The Phantom slowly opened the door and entered the barracks. He was dressed, from his soft-soled shoes to his ski-masked covered head and face, in black. Black leather gloves covered his hands. The Phantom took no chances. Even his briefs were black. Ranged before him were the tiers of double bunks that held the bodies of some of the boys he would visit tonight. He remained still, listening intently for a noise, a sound that was out of the ordinary. He heard nothing but the heavy, rhythmic breathing of 40 boy cadets deep in sleep.
After adjusting his slowly rising penis, which was thickening with anticipation, The Phantom removed his gloves, thrust them into the deep side pocket of his jeans and began to glide silently forward. The hunt had begun.
His keen eyesight, aided by the moonlight streaming through the open windows and the dim glow of the red emergency lights spaced down the sides of the barracks room, allowed The Phantom to navigate the length of the mess deck.
From time to time The Phantom used his hand torch, which was fitted with a red plastic lens, to probe the deep shadows cast over the occupants of the lower bunks. He forced himself to ignore the bodies lying in the upper bunks. While many of the sleeping forms were wonderful, glorious treasure to The Phantom, experience had shown him that one never knew how a boy would react as he was pleasured. Some lay there, breathing heavily, and barely moving. Others grunted, groaned or moaned, and thrust desperately as they were being masturbated, which caused the barely stable metal bunks to rattle and creak. The Phantom could not risk discovery and noise or disturbance of any description had to be avoided.
The Phantom had also learned from his experiences. It was much easier to drop and roll under a bunk from a kneeling or crouching position - as had happened - than it was standing beside a bunk. While many of the boys sleeping in the upper bunks were almost unbearably desirable, he left them alone, concentrating his efforts on the few fortunate cadets asleep in the lower bunks.
Previous visits last summer had also shown that many of the cadets slept on their sides or stomachs, which made tasting the delights hidden under the soft fabric of their underpants difficult. The ideal cadet to be visited would be lying deep in sleep, on his back, and wearing boxer underpants.
A quick pass of The Phantom's flashlight showed that tonight was no exception. Another pass and his face broke into a wide smile. He saw that three of the boys were sleeping on their backs, an ideal position for what he planned to do this night. He retraced his steps and knelt beside a bunk about halfway down the room. Listening closely, The Phantom waited patiently. There was no need to rush. He flashed his hand torch for a few brief seconds and saw all he needed to see.
The cadet was young, about 14 or so, if The Phantom was any judge. From mid-chest to toes the boy was covered with the blue and white checked counterpane that was issued to every cadet. The boy was slim, but with a well-developed body. His black, sleep-tousled hair hung in curling strands across his broad forehead. The boy's mouth was slightly ajar, his breathing slow and steady.
The Phantom fixed his gaze on the small bulge in the counterpane just a little more than halfway down the boy's body and slowly moved his hand, gently feeling the delight hidden under the two layers of cloth. He knew that the cadet would be wearing underpants for they were forbidden to sleep nude. The Phantom stared at the cadet's face, waiting for a reaction.
Very carefully and gently The Phantom massaged the boy's genitals. From the feel of them the boy's testicles were small, and tight against his crotch. The soft flesh of the cadet's penis lay directly over his testicles, pointing downward. As he massaged the soft flesh The Phantom felt the young penis begin to stiffen and a tent began to form in the counterpane, a small tent held in check by the fabric of the cadet's underpants. The boy's right leg stirred and trembled slightly as the pleasure building in his testicles traveled upward and penetrated his sleep-drugged brain.
The Phantom stared again at the boy's face, noticing a slight tightening of his lips. Beneath his hand The Phantom could feel the cadet's rock hard penis, perhaps four inches of steely boy flesh, throbbing.
The boy squirmed and moved his hand towards his crotch. Quickly withdrawing his hand, The Phantom watched with interest as the cadet massaged himself, and then moved his erection so that it was now pointing up his body. The cadet's face softened as he slowly pushed the counterpane covering his body down, revealing his white briefs. After a few strokes the boy's hand stopped, and then slid slowly down his thigh to his side. He sighed contentedly, and his breathing resumed the rhythm of sleep.
Flashing his light again, The Phantom saw that the young cadet's penis had shrunk somewhat so he reached over and resumed his ministrations to the boy's genitals. At The Phantom's touch the boy began to squirm, moving his legs slightly and a small, wet spot appeared just below the elastic band of his briefs. The cadet's breathing, slow and shallow in sleep, did not change.
Reaching up, The Phantom slowly pulled the boy's underpants down. Released from the restricting fabric of his Jockeys, the boy's penis sprang upward, bounced twice, and settled against his stomach. The Phantom anchored the briefs under the boy's hairless scrotum and ran his fingers along the cadet's warm penis, a thick, skin-covered shaft ending in a large, bulbous head that was, except for a small, reddened circle directly over the pee slit, not exposed. A thick bush of long, black, and barely curled pubic hair completely encircled the cadet's genitals.
Slowly, carefully, The Phantom pulled the boy's foreskin down, the loose skin moving freely to reveal a dark pink, almost purple, curving glans glistening with the thick fluid - precum - that oozed from the distended pee slit of the cadet's penis. With long perfected gentleness The Phantom ran his finger over the moist, warm glans of the boy's penis.
The cadet reacted to The Phantom's very gentle touch by arching his back and thrusting his hips upward, moaning softly and muttering unintelligibly as his body reacted to the stimulus of the stroking finger. With his free hand The Phantom reached over and began to stroke and fondle the cadet's tight, wrinkled scrotum while he slowly masturbated the boy. As his hand moved slowly and rhythmically upward the head of the cadet's penis was covered completely. Down again and the head was revealed.
The Phantom felt the boy's testicles contract until they almost disappeared into his body, the soft-skinned sack become a wrinkled bag. The cadet began to thrust his hips in time with The Phantom's stroking, fucking The Phantom's hand. The boy's breathing became harsher and faster as his orgasm approached and then, without warning his body stiffened and he thrust his hips violently upward, grunting loudly as a thick stream of semen exploded from the gaping slit of his penis and landed messily on his hairless chest. The boy thrust again and another, less powerful stream erupted from the gaping slit, splattering across his chest and stomach and dribbling down the back of the Phantom's hand. As the cadet's thrusting lessened, his discharge was reduced to a trickle.
Releasing the cadet's softening penis, The Phantom raised his hand to his lips. His tongue darted out and for the first time he tasted cum. The cadet's watery ejaculate did not taste all that bad, a little salty, but not all that bad. Smiling, The Phantom licked his hand clean, wiped it on the counterpane and then drew the blue-checked cloth over the cadet's flushed body. Then he moved on.
This was the Bugle Band barracks and The Phantom was forced to use his flashlight to navigate through the neat piles of boxed instruments and drums. He moved toward the end of the row of bunks and stopped. The boy in the bunk beside him had kicked his coverlet off and The Phantom could see that the cadet, unlike the first, was blond and, from the length of him, tall.
The cadet's golden blond hair, although cut short on the sides and back, was slightly longer on top, and loosely curled. He had a wide, firm-jawed, square face, with slim lips, which were tightly closed.
The boy was wearing pinstriped boxers, which made for easy access to the treasure hidden under the soft cotton cloth. The cadet was also lying on his back, with his legs slightly spread.
For several minutes The Phantom stood motionless, listening to the boy's soft breathing, watching his smooth, handsome face for any change of expression. When he was satisfied that the cadet was deep in sleep, The Phantom sat half on the edge of the bunk. He looked carefully at the sleeping cadet and saw that his genitals lay to the right, nestling against his right leg.
With careful, deliberate slowness The Phantom pushed his hand under the leg of the cadet's boxer shorts and ran his hand upward, feeling the coarse hairs that lined the boy's groin. When his fingertips touched the end of what was obviously the cadet's penis, he stopped, feeling the warmth of the boy's leg, listening for any change in his breathing.
The Phantom had long since learned that exploring the genitals of a sleeping boy took care and patience. He pushed his hand slowly upward and felt a smooth, tapering penis resting over heavy, hair-covered testicles.
As The Phantom felt gently, the cadet muttered something unintelligible and squirmed, opening his legs just a touch wider. A smiled creased The Phantom's face. He had seen this reaction many times. The boys he visited might be asleep, but somehow they knew that their most private possession was being fondled, and either closed their legs and rolled away - which rarely happened - or spread their legs wider, inviting attention.
Reaching under the cadet's penis, The Phantom felt his respectably sized testicles and then, slowly, pushed the boy's penis upward until the tip and perhaps an inch of it appeared through the slit in the blond's underpants. The Phantom knew without looking that the cadet had not been circumcised. His fingers had touched the wrinkled tube that marked the end of the cadet's penis.
This small bit of flesh told The Phantom that the cadet was either from Quebec, or the Eastern Provinces, where the procedure was not what amounted to a rite of passage for a newborn baby boy, as it was here in British Columbia, the other three western provinces, and Ontario.
As the cadet's penis thickened under his hand The Phantom dismissed all thoughts of foreskins. He really didn't care - so long as the boy was clean.
Squeezing gently, The Phantom felt the cadet's penis harden into a seven inch, surprisingly thick, shaft, all of it now jutting out of the boy's boxers. The foreskin had pulled back to reveal a perfect, deep purple glans that was warm and sticky to the touch.
As The Phantom continued to gently squeeze the cadet's penis the blond boy stiffened and drew in a short, sharp breath and, when The Phantom began to masturbate him, the cadet groaned softly as his hands clutched the coverlet.
While he slowly masturbated the boy with his right hand, The Phantom use his left to gently explore the cadet's flushed body. His fingertips circled the boy's nipples, traced the outline of his navel, and followed the immature treasure trail leading under the waistband of his boxers. He inserted his hand into the slit of the cadet's underpants, running his fingers around his all but retracted testicles.
Emboldened, The Phantom gently felt the cleft between the cadet's legs, his fingers exploring the hair-carpeted path that led to the boy's small, puckered entry.
A soft gasp escaped the cadet's lips as The Phantom's fingers circled his hair-rimmed rosebud. He surprised The Phantom by spreading his legs wider and raising his hips slightly, giving The Phantom more room to continue.
A look of great surprise crossed The Phantom's face. He had never before touched an anus, not even his own. In all the visits he had made to the Spit he had never been so daring. His surprise was genuine as it was obvious that this small, smoothly puckered opening was another pleasure zone, so much so that as his finger rimmed and circled it, the hole became slightly distended, as if in invitation, and the cadet's breathing became heavier.
