strut naked out of the bathroom, putting on a show he knew was for his benefit as she selected an off the shoulder, green watered silk cocktail dress, stick-on brassiere cups, and black patent leather pumps with 3 inch stiletto heels. She went to her bureau and chose a pair of green, lacy panties; Wally walked up behind her, took them out of her hand, dropped them back into the drawer, and closed it. "No, pet. When we are together, you don't need panties. I like you to be ... accessible." He wrapped his arms around her, his left hand cupping a breast, his right covering her mound and a finger slipping into her. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder as he kissed her inviting mouth, her lips opening under his to welcome his tongue as he masturbated her. Her hips rocked as his fingers excited her, pushing her toward an orgasm on his hand. "Ohhh yes ... ohhh yes ... oh, Master, don't stop ... don't stop ... yes ... yes ... yes ... yes ... ohhh ... ohhh ... oh, oh, oh, oh, oh YES!" Her box clamped down on his fingers as she came on his hand. The sexual flush on her chest, such a contrast with her milk-white skin, faded. She kissed him again. "Thank you, Master. I am yours to use, whenever you wish." "Thank you, Trisha. I find your responsiveness ... intensely attractive. Go on with your preparations for our night out." With Trisha's lily gilded, the couple drove toward Jacksonville. On the way, Wally pulled off into a strip mall. Trisha looked a question at him. "There's a nail parlor here I've heard some women at the O Club speak well of. I am going to treat my submissive to a mani-pedi; we've time before dinner." "As you wish, Master. I enjoy having my nails done; it's a little bit of luxury I like to indulge in, but not as often as I want to. May I choose my nail color, please?" "Of course. Take your time, but not too much time. I'll find something to occupy myself while they work on you." Wally hadn't told her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He had indeed heard women speak favorably of this nail salon and spa, but his real purpose in stopping at this particular strip mall was the St. Johns River Gun & Pawn Shop. When the Hull was in port, any port, one of Wally's pursuits was gold, silver, precious gems, and jewelry. The pieces he bought were investments, the sort of thing that a girlfriend might appreciate as gifts, even though he did not have one: earrings, necklaces, bracelets, cocktail rings; gold and silver coins, plus occasionally loose gemstones, flatware, objets d'art, and the like. Once in awhile he bought firearms, too. The owner was behind the counter and looked up as he walked in. "Wally Michaels! I was just thinking of you. We just took in a Model 1907 'Cossack' Mosin Nagant rifle with no import stamp. The story is that a Yangtze River Patrol sailor brought it back from China before World War II. Interested?" "Of course," Wally allowed. He examined the rifle, which likely had been carried to China by a White Army cavalryman after the collapse of the anti-Communist White Movement ended the Russian Civil War. The bore was in surprisingly good condition considering the corrosive-primer ammunition that had been its steady diet. The arsenal stamps were correct, all the numbers matched, and the original arshin-calibrated sights had not been replaced by the later Model 91/30 metric sights. After a brief negotiation, a price was agreed upon. At that point, Wally made a request. The proprietor's eyebrows rose. Wally had bought a number of pieces of jewelry from him as investments in the past, but nothing like this. He disappeared into his office, reappearing with a black velvet tray. Taking his time, Wally examined the offerings, narrowing the selection down to five that received much closer scrutiny. Eventually he settled on one, bargaining began, and soon a deal was made. As he boxed up the purchases, the shop owner said, "I tell you what. If it goes as you hope, keep the Mosin with my compliments. If it doesn't, pay me for it tomorrow." After locking the rifle in the trunk of the Z-3, he returned to pick up Trisha from the nail technicians. She had had her nails pointed as much as their short length allowed, and painted a deep scarlet to match her lipstick. She took his arm, looking adoringly at him. They went on to the restaurant. Heads turned as they walked through the door; Trisha was a stunner dressed to impress, and Wally himself cut an imposing figure in nicely tailored, casually expensive clothes. His lawyer father had taught him the importance of tailoring in making a positive impression, a lesson he had taken to heart. Their table was waiting. Dinner began with shrimp cocktails, and continued through French onion soup, sliced filet mignon with onions and mushrooms for him and coffee-rubbed sirloin for her, and chocolate hazelnut cake for her and crème brulee for him as the dessert course, accompanied by a good cabernet sauvignon and followed by cups of Kona coffee. As they ate, they continued the dialogue they had begun in bed. "Waltz or tango?" he asked. "Tango is much more fun than waltzing. Mom made me take dancing lessons when I was about 14 and we were stationed at Atsugi. It put me in touch with some of the rebellious elements of Japanese society. They look at ballroom dancers the way we look at people who engage in gangbangs. "My turn. CSI or NCIS?" Trisha asked. "NCIS doesn't appeal at all; I liked JAG better, even though that might seem like a busman's holiday. Although since William Petersen left CSI, it