As The Phantom continued his ministrations to the cadet's penis and rosebud, the boy's breathing became ragged. His balls tightened even more than they had and he began to moan and gasp, gulping great drafts of air.
Using his thumb The Phantom stroked the head of the boy's penis, lubricating it with the clear, sticky fluid that gushed and flowed from the slit of the cadet's penis. As he did so the cadet hip's moved to match the movement of The Phantom's hand. The boy was close, very close and as The Phantom drew the cadet's foreskin up to barely cover the glans of his penis the boy made a yipping noise, and thrust his hips sharply upward.
A fountain of thick semen blasted upward from the engorged glans of the cadet's penis. The first wad hit The Phantom in the face, sticking to his black ski mask. The Phantom quickly pointed the spewing dick down and eruption after eruption flew forward and onto the moaning cadet's hairless chest. The boy's penis spasmed twice more and the volcanic eruption of semen subsided until only a few thick drops oozed out. Releasing the softening organ, The Phantom stood up and quickly left the barracks. It was time to go.
As his dark form melted into the shadows The Phantom reached up and wiped the blob of semen from his mask with his finger. Lifting his finger to his lips, The Phantom tasted . . . the taste of a man. Sweet, he thought as he ran his tongue around his finger, devouring every drop of the cadet's thick juice. As he skirted the end of the Buglers Barracks The Phantom made a mental note to bring along a handkerchief or piece of cloth the next time he visited the Spit. There was no need to have that sweet juice splatter all over the donor. No need at all.
It was the early morning hours of Monday, the 5 th of July 1976. Summer training had only started. By the time it ended in mid-August, 800 to 1,000 cadets would have passed through HMCS Aurora. The Phantom shuddered in anticipation.
A week had gone by. The training program was well established and the cadets had settled into their daily routines. The Phantom was sitting on the loading dock leading to the Mess Hall galley, smoking a forbidden cigarette and waiting for the afternoon Swimming Parade to start. He glanced at his watch. 1610. Afternoon classes were over, the First Dog Watchmen had been fed, and The Phantom's time was his own until 1700, when most of the cadet population ate.
The Phantom, who had been working here since he was 14, knew with relative surety exactly what was happening at any given moment of the day. A cadet's workday started at 0600 and only ended at 2000. So intense was their training that no leave was allowed, except for supervised day trips on Saturdays. To get off Heron Spit, where HMCS Aurora was located was, except for a medical emergency, almost impossible if you were a cadet.
The Phantom, however, was not a cadet. He was a civilian employee, working in the galley. Two years ago, in 1974, he had worked with the contractors who had built the barracks and refurbished the few buildings still standing when the Heron Spit Ranges had been converted for use by the Sea Cadets. His work had taken him from causeway that connected the Spit to the mainland, to the cluster of buildings in the middle of the Spit, to the wide, barren, sea washed end. The Phantom knew every inch of Heron Spit.
For two years The Phantom and his brother Brendan, who was now in Regina learning how to be a Queen's Cowboy, together with Sam and George, two full-blooded Homalco Indians, had found summer employment when the Esquimalt Sea Cadet Camp was closed and HMCS Aurora transformed into the main Sea Cadet Training Establishment for the Pacific region.
The four boys had helped build the four H-shaped barracks blocks that housed the bulk of the cadet population, and had painted the Staff Cadet Quarters located at the other end of the base, across from the Headquarters Building and the parade square. Last summer all four boys had worked in the Ship's galley.
In their free time the boys, like all 15 and 16-year-old boys, had explored the barren sand dunes and the thick forest that covered the lower portion of the Spit, looking for relics of the days when the Royal Naval had used the old Dockyard, and souvenirs from the days when the Royal Canadian Navy had a presence here. The boys had found little other than a few spent shell casings, leftovers from the days when HMCS Aurora had been a gunnery range.
The blast of a ship's horn jolted The Phantom from his reverie. A YAG, as the small, wooden tenders assigned to the base were called, was pulling alongside the long wooden jetty that thrust into Comox Harbour.
The jetty, together with the Boat Shed and two small outbuildings at the end of the long pier, were known as the Dockyard. The high jetty, together with the smaller finger piers, was located at the midpoint of the Spit. The Dockyard was home to five YAGs, small wooden training vessels that spent much of the time at sea in the Strait of Georgia, miscellaneous workboats, whalers and small sailboats.
A second blast from the YAG's horn reminded The Phantom that his friend Sam was away at sea, working on his father's deep-sea trawler. The Phantom did not miss his brother, nor did he particularly miss George, who had found work as a counsellor in one of the summer camps that dotted the island. As for Sam, well, he was missed, if only for the things they did together, after school, in The Phantom's bedroom.
The Phantom and Sam had been best friends from the day they had first met in grade school. They had done the usual little boy things, playing baseball together, sleeping over at each other's house, arguing and fighting, as boys will. Together they had explored their world. Together they had roamed the length of the Comox Valley. Sam had taught The Phantom everything his father had taught him about the forests. Thanks to Sam, The Phantom could navigate his way through the dense forests to the north and west of Comox, and live off the land.
They had also, as sometimes happened discovered each other. For want of a better term they had become fuck buddies, not that they had ever fucked, for Sam would never have allowed that to happen.
His relationship with the young aboriginal boy had caused The Phantom much anger, anguish and frustration. From the age of eight years or so The Phantom had known that if his father were looking for grandchildren from him the old man would wait a long time. The Phantom liked boys in general, and Sam in particular.
Admitting his sexuality, accepting his sexuality, and acting on his sexual desires were different things, however. The Phantom had spent enough time on the playing fields, around the swimming pools and ball fields of Comox to know what the other boys, his schoolmates and friends, would do to him if they even suspected that he lusted after their smooth, hairless bodies. He never acted on his secret desires and never breathed a word to anyone of his true self, keeping his secret from everyone, including his best friend, Sam.
Playing, as he would later come to call it, the Game, The Phantom made it a point to never put himself in a position where he would be tempted to any degree. During his frequent sleepovers with Sam the boys slept in separate beds and while they giggled and chattered the night away, they never broached the subject of sex, except in the broadest terms, and they never touched each other.
All that had changed the first night they had been allowed to go camping alone.
They had set up their tent on the beach of a small lake in the foothills of Mount Washington. They had skinny dipped, but that was nothing new. The boys had seen each other naked many times and swum together naked in the school pool, where bathing suits were not allowed. After their swim they had dressed in shorts and T-shirts, built a small fire and eaten. Soon it was time for bed. They had spread out their sleeping bags beside each other and, as the night was hot, they stripped down to their white briefs, lying on top of the bags.
They talked quietly about their day, about how much fun they had had and about how much fun they would have tomorrow. Sam wanted to go around to the other side of the lake where there was a summer camp for girls, the innocent remark leading to a serious discussion about girls, about which girl they wanted to kiss, about which girl had begun to look decent now that she had started to grow tits, and what exactly they were supposed to do if they found a girl willing to do IT.
The more they talked the larger became the bulges in their briefs and as they talked The Phantom saw that Sam was rubbing his boner. Without thinking of the consequences The Phantom had reached over and felt the firm, warm flesh hidden under Sam's underpants. Sam had not protested and he had let The Phantom stroke him. Then, much to The Phantom's surprise, Sam had reached over and felt his boner. Before very long their briefs were down around their knees.
The Phantom sighed at the memory of their first jerk-off session. The next morning Sam had been distant, and did not want to talk about what they had done. As the day progressed he became more animated, and more communicative, but still he said nothing about what they had done. That night The Phantom had gone to his sleeping bag thinking that his friendship with Sam was over. Then Sam had reached out and gently squeezed The Phantom's dick.
From that night they masturbated each other as often as they could and while their sessions together were frequent, they were conducted according to Sam's rules. He came from a very traditional people and being gay was a horrible sin, cause for instant banishment from the Tribal Lands, banishment that was complete, total, and forever.
Accordingly, they played according to Sam's rules, which said that what they were doing did not mean that they were doing anything gay. What they were doing was just fooling around, just two friends helping each other out. It was not a gay thing. It was a guy thing, and therefore not gay.
They would jerk each other's cocks, but never to the point of ejaculation. When he approached his climax Sam would push The Phantom's hand away and finish himself to climax. The Phantom had to warn Sam when his own climax was near. Sam would pull away and The Phantom would bring himself off. Sam's intransigence and refusal to do anything else always left The Phantom frustrated and angry, so much so that last summer he had begun his nightly visits to the Spit.
Another blast of the YAG's horn caused The Phantom to shade his eyes and watch as the small boat was smartly brought alongside. As he watched two small figures, cadets detailed as jetty jumpers, nimbly jumped from the small wooden boat to the jetty and threw the mooring lines over the iron bollards that lined the jetty.
The Phantom had given much thought to visiting the cadets who lived on board the YAGS. In the end he had decided that it was much too dangerous. While each of the five small yard craft held some very tempting specimens, they maintained a full Harbour Watch when alongside: a Duty Officer, a Duty Petty Officer, and a Duty Quartermaster. The Dockyard was also too well lit. There were no shadows, and too much open space. The Phantom shrugged. There were plenty of other cadets closer at hand.
The memory of last night and the cadets he had serviced caused The Phantom's penis to stiffen. He reached down and fingered the large bulge in his white cook's trousers, moaning softly as a thrill of excruciating desire passed through him. Hell and sheeit, was he horny!
Usually, when he became this excited, The Phantom would disappear into the Canteen Stores (after making sure that the Canteen damager was elsewhere) and furiously pump his six inches of hot, thick flesh to a massive explosion, cumming quickly and so hard his balls ached. Not now though. Ten minutes ago Young Brown, the Duty Bugler, had sounded "Secure". The cadets would be free for the next hour or so and the Canteen was open. There would be no sneaking into Canteen Stores today, not with a herd of nosy cadets wandering about. The Phantom also had plans for the evening.
There was a drummer who had caught his eye and he also wanted to visit the Cooks Mess. Two of the young trainee cooks looked very interesting. He would force himself to wait until tonight.
Sighing his disappointment, The Phantom concentrated on his duties. At 1700 the bugle would sound "Hands to Dinner" and he, together with the other cooks and whatever cadets had been seconded as galley staff, would stand behind the long line of steam tables and dish out the main meal of the day to over two hundred ravenous boy cadets. The Phantom did not mind standing on the steam line, but he preferred bussing the tables. He heard a lot of gossip and cadet talk. Sometimes he got really lucky and bussed the Chiefs table. The Chiefs knew all the dirt, much of it trivial, some of it very interesting.
Listening to the Chiefs would be a welcome change from listening to the cadets moan and drip about the meals served to them. The Phantom, who actually thought the food served to be quite good, also thought in retrospect that the cadets did have cause for complaint. He, like all the cadets did not have to consult the menu chart posted by the main door leading to the dining hall for the thing never varied, and seldom changed. There was a standard menu served at every CF base from Newfyjohn to Squibbly, to all points north and south. Good, substantial food, but boring as hell. The only thing that was different was the quality. If the Chief Cook was good, so was the food. If he was bad, everyone ate at McDonald's or the local equivalent.
The Chief Cook this year was good, and he made up for the blandness of the meals by the quality and quantity of the desserts. The Chief Cook, whom everyone called Chef, was a huge man of well over 200 pounds, despite that fact that The Phantom had never seen him eat anything substantial. He was grumpy, cantankerous, argumentative and as crazy as a coot. He was also a damned good cook, and had taken a shine to The Phantom, trying to interest the young man in the art of cookery.
Chef, while a brilliant, if peripatetic cook, was also a stickler for absolute perfection. There were no corners cut in his galley, with no grated carrots added to the spaghetti sauce as "filler". Everything had to be copper-bottomed, even the Chinese Wedding Cake they had made for duff. The dessert had to be absolutely perfect, even though it was rice pudding with raisins and currents. Second best would not do at all and even a hint of a lessening of standards would bring a temper tantrum of biblical proportions, always accompanied by the waving of a huge wooden spoon, and threats of certain damage to cadet bottoms if things did not improve. Why only this morning Chef had been roused to indignation and told The Phantom that . . .
The Phantom was jerked from his culinary musings when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see Cory and Todd Arundel, two golden-skinned, blond gods, collectively known as the Twins, passing by. He glanced at his watch. 1620 and the Swim Parade had begun.
During the week the cadets had free time from 1600 until the 1700, when they were piped to dinner. If the day were hot, as today had been, they would all troop down to the small bay at the northern end of the Spit, and go swimming.
The Swim Parade was a constant source of delight and frustration for The Phantom. Almost every afternoon a steady stream of young, virile cadets would saunter past. His delight was that many of the older cadets were handsome and muscular, and bloody good to look at. His frustration was that they all seemed to prefer wearing baggy swimming shorts, which showed nothing.
The exceptions to the rule were the Twins. Each afternoon they seemed to delight in wearing the skimpiest, thinnest bathing suits that they could find. This afternoon, as usual, they were dressed more for shock than swimming. The Twins were wearing identical cherry red Speedos, which left absolutely nothing to The Phantom's imagination. Their parts were clearly, and graphically, outlined under the thin fabric of their trunks.
The Twins were not identical, but resembled each other and it was clear that they were brothers. They were both slim and trim, the scanty Speedos, showing off their bronzed swimmers' bodies to perfection. Their sun-bleached golden hair was cut "high and wide" with just enough on the top to permit a part on the left. The Phantom had first encountered them last year when they were doing their Gunnery IIIs course. This year they were Gunnery Staff and lived in the Gunroom, a small cabin in the Staff Barracks.
The Staff Barracks, a small, brick, former officers barracks, was one of a cluster of older buildings located in what was called the Lower Camp, across the parade square. Here also were located the barracks housing the Ship's carpenters, who were known as Chippy Chaps, and the Engineering cadets, called Stokers. Further south, and the last building at that end of the Spit, was the School of Music, always called the School of Wind by the cadets.
The Phantom had never visited the Staff Barracks, which housed the Senior Staff Cadets (for the most part Gunnery and Regulating Staff), the two ranking cadets in the Chiefs Mess, the senior Chiefs and Petty Officers in the Gunroom, and the junior Petty Officers in the adjoining Petty Officers Mess. The Staff Barracks were located at the far end of the ship and while he had no doubt he could navigate his way to the block, it was far easier to confine his nocturnal visits to the four barracks blocks close at hand.
As they passed by the Twins gave The Phantom a wave and smiled broadly. The Phantom returned their wave and smile, thinking that God they were beautiful!
The Phantom sighed in frustration. The Twins had haunted his dreams ever since he had met them last summer. They had filled his nighttime fantasies, and he had beat off to their images, groaning his desire to feel their slim, hard bodies, wanting to take their perfect cocks in his mouth, imagining long, warm showers with them during the Middle Watch.
What was even more frustrating was the knowledge that the Twins were gay. They did not broadcast their sexual orientation. Neither did they deny it.
Everybody knew that the Twins were gay, yet nobody talked about it. Well, nobody except Paul Greene, the Senior Drummer in the Aurora Band, who was a jerk and a racist, and Roger Home, who was a Regulating Petty Officer, and almost as big a peckerwood as Paul Greene. Both cadets never let an opportunity slip by to slag off the Twins.
The Phantom could have understood the prejudice voiced by Greene and Home if the Twins had been flagrant about their homosexuality. The opposite was true. They might be as gay as ducks, but they never showed it, and they never tried to put the moves on anybody. They never acted gay, whatever acting gay meant. Their swimming suits aside, the most outrageous thing about them was that they never wore underwear if they could help it or, if they did wear underwear their briefs were hardly ever the ubiquitous white, almost always being the most violent of reds and greens, yellows and purples.
Which meant nothing. Mal Wooten, a skinny Petty Officer Boatswain, was just as outrageous in his choice of underpants, at least according to Willy Carlyle and Jack Spencer, who had the misfortune to live in the same Mess as Mal. The Phantom had eavesdropped at lunch and had overheard Willy and Jack railing at Mal about his choice of underwear. They also complained hotly about some sort of ritual that Mal insisted on performing on awakening, something called "Airing the Monster", which sounded interesting. Unfortunately Chef had called him away before Willy and Jack got into the details.
The point, though, was that the Twins did not deserve the name-calling, or the slagging because at the end of the day and in reality the worst that could be said about the Twins was that they were not above copping a quick feel if the opportunity presented itself. The cadets knew that the Twins did it, and either took pains to avoid placing their genitals in harm's way, or accepted the feel for what it was, a quick feel, harmless in itself and meaning nothing, childish pranks confined to their friends and messmates. The Twins never did anything to the younger cadets.
Thinking about the antics of the Twins, The Phantom presumed that he was now a friend, or at the least someone the Twins wanted for a friend, for they had renewed acquaintances, in a manner of speaking.
The first time had been in the Mess Hall, while he was bussing the tables. The Phantom had bent over to pick up a dropped fork when a hand darted between his legs and groped him. Not hard, but it had startled him, to the extent that he had had jerked forward and ended up sliding nose first along the polished tile floor, much to the amusement of the cadets seated at the surrounding tables.
The second time had been when he was standing on line in the Canteen. One Twin, Cory, the one with the softer features, was behind him. The Phantom should have expected something. He had not and was more than a little surprised when he felt a hand on his right butt cheek, kneading and fondling his tight orb. When he turned around, Cory was gone, replaced by Todd, the other Twin, with his arms crossed and looking as innocent as all get out.
The Phantom, instead of being angry, had felt flattered. If the Twins were interested enough to give him a quick feel, he would certainly make no objection, just as he would make no objection if the Twins came on to him. He certainly hoped they would. They were sexy and horny. He was horny and, so far as he was concerned, sexy.
This morning, after showering, The Phantom had looked at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door. The reflection he saw was of a young man with a firm, muscular, well-tanned body. The young man had light brown hair and emerald green eyes. Turning slightly, The Phantom had examined his back, bum, and legs. He liked what he saw, a young man with toned muscles, neatly developed from tramping the Forbidden Plateau with Sam. His chest was coming along nicely, he thought.
Looking down, The Phantom saw a neatly circumcised, smooth penis hanging over a silky skinned sack. His testicles were not large, nor were they were too small. They were . . . just right. His pubic bush was also neat and trim, although he never touched it, it just seemed to . . . low around the base of his penis to taper gently away down the inside of his legs.
The Phantom had stepped back from the mirror nodding his approval. A nice, neat, set of goods . . . A frown had curled his brow. His ears! They were slightly jugged. A flaw in the perfection of his manhood!
The Phantom's frown changed to a smile, however, when he considered that the Twins would hardly be interested in his ears. No, they would, he hoped, be interested in the total Phantom and as he turned on the water for his shower The Phantom thought of the Twins, and long, warm, intoxicating showers during the Middle Watch when the Twins, the glorious, beautiful Twins would reach out and . . .
The Twins disappeared up the beach, their place on the pathway taken by the Cadet Master-At-Arms, Chief Petty Officer Tyler Benbow, and the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, Chief Petty Officer Val Orsini. They were two of the oldest cadets. They were also the Senior Ranking Cadets and unlike the Twins these two cadets were conservatively dressed in multicoloured swimming shorts. Each had a towel draped around his neck and shoulders.
Tyler, the Master-At-Arms, called The Jaunty by the cadets, was a shade over six feet tall, with a fine, deeply muscled body, and a firm, square face. Like the Twins his copper coloured hair was cut high and wide, although the hair on the top of his head was longer, and very curly. The Phantom noticed that The Master-At-Arms had a delicious treasure trail of coarse, bright red hair that trailed down his firm stomach and disappeared into the fabric of his blue, red and gold swimming shorts. His fair skin was tanning nicely. This would be his last year as a Sea Cadet. In September he would be entering Royal Roads as a Naval Cadet.
Val, the Cadet Chief Gunner was shorter, with deep olive skin and fine, Mediterranean features. He had a smooth, well set-up body, a handsome oval face, and dark brown, smouldering eyes. Like the Jaunty, Val's dark brown hair was cut high and wide, short on top and neatly parted on the left.
Unlike the Master-At-Arms, Val had a V-shaped patch of soft black hair on his chest. His legs were lightly dusted with equally black fur, but he had no treasure trail to speak of. Val did have a cute button of a navel, which The Phantom found intriguing. He wondered what it tasted like.