hasn't been the same. "Silk sheets or cotton?" "That depends. If it's cotton versus silk satin and the cotton thread count is 500 or higher, cotton wins. If it's smooth silk versus high thread count cotton, silk wins. I love the feel of silk against my skin. "Gryffindor or Ravenclaw?" Wally chuckled. "When you get the Harry Potter app, you have to face the Sorting Hat. It put me in Gryffindor. Although I sometimes wonder what would happen if the Wizarding World of Harry Potter had a Sorting Hat show ..." Trisha chuckled with understanding as he continued, "Earl Grey or Darjeeling?" "Earl Grey, if those are the only choices. But if I get a say, I'd much rather have Jasmine Dragon Phoenix Pearls green tea. It's worth the extra time it takes to brew it. "Waterford or Baccarat?" "If those are my choices, Baccarat; I simply don't like overdone in anything, and I find Waterford seriously overdone. Besides, I know it's much harder to make clean thin crystal than the heavier Waterford style. "Floral or spicy perfume?" Trisha thought. "Floral, but not the ones that are as subtle as a thrown brick. I prefer something that you have to be ... closer ... to appreciate. "Episcopalian or Methodist?" "Pet, I believe in a Great Architect of the Universe. You can't have stood watch at sea and watched the stars wheeling across the sky and not believe there has to be some reason behind it all. What I have a problem with is organized religion; I've run across too many pastors and chaplains who see religion as a scam and too few who were, for lack of a better term, holy. "Candlelight or firelight?" "That depends on the time of year, the company, if the candles are behind glass or not, and what kind of rug is on the floor in front of the fire. I can say from experience that bearskin rugs are overrated. Mink throws, now -- that's something else again. "Poker or bridge?" "I'm not much for cards as a rule. But when I was at Maritime, three of my buddies and I had a standing date for whist every week. Every Thursday night, we'd get together for three or four hours of whist. I remember one night especially; it was during license exam week, the thing four years in Buzzards Gulch leads up to. Ira and I were in my room going over Rules of the Road, and about eight o'clock we looked at each other and said, 'If we don't know it by now, cramming won't help. Let's play cards.' We started for the door, and when we opened it Nicky and Tex were about to knock. They'd been boning up on Electricity, and they'd reached the same conclusion we had, at just about the same moment we had. We grabbed a passing 'young swine' and sent him to the ship's store with money to get chips, dips, and sodas; and then we played whist until four o'clock in the morning, with the day's exams due to start at 0830. We got about three and a half hours of sleep, walked into the exam room like zombies -- and we each got a perfect score!" Trisha laughed appreciatively as he went on, "Mac or PC?" "Oh, that's a toughie. At school, I use a PC, because that's what the school system is set up for. But at home, I use a Mac. Less worry about viruses and malware. "Wallpaper or paint?" "Wallpaper is a pain in the ass on several levels. First, you have to agree on the pattern, which can be like negotiating with the North Koreans. Then you have to agree on whether or not to hire it done, or try and do it yourselves. And if you do it yourselves, you have to agree on who does the edge-matching and on what the tolerances are. Dad said once that putting up wallpaper was the ultimate test of the stability of a marriage. If a couple could wallpaper a room and still be speaking to each other when it was done, they had a solid relationship. Personally, I like paint; it's easy to care for and you can change the whole look of a room for not a whole lot of money. But if I have a choice, I'd rather have paneled walls -- antique paneling, not the modern junk that looks like crap. Now We Are No Longer Strangers "Which reminds me: Victorian or Modern houses?" "Living in base housing my whole life, I'm about as sick of modern home design, by which I mean anything from 1950 on, as I can be. Unless you're an admiral on one of the old bases like New London or Newport that were around in the 1800s, most of the housing is World War II vintage or later. It puts me in mind of Levittown. If I had my way, I'd live in a Victorian or Edwardian style house on a property big enough that the neighbors aren't in my lap. "Now this is important: Republican or Democrat?" "Neither," said Wally firmly. "I vote the candidate and the positions, not the party. In fact, I often wish the ballot had a line that said, 'None of the above.' And if that line got the most votes, the parties would have to pick new candidates, campaign for a month, and then the people would vote again. Repeat as needed until some candidate got a majority of the votes cast." She laughed appreciatively. The waiter came around and refilled their coffee cups. When he had gone, Wally looked across the table at Trisha, studying her face. At last, he spoke. "Trisha, after bedding each other, and our pillow talk, and this little Q & A over dinner, we are no longer strangers. You've made your position that you are a sexual submissive who wants me as your Dominant very clear. I believe we are very compatible. If what we are feeling isn't love, it will do until love comes along. "I'm about to be noble, and I hope you won't cause me to regret it." He pushed a small leather box across the table to her. Trisha opened