As the Senior Cadets, the Master-At-Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunner enjoyed great prestige and power. The Master-At-Arms had been handpicked by the Commanding Officer. The Chief Gunner, like all of the Gunnery Instructors and Parade GI's, including the Twins, had been handpicked by the Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade and Training), a Whale Island trained, Permanent Force, Leading Gunner.
Tyler, together with the Cadet Regulating Petty Officers, as Master-At-Arms was responsible for maintaining good order and discipline. He was 18-years-old, well trained in his job, and was respected by everybody and very rarely used his considerable powers. As the saying went, Tyler wore his rank well. The junior cadets liked Tyler and were for the most part - except for the Twins, who always seemed to be in the rattle - very well behaved.
While they had prestige and power, the only privilege the Jaunty and the Cadet Chief Gunner enjoyed was the small cabin they shared next to the Gunroom. As the two senior cadets passed on toward the beach The Phantom thought that he definitely should reconsider visiting the Staff Barracks.
The parade of swimmers continued. Some boatswains, who were tasty looking, but a little skinny, ambled past. Then came a stern faced, intense, bespectacled Hospital Attendant, followed by two of the Regulating Petty Officers, always referred to (behind their backs) as Crushers. Of the all the Crushers, the two walking down the path were the least respected. One was actively disliked, the other tolerated. They could protest all they liked that they were only doing their jobs. The problem was that they knew their jobs too well, and had read Queen's Regulations and Instructions for Sea Cadets once too often.
As the Ship's policemen the two cadets were very aware of the power their rank and appointment gave them. They both tended to bluster and make it quite clear that they had the authority to make life very miserable for anyone who came to their attention.
Their attitude was not helped by their nicknames, which everybody knew, or that everybody also knew exactly why Regulating Petty Officer Roger Home was called Two Strokes, and why Regulating Petty Officer Tom Vernon was called Thumper.
Two Strokes, like Thumper, was wearing tight, khaki, US Navy issue swim shorts, the fruits of intense trading and negotiations with US Sea Cadets on an exchange visit. Two Strokes was tall and slim with short, regulation cut, dark brown hair. He had a thin, vulpine face, and he bore a remarkable resemblance to the actor who played Mr. Spock, the Vulcan of the TV series Star Trek.
Two Strokes had earned his nickname as a direct result of his first, and so far as anyone knew, only, sexual encounter, which had happened last summer. As there was a shortage of classrooms in the ship, Highland Secondary School was leased and most of the classroom instruction was held there. The cadets would eat lunch in the school cafeteria and one of the girls who worked on the serving line had fallen well and truly in lust with the cadet who would become known as Two Strokes.
Roger had, at first, resisted the girl's come-ons. He was flattered of course, but saw little chance of a meeting. Except for being bused to and from the ship to the school, he never got off the Spit. As luck would have it, fate intervened in the form of a goodbye banyan on the last night of training. All the civilians, including the staff from the school, were invited. Boy and girl met, boy and girl found a private place. Nature took what turned out to be its disastrous course.
It was unfortunate that the young cadet had been found wanting. It was equally unfortunate that the young lady chose to regale her female cronies with the outcome of her exploit, describing in graphic detail exactly what had happened. She had not been pleased or satisfied and had ended her tirade cruelly, announcing loudly, "He was finished in two strokes! And my little brother is bigger than he is!"
That the girl chose to vent her spleen in the local teen hangout was, for Roger Home, catastrophic. At another booth two cadets from RCSCC PORT AUGUSTA, the Comox unit, listened intently. They had crossed swords with the young Crusher, and they were not about to let something as juicy as this go past. From the moment they left the restaurant Two Strokes was well and truly named.
Thumper, on the other hand, had earned his nickname in a much more prosaic manner.
Tom Vernon had arrived for the 1975 Summer Training Course a more or less normal cadet, a short, well set up, dark blond, and handsome young man. He was intelligent, eager to learn, and well liked by his peers and the instructors. For five weeks Tom was at the top of his form, and destined, or so it was considered by many, destined for a sterling career in Sea Cadets. Tom had given every indication that he was the ideal cadet.
Until it happened.
Tom Vernon, as the fifth week of his course came to an end, entered full-blown, hardons-at-the-drop-of-a-hat, puberty! He had been thirteen years and seven months old.
The six or seven pubic hairs Tom had arrived with had suddenly become a miniature forest! His dick took to doing strange things. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own, hardening at the most inopportune times, in the classroom, on the parade square, in the showers. It was downright embarrassing!
Tom, at first, resisted temptation. While he was no stranger to beating off, doing it in a barracks surrounded by 40 other boys was not something he felt comfortable doing. A guy never knew who might be listening!
As much as he could, Tom resisted temptation, not touching himself until one fateful night when he awoke with what could only be described as a raging hardon. Tom needed relief badly so he reached down and began stroking. Much to his surprise his orgasm was so intense that he almost fainted. He also ejaculated for the first time, covering his stomach and chest with a huge eruption of semen. He had lain in his bunk, not believing what had happened to him, fingering his iron hard penis, which refused to go down.
As he played with himself, Tom felt the wonderful feelings begin to return. His natural caution forgotten, he moaned loudly as he approached another orgasm, which caused him to abruptly stop his pumping. He knew the ridicule he would endure if the other guys caught him jerking off in bed. Rather than risk discovery he scurried from his bunk and into the heads where he locked himself in one of the cubicles and beat himself into a second mind numbing orgasm.
From that moment on Tom could not help himself. He did not care if the guys laughed at him. He did not care if the guys knew what he was doing. All he cared about were the glorious feelings that soared through his young body.
At every opportunity Tom would disappear into the heads and beat off. He was doing it five and six or more times a day. His dick would rise up proud. His cum would roil and boil in his balls. He had to do it. Every time he blew his load was better than the last. He beat off so much that his dick was raw. The Principal Medical Officer threatened to make him wear woollen mittens. The Chaplain (P), a kindly young priest whom the cadets affectionately called Dirty Dave the Deacon, lectured him on the sins of masturbation.
Tom did not care. Fuck the sins of masturbation. He was revelling in the joys of masturbation. It felt sooo good when he did it. He choked his chicken in his bunk after Lights Out. He spanked the monkey in the showers in the middle of the night. He squeezed the snake at every opportunity.
It took all of two days before the other cadets noticed and Harry, never one to let an opportunity slip by, loudly proclaimed that he was sick sore and tired of listening to Thumper beating the midnight drum and frightening the Sea Puppies and assorted critters, including himself!
Tom, now Thumper, ignored Harry and took to disappearing into the heads immediately the lights were turned out. At Stand Easy, while the other cadets made a beeline for the Canteen and the Coke machine, Thumper scampered into the heather, into the Ropewalk, Boatswain Stores or his favourite cubicle in the heads.
In the end, Thumper's reputation as a serious masturbator got so bad that that some of the younger cadets would not open a locker door for fear that Thumper would be in there mangling the midget. All the cadets adamantly refused to shake his hand.
Thumper had returned to Aurora and while rumour had it that he only played the skin flute once or twice a day, the Master-At-Arms would not let him stand the Middle and Morning Watches alone. The Phantom, aware of Thumper's activities, wondered sometimes what his reaction would be to another hand doing the work for him.
After giving Thumper's retreating ass an approving appraisal The Phantom stood up, crushed his cigarette under his toe of his boot, nodded, and decided that yes, a visit to the Staff Barracks was definitely to be considered.
The Phantom entered the galley and walked to one of the two long, stainless steel serving tables that bisected the galley, and began to cut tomatoes, preparing them for the salad bar. He did this deliberately. He wanted to avoid Chef, who was in a mood.
Chef, the Chief Cook, was a huge, teddy bear of a man, with a loud, profane voice and sad, knowing eyes. He was a man of firm convictions and not a few prejudices.
A hard working, hard driving man, Chef hated idleness in all its forms and he believed that an idle cook was an idle slacker of a man, or, in this galley, boy cadet. Chef liked to see his slaves busy.
The Phantom glanced around and saw Ray Cornwallis, the Cook Petty Officer, a short, dark haired, pleasant natured 16-year-old, and Alexandr Signaransky, whom everyone called Sandro, a tall, stocky, curly-haired young man who claimed to be the only full-blooded Russian Jew in the RCSCC Cookery Branch, which at first confused The Phantom. So far as he knew all Jewish boys were circumcised. Sandro had not been circumcised. The Phantom had seen Sandro in the heads. He had a long, thick dick, with a large knob at the end of his shaft, the curving head half-covered with thick skin.
Sandro, who had noticed the curious looks, not only from The Phantom but also from Ray, had explained that in Russia, where he had been born, all religions except for the Russian Orthodox Church were forbidden. Jews were not permitted to practice one of the main tenets of their faith, which was why he still possessed his foreskin. He then informed the two curious boys that he was studying his religion (he attended synagogue every Friday evening) and that in September he was having his bris, which he assured the grimacing boys, was purely symbolic, as he would be circumcised in hospital.
Sandro took his religion very seriously and was looking forward to the day when he became a true son of the House of Abraham. The Phantom and Ray, who had both been circumcised as babies, wondered what the fuss was all about.
Behind him The Phantom could hear Chef muttering and grumbling as he shuffled his way through a pile of papers. Chef was trying to balance his budget and getting nowhere fast, which would bring another run-in with the Supply Officer. Chef and Paymaster-Lieutenant Dickensen, the ship's bean counter, had already had one flaming row; with another in the offing if Chef's figures did not balance.
The Phantom returned to his tomatoes. He was slicing away when he became aware of the distinctive click, click, click of half-metal heels crossing the tiled floor of the Mess Hall. The door opened and the Chief Gunnery Instructor entered the galley.
Feeling his penis stirring, The Phantom reached for an apron and put in on. It would help to hide his erection, a reaction he'd been having since June, when he had suddenly fallen desperately, deeply, inexplicably in love with the Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade and Training) of HMCS Aurora.
Back in June The Phantom had been sitting outside the Mess Hall peeling potatoes when a battered, navy blue Range Rover drew up alongside the building. Out of it had stepped the Leading Gunnery Rate seconded from CFB Esquimalt as Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade & Training).
The Phantom had been so taken at the sight of the man that he had upset the fanny of freshly peeled potatoes. The Leading Gunner had helped him clean up the mess, and then disappeared into the building, The Phantom's eyes devouring the firm-bodied Leading Seaman.
The Phantom did not know it, but he had been struck by the thunderbolt. For the first time in his young life he was in love. His mind was in turmoil, unable to understand the feelings that engulfed him whenever he even looked at The Gunner. He could not understand why he was so attracted to the man. He had always been attracted to boys, boys his own age, and until now he had never been interested in older men. None of his teachers in high school, and there were several prime specimens, had affected him the way the Chief Gunnery Instructor had.
The Phantom had always been attracted to teenage boys, good-looking boys who caused a definite tingle in his nether regions, boys who were known as studs. His school was full of such boys. The Cadet Master-At-Arms was a stud. The Twins were studs. The Chief GI was definitely not a stud. He was not bad looking, but hell and sheeit, he was kind of old. At least ten, maybe 12 years older than The Phantom was! The Phantom could not understand how he could be attracted to a guy at least 27 or 28 years old! Still, The Gunner was attractive and there was something about him that The Phantom found intriguing and appealing.
Leading Seaman Winslow, for that was his name though everybody called him The Gunner, stood just short of six feet tall, with a full, strong face, and a fine aristocratic, straight nose. His jade-green eyes sparkled with life and vitality. His uniform trousers clearly outlined his flawless, melon-like butt, which sensuously curved to form long, muscled, well-proportioned legs. His light brown hair was cut high and wide, with just enough on the top to permit a part on the left.
The Phantom had seen The Gunner in his swimming gear, a pair of overlarge army shorts, when he helped the General Training Cadets learn how to swim. His chest was broad, neatly muscled and formed, with small, perfectly round, pinkish-brown nipples. His stomach was flat with a small navel receding into the muscular flesh. His arms, although not overly muscular, were well formed and hard, and covered, like his legs, with a light dusting of sun-bleached hair. Except for his eyelashes, which were long, dark, and thick, there was nothing boyish or feminine about Leading Gunner's Rate Steve Winslow.
At first The Phantom had hoped that Leading Gunner Winslow might be interested in boys. He watched, he listened, and in the end came to the sad conclusion that The Gunner was as straight as an arrow, which made him somehow even more intriguing and desirable, so desirable that the man replaced the Twins in The Phantom's bedtime fantasies.
To make matters worse The Gunner was always kind to him. He always spoke and kidded and joked with him, unlike the rest of the instructors and cadets. There was a definite them and us attitude among the cadets and the rest of the world.
The officers stuck together like shit to a blanket. The cadets all stuck together in their own little cliques and factions. The gunners slept in the same Mess and they all ate together. The musicians, boatswains, the General Training Cadets, the New Entries, all slept, ate, and played together, inhabiting their own small worlds that refused entry to anyone who was not one of them.
The cadets might tolerate an outsider. They rarely accepted one. The cadets were us. The Phantom, a civilian, and not a cadet, was therefore one of them. Except for Chef, who seemed genuinely fond of him, and the cadet cooks, with whom he worked every day, the only staff or Cadet Instructor who treated The Phantom decently was The Gunner, who at least acknowledged him, talked to him and did not look at him like he was part of the fixtures and fittings.
The Gunner walked over to where The Phantom was working, stopped, and mussed the boy's hair. "How's it hanging, Phantom?" he asked pleasantly.
"Hangin' OK, Gunner," The Phantom lied, hoping to God that The Gunner would not see that he was wearing wood.
"Good for you," replied The Gunner. He cocked his head and then nodded toward Chef, who was sitting at the battered, old, wooden table he used as a desk, scowling at a pile of papers. "Is he in a mood, then?" he asked.
The Phantom nodded. "The Supply Officer was in earlier. Chef has been like a bear with a sore pecker ever since."
"My, such language, boychick!" The Gunner shook his head in mock horror and then grinned widely. "Chef will be washing your mouth out with soap if you don't look out."
"He wouldn't, would he?" asked The Phantom apprehensively and darting a fearful glance in Chef's direction.
"No, I wouldn't let him," replied The Gunner as he helped himself to a slice of tomato. "Keep your pecker up, kiddo." He downed the slice of tomato, and then winked at The Phantom. "Gotta go smooth the waters."
The Gunner walked over to the large fridge, opened it, and peered inside. Although it was against regulations to drink alcohol when the cadets were around Chef, abetted by The Gunner, kept a small supply of beer in the fridge for medicinal purposes. "I hope my property is still intact, Chef," The Gunner said as he ostentatiously counted the bottles of beer. "Or did you drink it all?"
Chef and The Gunner were wingers from way back. They had completed two commissions together, and were great friends. "It's right where you left it," rumbled Chef. "Behind the canned cow. And yes I will, thank you." He pushed the pile of papers aside.
The Gunner pulled out two bottles of beer, uncapped them and sat down at the table. He placed one bottle in front of Chef. "I hear the Tizzy Snatcher came to call." He took a long swallow of beer. "Have you been fiddling the books again?"
"I have not!" growled Chef, affecting an offended air. "The wee man, the little bas . . ." Chef caught himself in time. He really should watch his language in front of the cadets, them being such impressionable lads. He cleared his throat loudly, glared at the cadets because he could, and returned to his tale of woe. "The wee man was all over me about Father's anniversary bun fight." He took a large swallow of beer, smacked his lips, and gave The Gunner a dark look. "That bloody useless commissioned idiot hasn't been in a Dog Watch and he's telling me how to make sticky buns and sangies. The man couldn't organize a two-man rush on a ten-man shitter, so he could couldn't! Why the fu . . . little cock . . ."
The Gunner tried not to choke on his inner laughter. Poor Chef, he was trying so hard, and had even managed to string together three sentences without swearing once, and then gone and shot himself in the foot!
Chef squirmed in embarrassment. "Well and you know what I mean!"
"I do," returned The Gunner blandly. Then he leaned forward and whispered seriously. "Mind, you shouldn't call him the name that cannot be spoken loudly amongst cadets."
"And what word might that be?" asked Chef, wondering if Stevie was making the mock of him.
The Gunner mouthed the word, "Cocksucker". Then he glanced quickly at the cadets, who weren't paying attention anyway, and grinned. "I hear he is trying to quit!" Then he raised his bottle in a toast and grinned.
Chef choked and trembled with laughter. "Ah, you wee bugger! Always taking the mock of a poor old sailor!" He winked and said, "You always get me, so you do." His face tightened. "But seriously, Stevie, the man is driving me mad!"
"The Supply Officer is not the only one," replied The Gunner, an exasperated look on his face. "All you have to do is cook and make sure the food is ready. I have to get the troops drilled up. Damn it, Chef, I've had the Executive Officer beating a path to my door, the Old Man calls every hour and now Dirty Dave the Deacon has put in his oar."
"What?" Chef sat up and scowled at The Gunner. "He had better not be looking at my boys for any of his flummery! They have enough to do, so they have." He stood up and waved a hammy fist in the general direction of the cadets and The Phantom. "You, the whole of you, spalpeens that you are, will be on duty for Father's party. You too, Phantom."
The three boys, accustomed to Chef's bellowing and blustering, shouted "Yes, Chef!" in acknowledgment, and carried on with their work.
"Aren't you being a little hard on them, Chef?" questioned The Gunner.
"It keeps the little darlin's in line, does it not?" returned Chef with a grin. "And look who is talking. The man without a heart and the eyes of an eagle."
"A vulture, actually," replied The Gunner, returning Chef's grin. "I also have eyes in the back of my head. At least according to Little Big Man."
Chef shuddered at the mention of Little Big Man. He polished off his beer and went to the fridge and brought out two more bottles. "That little fucker . . ." There, let Stevie make themost of that! When it came to Little Big Man, all bets were off. "Sure and one day that little spalpeen is gonna call Phantom a fag once too often. Then I'll do to Band Petty Officer Greene what the Rabbi is going to do to Sandro next month. Only I'll use a cleaver," he said sitting down. He made a sweeping, cutting motion. The he cracked his beer and took a swig.
Chef indicated Sandro. "Sandro must be clipped. Sure and he cannot be a proper Jewish boy unless he is. 'Tis the Law and there are no exceptions."
The Gunner winced. "Sounds painful."
Chef waved his hand in dismissal. "Not at all, Stevie darlin', not at all. The lad just goes into the hospital and the quack does the dirty on him. The Rabbi says some prayers and Sandro is legal." He took another swig of his beer. "I am in the minyan," he finished with pride.
"The minyan? You? What minyan?"
"Sandro asked me to be a part of the minyan," replied Chef with exaggerated patience. "He tells me that after he's healed he has to take a special bath in the Synagogue. Afterward there are prayers. To say prayers there has to be 10 men present, a minyan." He folded his arms across his expansive chest and beamed with pride. "He did not ask some officer. He did not ask you. He asked me!"
The Gunner had known Chef for years and knew that Chef had had a rough time of it early on in his career, including a failed marriage that had hurt him deeply. He had never remarried and had always avoided getting too close to his young charges. Sandro had for some reason touched a chord deep within Chef's soul and his asking Chef to share in one of the most momentous occasions in his life pleased the old fellow tremendously.
Still, The Gunner could not resist poking Chef with a stick. "Chef, you are not Jewish," he said with a shake of his head. "Half the time you're not even Christian!"
Chef began sputtering angrily. "And bugger you with me wooden spoon!" he snapped. "I don't have to be Jewish. All I have to be is male and own a Jewish party hat. And I have got one, thank you." He glared at The Gunner. "Do you remember Rosen's wedding? Well, I kept the hat."
The Gunner shuddered. He remembered the wedding, as did the Night Manager of the Lord Nelson Hotel and the Halifax Police Department. They never should have had those horse races in the hall. He shook his head at the memory of it. "What a night!"
Chef grinned, remembering the aftermath of Max Rosen's wedding. "Sure and by all the saints it was quite the party!"
"Sure and by all the saints, it was!" replied The Gunner with a huge grin. "And it's called a yarmulke, Chef."
Chef grinned back. "A hat by any other name is still a hat," he insisted stubbornly.
The Gunner gave up. Sometimes he ate the bear. Sometimes the bear ate him.
"Now then, what's this about the Vicar?" asked Chef, the wedding and the yarmulke forgotten.
The Gunner made a face. "Dirty Dave is organizing a Church Parade. He's convinced Jimmy the One that 50 years in the Andrew rates more than Midshipmen's nuts and cold coffee in the Drill Shed."