it slowly. Inside, a two-carat diamond in an 18 carat gold setting winked up at her from a bed of black velvet. She met his eyes across the table, reading the question in them. She answered it by picking up the ring and putting it on the third finger of her left hand. "You don't need to do this, Master. I am yours, any way you will have me. I belong to you. I will happily be your lady as well as your lover. I don't play the slut with every man I meet, but with you it feels so right it excites me. I feel I know you better than any boyfriend I've ever had, even though we've known each other only one day. "I don't know if this is love, either. I do know that when I see you, touch you, and catch your scent that I want you, that you complete me. I think we can be happy together for the rest of our lives, my darling Master. "Please, let's go back to my -- our -- place, to our bed, and have you take me. I need to feel you inside me so much! I want to consecrate myself to you on your magnificent cock and pleasure you until we can't see straight." Back at the apartment, Wally led Trisha into the bedroom. Slowly and carefully, he stripped the green dress off her, putting it back on its hanger and returning it to the closet. He removed the stick-on bra cups and set them back into their box, baring her boobs with nipples crinkled hard with anticipation. Her chest was flushed and her nostrils flared with each breath. "Undress me," he ordered. Obediently, Trisha removed his clothing, hanging his sport coat on the back of her vanity chair, folding the other clothes neatly and setting them on the seat. Wally drew her to him and kissed her with no attempt to be seductive, taking possession of her. She responded with an open mouth, squirming against him as he held her head against his, controlling the kiss with one hand while the other squeezed her high, firm breasts and rolled the nipple between his fingers like a pencil. Her newly pointed nails dug into his back and his ass as she moaned with passion while he firmly established his dominance. Breaking the kiss, Wally sucked her right nipple into his mouth, nibbling at it while he continued to torment her other boob, hearing her gasp with the joy of her submission. "Yes, Master! I'm your slut! Suck my tits! Use me like the slut I am! I love it! Use me, please!" He backed her over to the bed and pushed her down. She lay back and spread her legs, her labia already wet with her natural juices, her coochie glistening in the light. Wally climbed onto the bed and swung around to dine at the Y. Without being told, Trisha opened her mouth and began to fellate the penis that bumped against her lips, humming as she sucked him and he ate her box out, licking her juices off her nether lips. Gathering some of her moisture on his fingers, he pressed her brown rosebud, smiling to himself at the groans which insinuated themselves into her humming as the frottage further stimulated her. After a little bit, he slipped a finger past her anal ring and began to saw it in and out of her as she gasped with surprise. As he had predicted to himself, although Trisha had said she had had masters and a mistress who had used her like a call girl anal sex had seldom if ever been on the menu. If it was one of her boundaries, he meant to stretch it to the limit tonight. He licked and sucked at her clit and her twat, feeling as well as hearing her as she orgasmed against his mouth. "Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes -- yes -- yes -- yes -- yes! Oh yes -- yes yes -- yesyesyes --yes --aah, aah, aah AHH Y-E-E-E-E-S-S!" She shuddered under him with the power of her climax, her pussy juice squirting out to drench his face as she came. He got up and flipped her over on the bed so her legs hung over the edge, her shoes brushing the floor. Wiping his face with one hand, he used the juices thus gathered to anoint the head of the cock she had thoroughly wetted with her mouth, pulled her asscheeks apart, and pressed against the anal ring his finger had passed earlier. Trisha's head came up as she realized what her Master was about to do, but before she could protest her anus relaxed and his cockhead slipped inside. Startled, she took a deep breath; Wally took advantage of it to push forward and sink his iron-hard rod deep into her ass. "OHHH!" she gasped as his invasion forced the air out of her. "Oh, Master! I've never done this before!" "Never?" Wally asked as he pulled back and then pushed forward again, gaining another inch. "Well, a dildo, once; but it wasn't as thick and long as you. Ohhh, that's different, so much better than the dildo. So much better. Don't stop, Master, please don't stop. I am your slave and your whore for you to use any way you wish. Go on! Take my anal cherry and mark my total subjugation to our love!" He reached out a long arm and grabbed the bottle of oil Trisha had used to massage him earlier in the evening. Popping the cap, he dribbled a little onto the rigid penis working its way farther into Trisha. It eased the passage and she moaned happily as his balls slapped against her twat. "That's good. Oh, that's good! Give it to me! Give it all to me! Cum in my ass and take my anal cherry, Master! Fuck my ass! Fuck it good!" A little more oil, and his thick prick moved as smoothly in and out of her ass as it had her wet, pink pussy. She began to push back against him, wanting it all, wanting his cock all the way insider her until his hips smacked her buttocks and his balls swung to strike her clitoris. He grabbed her hair to