"The Old Man's been in 50 years?" asked Chef, surprised that anyone could put up with the Navy for that many years.
The Gunner nodded his confirmation. "If you had read his biography, as I did," he said archly, "you would know that the Old Man joined the Andrew in September of 1926 as a Cadet at Osborne Royal Navy College. On the 3 rd of September he'll have been in 50 years."
"However did he manage it?" Chef shook his head in wonder. NOBODY lasted fifty years in the Navy.
"Rum, bum and baccy?" offered The Gunner.
Chef thought a moment. "Sure then I'm in for the long haul, so I am! I have the rum, and no danger. I have the baccy." He grinned lasciviously at The Gunner. "And would you be having any spare bum that you aren't using?" he asked, laughing.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, you fat gut robber."
"I am not fat," replied Chef indignantly. "I am well upholstered." Before The Gunner could reply the overhead speaker grumbled to life. The bugled notes of "Hands to Dinner" filled the galley.
Chef glared at the speaker and stood up. "Time to go to work." He looked around the galley and then let out a roar. "Phantom, those tomatoes will do no good sitting on that table. There are hungry lads to feed so stir your stumps. Ray, Sandro, get cracking." He looked at The Gunner. "Will you be eating, Stevie darlin'? I can make you something special."
"I can't," replied The Gunner with a shake of his head. "Joel is coming in today. I also have Defaulters." He rolled his eyes expressively. "The Twins."
At the mention of the Twins, and Defaulters, Chef snickered. He had been a witness to the Twins' cause of grief, and in truth thought the matter quite funny.
Chef also knew who Joel was, and he knew exactly what Joel's relationship was with his friend. He sobered and stared directly at The Gunner. "Be careful, Stevie," he warned quietly. "There are some that would not understand about you and Joel. Especially the cadets."
"The cadets are hardly interested in my personal life, Chef!" returned The Gunner with some heat. "To them I am just another nuisance sent to plague their young lives. Besides, come the end of August I'm out of here, back to the Fleet. By Labour Day they'll have forgotten all about me."
Chef was about to reply that he had two pigs out back all gassed up and ready to fly, then thought better of it. Stevie never believed the influence he had on the young cadets, or that they would remember him for years to come. "You keep scarin' the bejayzus out of the lads with those damn clickers on your boots and they will remember you," he replied.
"Those clickers save me a lot of trouble," replied The Gunner. "The boys hear me coming and settle down right quick." He stood up and finished his beer in one gulp. "Before very long I will just be a bad memory to all of them." He gave Chef a half-salute and left the galley.
Maybe for some , Chef silently agreed. A look of sadness came into his eyes. He had seen the way Phantom looked at The Gunner. Shaking his head, Chef stood up and went into the dining hall.
The bugle call had barely died away when the doors leading from the roadway slammed open and the horde descended, heading for the serving line. Chef, Ray and Sandro began dishing out the hot food to the hungry cadets. The Phantom made sure that the salad bar was kept filled and from time to time he glanced around the huge room. Though it was a combined mess, and officers, Instructors, Staff and cadets all ate in the same room, they all had their separate tables and corners.
In the far corner sat the Supply Officer and the Sin Bosn. Nearby was a clearly separate table, which was the "Chiefs Mess", where the Cadet Master-At-Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunner, now changed into the rig of the day, white bell-bottom trousers, stiffly starched gunshirts, and mirror-shined boots, ate together. Their round, white sailors caps were neatly stacked at the end of their table.
Near the doors the buglers and musicians from the School of Wind occupied two long tables, the musicians and drummers from the Band, at one longer table, the buglers and drummers from the Bugle Band, at another.
Nearby sat both of the cadets that The Phantom had visited the first night. They were laughing and skylarking. Loosely draped over the back of the tall blond boy's chair was his Drum Major Sash. Sylvain Beauharnais was Drum Major of the Bugle Band. The other cadet, André Noailles, was "Sticks", the Lead Drummer. Both cadets were from Quebec and were chattering away in what passed for French in their home province.
At another table Two Strokes and Thumper sat with the other two Regulating Petty Officers. One, a handsome black youth, was dressed in the rig of the day. The other three had cleaned into night clothing, blue bell-bottoms and white, blue-piped T-shirts. The Phantom noticed that all four Crushers seemed to pay more attention to what the cadets were doing than to their food. The bastards never miss a trick, he thought.
The Phantom saw the Twins busily table-hopping. That they were shortly to appear before the Executive Officer at Defaulters did not seem to be bothering them at all. They were very social young animals and their high spirits were infectious. All the cadets, with one notable exception, put up with their antics.
The Phantom looked down the dining hall and saw the one notable exception slither into the room. So did Chef, who took up a position beside The Phantom and squeezed his arm. "If that spawn of the Devil starts I shall take me cleaver to him!" Chef promised grimly.
Except for officers, Chef did not dislike many people and, for all his bluster, he was a warm-hearted man, who in his own way was devoted to his cadets. His feelings extended to The Phantom. Chef called all his trainees and The Phantom his lambs. Insult one of Chef's lambs and you insulted him.
"He's been pretty quiet, Chef," replied The Phantom. He gave Chef a small smile. "Not like last year."
"Just so, laddie, and don't you be about beating the bejayzus out of him like you did last summer," Chef warned. He gave The Phantom a slight nudge with his elbow. "Unless you do it when nobody is looking."
Band Petty Officer Paul Greene, the object of Chef's dislike stood barely five feet tall and was very thin – as skinny as a snake with the disposition to match, in Chef's opinion. He had straw-coloured hair, which while buzzed at the sides and back, was very long on top. He had a thin, rat-like face, an antagonistic disposition and was disliked by almost all the other cadets, to the extent that they called him by his nickname, Little Big Man, to his face. He had been gifted with that name the year before when, like all of this year's Staff Cadets, he had been on course.
From the day of his arrival in July of 1975, Paul Greene had given promise of being a lifelong pain in everybody's ass. He was in everyone's Mess but nobody's Watch. He talked a lot and managed to avoid most of the work.
Like many boys of his age Paul professed to great virility, and boasted, at length, of his conquests in his home unit, RCSCC FALKLAND where, according to him, he had cut a wide swathe through the Ottawa Wrenette Corps, a member of which had, or so he claimed, popped his cherry for him when he was 12.
Paul crowed that he could not wait until September, when the Wrenettes would be enrolled into the Sea Cadets, which made him, as far as most of his fellow cadets were concerned, about as popular as case of crab lice. They might like girls, but not in their Sea Cadet Corps.
At every opportunity Paul tried to prove his maleness, to demonstrate how masculine he was, to show the world that not only did he have balls, but that they clanged when he walked. He strutted, he bragged. Those who believed him, or pretended to, were real guys. Those who thought he was as full of shit as a Christmas goose were either fags or queers, sometimes both. By the end of his first week in Aurora Paul Greene had managed to piss off just about everybody, particularly the Twins.
Todd and Cory Arundel, known as the Twins, had determined very early on that they were gay. They had experimented with each other, and had liked and felt comfortable with what they did. They had experimented with other boys, but in the long run preferred each other. They had accepted their sexuality. They harmed no one and, while they played grab ass at every opportunity, they had never put the moves on anyone.
Most of the other boys accepted that the Twins were the Twins. They looked, and acted, just like everybody else. Hell, they were everybody else. They swam like otters and played baseball and soccer with all the grace and movement of pros.
As gunners many, including Leading Gunnery Rate Stephen Winslow, considered the Twins to be the best, to the extent that the Twins had been appointed Captains of the field gun crews, a great honour in their world. Their drill was impeccable, their uniforms the envy of all.
Paul Greene could not understand the Twins' popularity. He could not understand how two fags could be so accepted. He could not understand that nobody gave a rat's ass if the Twins were gay. What Paul could not understand he hated, and he verbalized his hatred at every opportunity.
At first the Twins had put up with Paul's slurs with surprising equanimity. Todd and Cory had come across boys like Paul before. He was, like it or not, merely a foretaste of what lay ahead for them and so they tolerated his abuse until one morning he accused Cory of staring at his morning woody, which was poking out the front of his soiled briefs. He then accused Todd, who had gone to his brother's defence, of wanting to suck it. As expected, a minor scuffle ensued, which was broken up by the other cadets. From that moment the war was on.
The Twins were expert at talking queer, and could, when they wanted to, behave as if they were the two biggest queens to come down the pike in years. If Paul Greene wanted queers, he would get queers. If he could queer bash, they could straight bash.
They used their expertise against Paul, at every opportunity loudly proclaiming their admiration for the shape of his butt, the sexy way he walked, the luscious curve of his lips. They exclaimed at the sweet tightness of Paul's little (if the truth was told) basket when he wore his swimming suit. They followed him to the heads every time he went for a piss, begging to be allowed to see it. They called him Sweet Thang and BigMan, always emphasizing the big. Whenever they went to shower they invited him to join them.
Paul's violent, verbal refusals only made the Twins try harder. They answered Paul's every slur with saccharin allusions to lustful activities down by the water after dark.
The Twins' campaign of ridicule proved to be infectious. The older cadets quickly learned that following their lead kept Paul off their backs and was a hell of a lot of fun into the bargain. They would trade insults with him, or blow kisses at him, and walk away, leaving him impotent with rage. The younger cadets, who shared the older cadets' opinion of Petty Officer Paul Greene, took to giggling and making sucking noises whenever his back was turned. The cadets had no fear of Paul's retaliating physically. Fighting was one of the few crimes, other than possessing booze or drugs, which would result in a cadet's immediate return to his home unit.
It did not take Paul long to realize what the Twins were doing to him. He was a bully and a coward but at least he had enough sense to realize that he had more than met his match. He also, as was the habit of bullies, cut his losses and looked for other targets.
The New Entry Cadets (known as Sea Puppies) and the General Training Cadets were easy targets, so long as there were no Chiefs or senior Petty Officers around and he made life miserable for his young charges. His reign of terror however, came to an abrupt end when Two Strokes heard Paul ranting and threatening a newly arrived draft of Sea Puppies. He chased Paul from the parade square and threatened to lay a beating on him if he ever tried that trick again.