control her and get them into sync. "Ohh! Ahh! Ohh! Ahh! Ahh! Ohh! Ahh yeah! Yeah! Pull my fucking hair! Yeah! Ohh! Ohh! Ohh yeah! Like that! Yeah! Ahh! Ahh! Ohh fuck, make me cum! Fuck, make me cumm! Yeah, make me cummm! Oh fuck, ohh fuck, oh oh oh -- YEAAHH!" Her back arched as she sucked in the air for that last shriek and her body instinctively tried to pull his cock deep into her as she came. Her head dropped forward again as far as it could with his hand twined into it, and his hips never stopped moving. In a minute she began to buck under him again moaning and gasping her pleasure for her Master to hear. "Oh yes, Master. So good. Feels so good in me. Don't stop. Please don't stop. I love you inside me. Please don't stop!" In a moment of inspiration, he reached around and slipped the middle finger of his free hand into her pussy. The effect was immediate. "Ohh! Ohh yeah!! Ohh yeah! Ohh yeah! Ohh, fuck! Yeah!! Ohh yeah! Ohh yeah! Don't stop! Oh god! Oh god! Keep fucking me like that! Keep fucking me like that! Finger me! Oh god! Oh god, I'm close! Fuck me! Finger me! Fuck my ass! Fuck my ass! Ahh! Ahh! Ahhnnn -- ahhnn -- oh -- YEEESSSS!" Her anal ring spasmed around his prick and her girl-honey soaked his hand as Trisha orgasmed again. Wally felt his own climax beginning to build in his balls and knew he could not hold off much longer. He let go of her hair and grabbed her shoulder, speeding up as he pounded her willing asshole and added another finger as he twisted his hand to get his palm against her clit and she writhed under him, her hips seesawing in response to his assault on her ass. "Ohmigod! Yes! Yes! Give it to me! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! Fuck my ass! Fuck my ass! Ohh! Ohh! Ohh yeah! Yeah! Don't stop! Don't stop! Give it to me! Yeaahh! Fuck me harder! Fuck me! Don't stop! Oh yeah!" she screamed, the pitch of her voice rising with every stroke. "Oaah yeah! Oh yeah! Oaah! Oaah! Ohmigod! Don't stop! Ohh, fuck! Oh fuck! Ohmigod, yeah! Oh god, you're hard! Oh god, yes! Yes! Yes! Ohmigod. I'm cumming! Cum with me! Now! Now! Now! Na -- AAIIEEHH!" Unable to hold back any longer, Wally blew his load into Trisha's bowels like a power washer cleaning barnacles off hull plating. The world spun around him as he erupted into her and she shook with the force of her own climax, and his. He fell on top of her as they simultaneously spiraled down into the darkness of the little-death that only the very best fucking can produce, and not often even then. They woke lying beside each other, their sexual juices drying on each other's bodies. She reached out to him and he gathered her in. They kissed gently, caressing each other. "I know what let's do," said Trisha softly. "Let's shower, Master, and then soak in the tub for a little bit, so we sleep soundly. And in the morning," she said with a quick kiss, "please take me again." "Always happy to accommodate a lady," smiled Wally, stroking her hair. "You get the water running, pet. I'll go find the dark beer I am sure is in your fridge. As you say, bathe, soak, and sleep, and sex in the morning. Life doesn't get much better." Now We Are No Longer Strangers "Hello, Wally." "Admiral Fulton! Boss, what are you doing here?" "I'm down for a conference at MacDill concerning the new patrol craft design the Surface Warfare Center is developing. We'd like to take the needs of the Special Ops community into account before we finalize it if we can, but not at the expense of her primary mission. Tell you about it later." The line moved ahead, and Wally and Trisha found themselves facing her parents. Trisha squealed with delight and threw her arms around her father's neck; he harrumphed, but looked pleased. Her redheaded mother spotted the diamond solitaire on her finger and subjected Wally to a swift but intense scrutiny, obviously thinking, "Are you good enough for my little girl?" After Trisha unwound herself from her father, Admiral Corcoran extended his hand to Wally. "Pleased to meet you. Find yourself a drink and enjoy the party. I'll see you later." Wally interpreted this to mean, "I don't have the faintest idea who you are; but as you're here with my daughter, I will be polite." Obviously he had not noticed the engagement ring on her finger. Wally and Trisha moved away toward the buffet set up on the verandah overlooking the patio. The two of them got drinks from the bar under a white canopy and wandered into the back garden. Befitting a house upwards of 70 years old, the trees and plantings were fully mature and blooming; the garden was an oasis of color populated by an ocean of officers in dress whites and women in bright dresses that competed with the flowers in loveliness. Trisha introduced Wally to a few officers, aviators all, who she knew from her father's past assignments. Most of the party guests were senior officers stationed at Jax, but two comparative juniors saw them and headed their way. "Hello, little sister," said the two-striper, picking her up and spinning her around as she laughed happily. He had the same red hair she did; unlike her, he was tanned and freckled, looking like he had once been a linebacker or maybe a hockey forward. Wally took note of the Special Warfare eagle, anchor, trident and pistol on his uniform above the double row of ribbons he wore; this must be Trisha's brother Billy. The other, a tall, thin three-striper commander sporting aviator's wings and three rows of ribbons headed by the Distinguished Flying Cross, a Command-at-Sea star above his right pocket, darker