Denied access to the General Training Cadets and the Sea Puppies, Paul turned to the only group over which he had any control, the Band. He was Sticks, or Lead Drummer in the Ship's Band, a position that carried a great deal of authority. Determined to take his frustrations out on somebody, Paul abused his authority over the drummers until Chief Harry von Hohenberg, the Band Drum Major, smacked him upside his head and demoted him to playing the cymbals.
When Harry was made Sea Daddy to the New Entry Cadets, and gave notice that he would thump anyone who came near them. Paul, with no victims available to him became, if possible, even more sullen, reduced to muttered curses and snide remarks. Except for the small group of cadets from his home unit everyone was a faggot. All in all it was not a good summer for Little Big Man. It got considerably worse just days before the cadets were due to go home, when he met The Phantom head on.
As a civilian employee The Phantom worked either in the galley or in the dining hall and, except when serving them their food, he had little day-to-day contact with the cadets. This did not mean that he did not know exactly what was going on for he had learned early on to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth firmly shut.
The Phantom also learned that since he was not one of them, and not part of their world, the cadets tended to forget that he was even there. He was seen, but not noticed. He was just the kid who cleaned the tables in the Mess Hall and helped dish out the food. He became invisible to the cadets.
Like all boys the cadets had their secrets, which like all boys they could not keep. The Phantom became the most well informed person in the ship. He knew who had had his first wet dream and who had the magazines guaranteed to get you as hard as a rock and get you off. Even the Twins, normally the souls of rectitude when it came to their private habits, so far forgot that The Phantom was not a piece of the furniture that Todd was telling Cory all about a place he had found deep in the woods that covered the lower part of the spit, a place where they could be alone together before he realized that The Phantom was busily clearing the table.
While The Phantom heard all and knew all about Band Petty Officer Paul Greene and his antics, he had no reason to expect trouble one afternoon toward the end of the training season when, as he sat in the sun busily peeling vegetables and admiring the swimming parade passing by, Paul stopped and commented that only girls, and fags, peeled veggies.
While The Phantom wanted no trouble, he was more or less forced to defend his honour, and his masculinity. He looked up to see Paul's sneering face. Paul was, as always, with his cronies, Rob Wemyss, Ryan Ponthiere and David Thompson, who were standing in a semicircle behind their mate, nervously awaiting events.
"Are you calling me a fag?" asked The Phantom coolly.
Paul's lips curled in contempt as he cocked his head and squinted at The Phantom. "You're wearing an apron. You're doin' women's work." He shrugged. "Where I come from that makes you a fag." He turned and grinned at his friends, playing to what he thought was an appreciative audience.
Unfortunately for Paul Greene The Phantom was not subject to cadet discipline. He stood up, carefully placed the knife in the bowl of half-peeled carrots, and wiped his hands on his apron. He returned the slur. "It takes a fag to know a fag," he began. "If I was a fag you'd know it and be the first one in line with your pants down and your dick out. Or maybe you like sucking. Yeah, I think maybe you really like to suck cock. With those lips, I figure you'd suck a mean bone." He cocked his head and squinted at the thin cadet, whose face was growing red with indignation.
The Phantom watched as Paul's eyes widened with shock and surprise and, determined to make Paul Greene sorry he had ever stopped on the path, sank the barb deeper. "I guess that's why your buds walk around with big smiles all the time."
This was a double insult. Paul and his buddies were all military Brats from Uplands Air Force Base in Ottawa, and members of the same Sea Cadet Corps. To imply that they were doing anything that was remotely gay, to even suggest that he would suck one of his "wingers'" cocks, was an abomination and caused Paul to almost strangle with rage.
The insult did not seem to affect the three other cadets quite as much as it did Paul. The other boys all knew that it was only a matter of time before someone gave Paul back everything he dished out. It looked like the time had come. Besides, as far as they were concerned it was no big deal. They had called one another worse names.
Rob was the oldest of the four cadets, and the most mature. He had known Paul Greene forever, or so it seemed. They lived next door to each other in the CFB Uplands Married Patch and because of the unwritten rule that army brats stuck together no matter what, Rob felt he owed Paul his loyalty. Rob looked at Paul; he looked at The Phantom and shook his head. It would not be an equal contest. The Phantom had at least ten pounds on Paul, and had a longer reach.
Rob sighed. Paul could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. He attempted to calm the situation but Paul, too far gone in his anger, told him to shut up. "This queer won't fight," he snarled. "He's just a queer. Everybody knows queers can't fight."
Rob gave up. David and Ryan, who only tolerated Paul Greene because of their friendship with Rob, stepped back. Paul had started it. Let him finish it. So far as David and Ryan were concerned Paul was on his own.
The Phantom smiled tightly. He might be a queer, but he was a queer who could, and would, fight. "Try it on, faggot," he taunted grimly.
Insane with anger at this ultimate insult, Paul charged, fists raised, at a boy who was not only bigger, and stronger, but also meaner.
The Phantom rang Band Petty Officer Paul Greene for six.
When the dust settled, the fight broken up by Chef, Paul had a split lip and the beginning of a monster black eye. The Phantom's ribs were bruised, and he had a huge welt on his temple where Paul had landed a lucky punch.
Chef, hurriedly called by one of the cooks, and wise in the ways of teenage boys, knew a grudge match when he saw it. He separated the two boys, who had been rolling about in a cloud of dust, and sent the cadets packing with a threat to report them all for fighting.
Muttering oaths and imprecations Chef had dragged The Phantom by the ear back into the galley, pushed him into a chair and, with much finger wagging and not a little cursing, gave him a stern lecture on the evils of fist-fighting, and threatened to fire The Phantom's ass if he ever found him fighting again. Then Chef gave The Phantom a beer.
In the end it was his own body and deeply feared and buried feelings that betrayed Paul Greene. On the morning of his last day in Aurora Petty Officer Paul Greene, having stood the Middle Watch, had a Guard and Steerage, which meant that he could sleep a half hour longer that his messmates.
At 0600 the bugle sounded "Wakey-Wakey" and the cadets, except for Paul, grumbling and grousing all the while, cleaned into sports gear and shuffled out to the parade square where, under the direction of the Cadet Physical Training Instructors, they would endure 20 minutes of physical training exercises. Paul lay in his bunk, burying himself in the warmth and comfort of his covers. Any extra sleep time was treasured.
At 0630, released from the torture of morning callisthenics, the cadets returned to the mess, quickly changed in the rig of the day and hurried off to breakfast. Paul had buried himself deeper into his covers and only when the mess was quiet again did he sit up, stretch, rub his morning woody, and get up.
After using the heads, Paul went into the wash for a morning shower, luxury as cadets were supposed to shower at 2130, just after "First Post" had sounded. He stepped under a showerhead and turned on the water and as the first sprays pulsed against his body, Paul moaned in pleasure. He soaped himself and his hand drifted downward toward his soft penis. He fingered his balls and his dick stiffened.
Using soap as a lubricant Paul fisted himself and began pumping quickly. Jerking off in the shower was another pleasure he had had to forego since coming to Aurora. Within minutes his dick jerked in his hand and a small wad of semen flew upward and landed on his hairless stomach. Three more pumps and he finished. His penis shrank to its normal size and he quickly washed away the evidence.
Paul had been so engrossed in pleasuring himself that he had not heard the clumping and clatter of the Venture Training Cadets returning from their weeklong ordeal in the forest around Mount Washington. The cadets, filthy, and smelling vilely, quickly shed their combats, grabbed their towels, and headed for the showers.
The first in was Harry von Hohenberg, who stood next to Paul and turned on the water. Paul could not understand why, but he found himself giving Harry a quick appraisal.
Harry had turned 17 years old that year and was a paragon of teenage male beauty. He stood six feet tall, with the smoothly sculptured body of one of Michelangelo's less robust young nudes. In the centre of each of Harry's well defined pecs were tiny nipples centred in pale brown aureoles.
Harry's hairless chest tapered flawlessly to his barely perceptible waist, which in turn formed a melon-like ass, curving downward to form superbly proportioned legs, which were dusted with straight black hair that stopped just under the curving arcs that formed his firm butt. Except for a large square of pinkish-white skin that extended from his waist to mid-thigh, Harry was deliciously tanned, which set off his perfect white teeth and complimented his boyish, curly black hair.
A treasure trail of thick, curly, black hair began at Harry's indented navel, travelled downward and widened to encircle his perfectly proportioned penis, four thick, smooth inches of flawless, pink and tan flesh. Harry's large testicles were enclosed in a loose hanging hairless sac that hung just above the rose-brown, perfectly circumcised, gently curving helmet-like head of his penis. Harry was gorgeous.
Paul, as his breathing grew shallower and strange feelings coursed through his body, could not understand what was happening to him and, in spite of his just having jerked himself into a mind-blowing orgasm, he could feel his small testicles contracting, could feel a tingling in the rosy knob at the end of his shaft.
Confused, Paul tried to concentrate on something else, anything else to dispel the feelings that raged through hs body. The movements of the other boys, the way their penises and testicles waved and wiggled as they showered were bad enough, but Oh God! Harry . . . Aghast, Paul looked down and saw that his normal one and a half inch penis had thickened and risen to four steel hard inches of pulsing flesh. His penis was crimson above his light brown circumcision ring. His mushroom head was weeping precum.
Fighting down the still not understood urge to reach out and touch Harry's perfect ass, Paul began to back away.
Paul's movement caused Harry to turn. He could not fail to notice his messmate's tumescence. A slight smile creased his handsome, brown-eyed face, for Harry was fully aware of the effect he had on some of the boys. More than half of the Sea Puppies had a crush on him. He was 17 and vain enough to appreciate and relish the looks of adulation that came his way. He accepted as his due that guys were going to bone up when confronted with his male beauty.
Paul was horrified that he had gotten a hardon while looking at Harry. He managed to retrieve his towel and hurriedly left the shower room. He sat on the edge of his bed, thoroughly frightened. I am not a fag. I am not a queer. I am NOT a fag, he thought angrily. He punctuated his thoughts by slamming his fist into the mattress.
Paul Greene did not hear one boy's comment, "For a guy who talks so big he sure is little."
Someone snorted in derision.
"Yeah," another voice piped. "A Little Big Man!"
As Little Big Man moved silently down the serving line the speaker above the door blared loudly and the bugled notes of "Defaulters", followed by two "Gs" echoed through the cavernous hall. The Cadet Master-At-Arms and Alfie Langsford, the short, handsome, black Regulating Petty Officer from Windsor, Ontario, stood up and headed for the door. The Twins, who were in the rattle, followed them. The Executive Officer was waiting for them, standing stonily behind his dais on the Quarterdeck, waiting to hear their stammered excuses for their latest infraction.