red hair graying at the temples, and an aviator's pencil mustache looked with faint disapproval at his siblings before offering Wally his hand. "As Trisha seems to be caught up in the moment and Billy seems to have forgotten his manners, allow me to introduce myself. I'm John Corcoran, Jr. I have command of VF-41 at the moment." "How do you do, sir? I'm Wallace Michaels, first lieutenant of the Isaac Hull. We're refitting at Mayport at present." Johnny looked at the obviously new two and a half stripe shoulder boards on Wally's shoulders, the four-plus rows of ribbons that numbered fourteen in all, the Surface Warfare Officer and Small Craft badges, and reached a conclusion. "You don't look old enough for the rank you're wearing. Are you attempting to dazzle my sister with a display of ribbons and badges you picked up in a surplus store?" That got both Billy and Trisha's attention. Wally looked Johnny in the eye and said icily, "I am wearing no rank, badge or decoration I did not earn ... sir. I would expect a squadron commander to have better manners than to call a fellow officer's decorations into question when they have barely met. There is the natural arrogance of the Naval Aviator; and then there's the arrogance of the Golden Boy who thinks all around him are his lessers. Which are you displaying, Commander?" "Johnny! How dare you?" snapped Trisha. "Yes, Wally's only been in the Navy seven years, but they have been a busy seven years. He's one of those officers who is sent where the action is. He's paid for his rank and his medals with blood and superior performance in combat, combat that you haven't seen. "You were a self-righteous prick when we were children, and you haven't mellowed with age. I feel sorry for your pilots, and God help your airedales! You must be impossible to work for!" Billy had been looking at Wally's ribbons. "Michaels ... Michaels. Have you by any chance spent time in Brazil?" "My last assignment before the Hull. I did a tour with their riverine force in the Amazon." The SEAL offered his hand. "Now I know who you are! You're Wally Gator, Commodore of the Gator Navy. You wrote the report on the drug war in the Amazon that suggested SEALs be sent to train the Brazilian riverine warfare battalion. You're responsible for my troop being sent to school their Marine river rats in the fine arts of underwater infiltration and enemy base-raiding for fun and profit. The flotilla officers told me about you and that Stenka you used to drive." "I didn't do it; I was somewhere else at the time, and I have witnesses to prove it," Wally chuckled, taking Billy's hand. "Weren't you stationed at Little Creek a few years back? When I was working with the SEALs as a fresh-caught ensign, I heard stories about Boots Corcoran and his band of merry pirates. I sure could have used you in Brazil when I was down there." "Well, I got there in the end; just got back a few months ago. You taught them well, my boys fit right in. Lean, mean, and hungry, your gators are. An enjoyable assignment, that was ... and not just because we were working with good men." He gave Wally a slow, knowing wink and a grin. Trisha was still glaring at her older brother. "John, you owe Wally an apology. And you owe me one as well. Do you think I'd get engaged to a phony that would stoop to wearing fake ribbons to impress a girl? I'm insulted." John looked at the three of them, Trisha's simmering anger barely contained; and Wally and Billy, instant comrades, clearly wondering if they could drag him behind the garage and beat the shit out of him without anyone noticing. He rapidly reassessed his position. "I jumped to conclusions that weren't warranted. Commander Michaels, you have my apology for questioning your integrity. I should have known a poseur would never fool my sister. But did I hear you say 'engaged?' When did this happen, and why wasn't I told?" "I could ask you the same thing, Trisha," said a deep voice behind them. The four turned to see Admiral Corcoran and his wife. "When did this happen?" "Not long ago, Daddy. I was planning to bring Wally to meet you and Mom soon anyway; your birthday party seemed like a good time." She took Wally's arm, and he laid a hand on hers, a gesture that did not pass unnoticed by Amanda Corcoran. "Trish honey, I think what your father and I are saying is that we'd have liked the chance to get to know your young man before you jumped into something as serious as an engagement. It's a big step, after all," she said. "Meaning no disrespect, ma'am, but while we may not have known each other as long as you might prefer, Trisha knows her own mind. She knows what being a Navy wife is all about, having been raised in the Navy and with your good example to follow. I may not be your idea of the perfect son, being neither an Annapolis man nor a pilot, but while we would very much like your blessing on our union, yours and her father's, we're prepared to elope if we must. "Trisha is a grown woman who knows what she wants. It feels to us as if our lives up to now have only been prologue, with the story yet to come. When we're together, we complete each other." "Mother, for a long time there has been a void in my heart, an emptiness that needed the right man to fill it. I've dated all sorts of guys, including some young officers you set me up with, but it never felt right; that emptiness was always there. They didn't have what I need. Wally does. His love fills the hole in my heart. He is my other half; it's as simple as that. "No one could have been more surprised than we were when we realized that and we bonded so quickly and completely, Daddy. But you taught me that when something is right, and you know it's right, to act on it no matter what others might think. Wally and I are right for each other. And as Wally said, we'd very much like to have your blessing, but we're planning to get married with or without it." "I can say many things about my sister, Dad," said Billy, "but one thing I've never been able to say is that she doesn't know what she is doing. If Wally Gator here is the man she wants, she'll have him if she has to fight her way across Hell to get him. For his part, if he has to blast a new road through Hell and ride roughshod down it to get her, he will." Johnny put in, "Father, if you were my commanding officer and I was required to advise you, I'd strongly advise you not to stand in the path of the jet on the catapult. These are two tigers whose tails you don't want to grab." "Honey, do you really want this handsome stud?" Amanda asked, her choice of words startling her husband and her two sons, and causing Wally to blush. Trisha nodded, not trusting her voice. "Then have him, with our blessing. As Billy said, you always know what you're doing, and you always get what you want because you're willing to pay the price for it. Welcome to the family, Wally." She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Waiters were beginning to circulate with trays of champagne flutes. The Admiral waved one over and they each took a glass. When they all had one, he ordered, "All of you, follow me." He led them up the steps onto the verandah. Turning to face the people in the garden below, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. Tapping the flute and making it ring, the conversation below him died out and everyone looked at him. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank you for coming to pay your respects to me on my birthday." Polite applause greeted this statement. The Admiral continued, "However, we have more than one reason to celebrate today. Today, Amanda and I have the pleasure to announce the engagement of my daughter Patricia to Lieutenant Commander Wally Michaels of the USS Isaac Hull!" The crowd in the garden applauded with substantially more enthusiasm as he motioned Trisha and Wally forward. He kissed his daughter on the cheek as Amanda kissed Wally again, and an impromptu receiving line formed as the officers and their ladies gathered to congratulate the Corcorans and the new fiancé. The party livened considerably. The ladies took Trisha aside to get all the details of her romance and offer suggestions for the nuptials and reception. Johnny gathered Wally and Billy by eye and led them into the living room. "Father usually hides out with his cronies in his study when he throws an official party," he explained to Wally as he took three cut crystal glasses from the living room bar. "Scotch, bourbon, vodka, or brandy?" "Scotch," said Wally. Johnny poured two, neat, and without being told filled Billy's glass with bourbon and handed them out. "Here's to us," he said, holding up his tumbler. "What's like us?" Wally continued. "Damn few," Billy responded." "And they're all dead," finished Wally. They clinked their glasses and drank before moving across the room to the couch and an armchair. Settling down, they did what Navy officers getting to know each other usually do: tell sea stories. Johnny started the bull session with a story from his days as a "new nugget," a freshly qualified naval aviator, about the time when through an incredible series of screw-ups a Hornet was launched off the Constellation with its wings locked up in the storage position. Billy carried on with a tale about how his troop of SEALs, tasked with taking out the battalion HQ of an Army Reserve unit in a war game, had gotten the job done by stealing Army fatigues, brazenly walking into the headquarters during a staff meeting and popping the entire staff with silenced pistols, then walking out and vanishing into the dark before the reservists realized what had happened. In his turn, Wally told one from his tour with the Gator Navy in Brazil, of landing the crews of his flotilla's gunboats below a village the drug gangsters had taken over to use as a base after killing all the men and keeping the women to use as sex slaves. Wally's gators had slipped through the jungle, infiltrated the town, and played Sicilian Vespers on the thugs, rescuing the captive women and capturing quantities of crack cocaine and piles of guns. "What did you do with the bodies?" asked Billy curiously. Wally swirled the whiskey in his glass before taking a healthy swallow. "None of us liked druggies, and we wanted to send the cartels a message. Let's just say the alligators in that stretch of the Amazon ate well that night." Johnny blanched. Wally looked at him and said, "In case you hadn't noticed, Junior, war on the surface isn't as neat and clean as a missile hit at 35,000 feet or a bomb drop from 8 miles up. It can get right personal at times, and more than a little messy." Billy nodded agreement. They looked up as three more officers walked into the room, Admiral Corcoran, Admiral Fulton, and Admiral Rothernberg, commander of the logistics group whose headquarters was at NAS Jacksonville. "Is this a private party, or can any bull-thrower join in?" asked Corcoran. "I suppose you know where the booze is," riposted Wally. "Pull up a chair." The flag officers chuckled appreciatively and sat down while Billy refreshed their drinks. After some small talk, Admiral Fulton turned the conversation to Wally's future. "Have you thought about your next assignment after the Hull, Wally?" "The Old Man recommended me for command of the next available Cyclone on my fitness report, Boss. But he did say something about talking to BuPers and maybe sending me back to the Surface Warfare Center because of my work on Project Sword." Fulton looked at the other two flag officers. "Nobody ever said Dan Vincent was stupid. Project Sword was an idea I came up with back when I had the gunboat squadron at Little Creek. "The Navy's always been a blue-water service. The only long term brown-water fighting we've ever done was Farragut's Mississippi River campaign during the Civil War, and Zumwalt's work in the Mekong Delta during Vietnam. I asked my officers to submit papers describing where they thought possible littoral or riverine combats were likely, and what would be the ideal craft with which to fight them. "Most of them made only a pro forma effort; they saw their service in the Cyclones as a diversion from their careers on the deep blue in destroyers or cruisers. Michaels here didn't see it that way. He gave me what amounted to a small book advocating specialized riverine and coastal craft. "He traced the evolution of riverine warfare from the deep strikes of the Vikings, through the 19th Century British river campaigns in the Far East, to the activities of the Yangtze River Patrol, and brought in the small craft campaigns of World War II in North Europe, the Mediterranean, and the Pacific, pointing out that under the right conditions patrol craft can have an impact disproportionate to their size. He discussed Zumwalt's riverine force quite dispassionately, pointing out what the Big Z did right -- and wrong; and why he could not be blamed for some of the wrong, given he was working on a shoestring with improvised craft. "He also pointed out the threat posed by the Soviet Navy's small craft to the Sixth Fleet during the Cold War, something he thought we never took as seriously as we should have. He called the Russian Stenkas and Tarantals 'a poignard aimed to stab the Sixth Fleet to the heart.' "He described his Zen patrol craft with clarity, explaining his reasoning behind the weapons and propulsion systems he wanted; and advocated the use of carbon fiber and Kevlar for skinning the hull and upper works, mixing the same microscopic iron balls used in radar-absorbent paint into the polymer matrix used with the carbon fiber to make the ship stealthy, something no one had ever suggested before. He pointed out the compromises that would have to be made to have one ship fulfill its two proposed missions, riverine and littoral; and proposed solutions. "It was a remarkable piece of work for someone who'd been in the Navy just about two years. Then I discovered he was licensed to captain offshore fishing boats, and understood he was writing from practical small craft experience, not armchair seamanship. When I got my flag and the assignment to Sea System Command at the Naval Surface Warfare Center, I took him with me. Parts of his 'book' evolved into the guidelines for Project Sword, designing the next generation of patrol craft." Fulton shifted his attention to Wally. "Now that you've been a department head in a destroyer in addition to your combat experience in the Philippines and Brazil, plus having reached command rank, the ring-knockers on the design team will take you seriously, which they really didn't do back when you were a newly promoted j.g. So, would you like to come back and work for me again?" "I wouldn't be trapped behind a desk, would I, Boss?" asked Wally. "No," chuckled Fulton. "One reason I want you is there are too many boffins on the team -- officer and civilian scientist types," he explained when he saw the blank looks of his fellow admirals. "They don't have enough sea time between them to command a toy boat in a bathtub. I need someone practical there, who won't lose sight of the fact that real people have to use what the boffins come up with, someone to keep them pointed in the right direction and see this project through from the test basin phase to construction of the prototype. That's you, Wally, if you want the job. Interested?" "If you want me, you've got me. And when the prototype is ready for her acceptance tests, she's going to need a skipper." Wally cocked an eyebrow at Fulton, who smiled at him. "You can't say Wally Gator is dumb. If you can nurse her from the test basin to salt water, yes, she'll be yours. It's going to be an interesting challenge." "I agree," said Admiral Corcoran. "As far as I know, the biggest pieces ever to be made of carbon fiber are fuselage sections of the Boeing Dreamliner. If you're planning on making the hull out of that stuff, you're boldly going where no naval architect has gone before." Wally was about to reply when a commotion in the front hall interrupted the conversation. "Listen, you twerp! I know that Trisha Corcoran is here, and I want to see her! Let me by or I'll have you busted down to seaman recruit before you can say boo!" "What on earth?" wondered Admiral Corcoran. He turned for the door but stopped as Wally laid a hand on his arm. "With respect, sir, I recognize the voice. It's a junior officer thing. Leave it to me." "To us," corrected Johnny, motioning to Billy to fall in with him and Wally. The three of them went to the hallway, closing the living room door behind them. On the front porch, Joe Brackett was attempting to force his way past two sailors on the Admiral's personal staff. "I've got this, Petty Officer," Wally said. "Go see to the guests, if you would." The two sailors gratefully yielded their places to the three officers. Wally confronted the determinedly irate supply officer. "Brackett, what are you doing here? This is a private party to which you weren't invited. You're causing a scene. If you're smart, you'll put about and go home before someone has to take official notice of you." "Don't you talk to me, you jumped-up Merchant Marine shitbird!" snarled Brackett. "You goddamned girlfriend-stealing poacher! I don't know how you did it, but you stole Trisha from me, you Reserve hack, and I will have her back!" He waved a hand with a Naval Academy ring on one finger at Wally. Now We Are No Longer Strangers "This was your competition?" asked Johnny, amused contempt dripping from every word. "Trisha must have been drunk, desperate, drugged, or deranged to have gone out with him. Annapolis graduate or not, I can't tell what she even saw in him." "Accept the facts. Trisha dated you for awhile, decided you weren't right for each other, and broke up with you rather than lead you on. Get over it. Accept your loss and move on to the next blossom without a further investment of energy, time and good booze on the one you lost. There are lots of girls who'd go for a guy like you." Brackett was focused on Wally, stepping close enough to get in his face. "But I don't want another girl, Michaels. I want my girl back. You have her, and I want her!" Wally leaned back out of range of Brackett's breath; he'd had a couple before commencing his exercise in futility. "Brackett, Trisha and I are engaged. If you ever had a chance with her, you don't any longer; she's off the market. Give it up and go home." Brackett's hands balled into fists. "I think I'm going to make you make me go home." "We can do that," said Johnny, moving to flank Wally. "Two on one? How brave you must be!" An arm whipped around Brackett's neck under his chin and locked into a blood strangle sleeper hold. "No, Tuh-Tuh-Tuh-Torrance, three on one. Go to sleep now, there's a good boy." Brackett struggled for a couple of seconds before the blocking of his carotid arteries and jugular veins induced unconsciousness. Billy held the chokehold for a few seconds more before lowering him to the deck. Wally nodded approval and fished in his pocket. "Well done, Billy. There's a roll of duct tape in my trunk, that Z-3 over there." He tossed him the keys. "Gotcha, boss." He trotted down the steps as Wally reached into Brackett's pocket to get the keys to the '69 Charger again. He handed them to Johnny. "I'd count it a favor if you'd take him and his car back to Mayport Bachelor Housing, Johnny." "We can do that for you," the pilot said calmly. "I'll flip Billy to see who gets to drive your car." Billy returned with the duct tape and expertly trussed Brackett up, finishing with a strip of tape across his mouth. Watching the SEAL work, Wally commented, "It sounded as if you knew him." "Hate to admit it, but the bastard's a classmate. He was on the cheer squad when I was on the football team at Canoe U. His daddy's a state senator from someplace up north, and grandpa is or was in the House of Representatives, which explains how he got an appointment in the first place. What good is being a politician if you can't indulge in a little nepotism, I ask you? The idea was Torrance here would graduate from Annapolis, become a naval aviator, get a law degree in his copious spare time, then go into politics. "But his eyes went bad first class year, before his pre-commissioning physical. Grandpa had enough pull with the Navy to keep them from denying his commission, but it was with the understanding that he not be commissioned as a line officer. Since he's not a doctor, a dentist, a nurse, a civil engineer, or a preacher, and he isn't as yet a lawyer, that left either the Medical Service Corps or the Supply Corps. A big comedown from wearing wings of gold, that was. I notice he doesn't even have a SWOS -- Supply badge. Looks like he's spent his entire career on the beach." Wally helped him pick Brackett up and drape him over his shoulder. He pointed out the Charger, and as the two brothers headed that way went back inside to rejoin the admirals. "The problem has been handled, sir," he reported. "So we heard," said Admiral Corcoran dryly. "The windows are open. Have you a suggestion as to what should be done about your non-friend?" "I would suggest that a transfer is in order," said Admiral Fulton. "A good idea, Steamboat," said Corcoran. "Bergy, do we still have a supply depot at McMurdo Sound in Antarctica?" 'You know the old saying that if you have a number of problems, sometimes they can be made to solve each other?" Admiral Rothernberg asked. "It happens that I'm top-heavy with junior officers just now, and I've had a levy laid on me for an O-3 or O-4 supply officer to be assigned to support Patrol Craft Squadron One in Bahrain at the depot in Manama." "If I may be so bold as to suggest it, sir, I think Lieutenant Joseph Brackett, Supply Corps, presently assigned to the supply depot at Naval Station Mayport is singularly well suited for that assignment," said Wally. Admiral Corcoran smiled with evil humor. "I am quite certain that when Bergy here explains certain facts to him, he will understand why he is volunteering for an overseas assignment in Bahrain." The other officers chuckled as in the distance they heard a car horn play the first eleven notes of "Dixie."