With the departure of the Jaunty and Alfie, and the Twins, the dining hall was empty except for Little Big Man who was sitting in solitary splendour at the table closest to the door.
Ignoring Little Big Man, The Phantom began to clear up. Although he was off at 1900 he had to prepare and deliver the hot chocolate drink for Kye Muster at 2000, which was a holdover from the old days when the Navy League ran things. For some reason the League considered the cadets little boys who needed hot chocolate and cookies before going to bed. Most of the older cadets avoided the muster. The younger boys seemed to like it, however. Perhaps it helped them to feel a little less homesick.
By quitting time the galley was squared away and the kye made. The Phantom left the galley and went into the cooks' locker room where he changed into a T-shirt and shorts. Before leaving he did a quick walk about to make sure that all the stoves were off and the Mess Hall empty. Then he went outside, unlocked his bicycle and headed for home.
As he rounded the curve leading to the road that would take him into town, The Gunner's beat up Land Rover passed him. The Gunner honked and waved through the open window.
The Phantom returned the wave, and pedaled on through the slight cloud of dust raised by the passing vehicle. He wanted to get home and catch some zees.
The Gunner passed The Phantom and steered his car around a pothole. He kept his speed down, not so much in consideration of raising a dust cloud, but for fear of hitting one of the many varieties of wildlife that abounded in the forest. Only last week a truck carrying supplies from CFB Comox, the ship's support base, to the Sea Cadet establishment, had hit a deer. There had been hell to pay from the local environmentalists. The Gunner had enough problems in life and did not need those kooks after him.
He drove onward, toward the town of Comox. To his left, across the wide expanse of the bay the cadets used for swimming, the white buildings of HMCS Aurora seemed to glow as the rays of the setting sun touched them. The place radiated serenity. Which was not surprising. Most of the cadets would be in evening classes. The place would be relatively quiet until 2000 when "Secure" would sound and the cadets muster for kye.
The Gunner avoided the cut-off into town and continued west until he arrived at a small U-shaped structure. Forest Glen Garden Apartments. The complex was a bit institutional, but the rents were reasonable and for the better part next two months this was home.
The Gunner could have stayed in barracks at CFB Comox, which was only five miles out of town. Staying there would have cost him nothing. There was a good Junior Ranks Mess and being an Air Force facility the food would be above standard. It always was on an Air Force base. He could have stayed on base, but he did not. The reason he did not was waiting for him in the small unit he had rented.
As he opened the door to the unit The Gunner saw Joel, who was lounging on the sofa with one leg draped over the arm, watching a ball game on the TV.
The Gunner walked over, leaned down, and kissed his lover lightly. "You look comfortable," he murmured as he nuzzled Joel's lips.
"I am," replied Joel. "There's not much of a breeze and I like to keep cool." He stood up and embraced The Gunner.
Joel Chiang was five feet, eight inches tall and with just the right amount of muscles to save him from effeminacy. He had a radiant smile and the combined genes of an English grandfather and a Chinese grandmother had made him a stunningly handsome man who looked ten years younger than his 28 years. He had a smooth oval face set with almond shaped, black eyes; his straight black hair was parted in the middle and hung lightly over his broad forehead. His light golden skin glowed and his eyes sparkled as The Gunner stood back and admired the youthful body of his friend and lover. Since Joel was only wearing snow-white briefs, there was a lot to admire.
"God, I've missed you," The Gunner growled as he began to massage the warm, golden flesh of Joel's arms. He slid his hands downward and began to stroke Joel's hips.
"And I've missed you, replied Joel. He reached up and slowly began to undo the buttons on The Gunner's shirt. When the shirt was unbuttoned Joel slowly pulled it out of The Gunner's green uniform trousers and slipped his hand down the front where his fingers found The Gunner's warm, hot erection.
Grinning, Joel leaned forward, his soft lips meeting The Gunner's. Their kiss was deep and passionate.
Pulling away, The Gunner moved his head downward, and began licking and sucking on the hardened nubs of Joel's nipples, which were embedded in dark brown aureoles, his lips nipping and sucking at the smooth, hot skin of Joel's hairless chest, his tongue licking, tasting, savouring the wonderful, unique flavour that was Joel.
Joel began to moan softly as The Gunner sank to his knees and began to nibble and suck on the soft cotton fabric hiding Joel's wonderful, pulsating erection, lapping at the engorged helmet, then at his tightening balls. Joel writhed as he felt the warmth of The Gunner's tongue and lips assaulting the smooth fabric of his underpants, felt the pleasure building deep inside him, spreading from his testicles to his penis, seeping slowly throughout his body.
The Gunner slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Joel's briefs and began to slowly pull the tight-fitting underpants down, revealing first Joel's rosy-gold knob, then his flawless shaft, a darker gold beneath his light tan circumcision ring. The vein running along the underside of Joel's penis was distended and dark with blood. He began to pump his hips ever so slightly, purring contentedly as The Gunner continued his act of worship, slowly lapping at Joel's sweet, hairless scrotum, then at the silky smooth skin of his inner thighs.
Joel gasped as The Gunner took him in his mouth, slowly, slowly, sucking and stroking with his tongue as he swallowed Joel's manhood until Joel could feel his hot breath on his tuft of pubic hair. He bucked slightly and his body spasmed as The Gunner's head bobbed on his six inches of thick, hard dick. He felt The Gunner's tongue as it wiped the precum oozing from his raging organ, smoothing it over his smooth mushroomed head.
A feeling that surpassed ecstasy began to overwhelm Joel, a feeling that became almost unbearable as The Gunner's finger found, circled, and then probed his brown, puckered rosebud.
As The Gunner's finger slowly entered him, Joel moaned softly. When the probing finger lightly brushed the small mound of his sensitive prostate he groaned and shuddered.
The Gunner's finger moved back, then forward and across the sensitive gland. Joel arched his body and threw his head back, thrusting his hips forward as finger and mouth brought him closer and closer to nirvana. He felt The Gunner's finger fucking him in sync with the movement of his mouth, his other hand cupping and fondling his tight, inflamed balls.
Joel's body began trembling uncontrollably as The Gunner's tongue found the delicate, sweet residue of skin where the shaft joined the underside of his silken, shapely helmet. Deep within his very soul Joel felt his orgasm building. "Oh Jee-SUS-H-CHRIST," he moaned, barely able to breathe as a lava flow of semen erupted from his turgid, blood engorged helmet.
As each jet of his thick semen was expelled into The Gunner's willing and swallowing mouth, Joel thrust his hips and his stomach muscles seemed to contract, forcing his body to drape over The Gunner's broad back, each hip thrust shorter and shorter as his flow diminished.
Burying his face in the fabric of The Gunner's shirt, Joel smelled the odour of starch and male, the aromas filling his nostrils.
As his shrinking penis twitched in delight, Joel continued to moan softly, grunting as The Gunner's tongue laved the sensitive head of his penis with saliva and his own creamy, thick nectar, losing himself in the pleasure that only a man can give to another man.
A tidal wave of pain and pleasure washed over Joel as the nerve endings that seemed to form his entire glans continued to explode. "Please don't . . ." Joel begged as he pulled his hips back, trying to extricate his penis from The Gunner's avidly sucking mouth. Steve wanted every drop of Joel and knew what he was doing.
"Please Stevie," Joel begged again. "Please, Steve . . . I can't . . . you must . . . must . . . please . . . I can't stand it!" He pulled back a little more forcefully and his now thoroughly sated dick popped out of his lover's mouth.
Joel fell backward, sprawling on the sofa; legs spread, his briefs dangling from one ankle, and lay there, panting and groaning as the tide of pleasure that had engulfed him slowly ebbed from his body.
The Gunner knelt beside the sofa and laid his head on Joel's taut stomach, his hand massaging Joel's smooth, silken thigh, taking great care to avoid touching his still pulsing cock.
Joel began squirming as he moaned his favourite curse, "Jesus-HP-Christ-Circumcised and Crucified!" He lay back, his arm over his eyes as he fought to bring his breathing under control. His heart, which had all but stopped when he blew his load, was slowly returning to a more or less normal rhythm.
The Gunner raised his head and rubbed his cheek along Joel's leg. His daylong growth of beard felt rough but tickled just the same.
"That," Joel declared, "was worth waiting three months for. I have never, and I mean never, cum like that." His hand caressed the stubble at the back of The Gunner's head, then reached down and felt The Gunner's still hard penis hidden inside his love's trousers, trousers wet with the excitement they had shared. "And now I think it's my turn," he purred lewdly.
Kicking aside his briefs, Joel sat up. The Gunner stood and watched with a bemused smile as Joel unbuckled his leather belt and then his thin green trousers. With a slight tug Joel pulled down The Gunner's pants, revealing his white, precum-spotted boxers. The Gunner's beautiful, wonderfully proportioned, pink and tan coloured erection was poking stiffly upward from the fly of the boxers, leaking a steady stream of clear, sticky natural lubricant.
Joel reached over and thumbed The Gunner's erection, then reached down and felt his lover's large, low hanging testicles. He leaned forward and licked the head of The Gunner's dick clean, only to have another blob of thick, viscous fluid ooze out of the piss hole. The Gunner's penis was just a shade longer than Joel's, but much thicker, with a pale, light brown ring about three inches below the crisp, curving glans.
Joel took The Gunner in his mouth and began a long, slow suck. The Gunner allowed it for a few moments. "Not yet," he said quietly. "I want to make it last." He gently pushed Joel's head aside. "Besides, I need a shower. I stink of sweat, and cum, and cordite. And so do you."
Joel glared at him. "I do not!" he growled emphatically. He was a very fastidious young man and showered religiously. He took great satisfaction in the fact that his glandular makeup was such that he never, ever, perspired.
"Do too," replied The Gunner stepping back. "You smell of sex and maleness."
Joel gave his lover a quick kiss. "I love you when you do that."
"Don't pretend that I'm a female when you're fucking me, don't call me babe or slut. I hate it when guys do that, especially when they're cumming."
The Gunner put his arms around Joel and hugged him tight. Joel felt The Gunner's rigid cock poking his stomach and his own flaccid penis hardening.
"If I was fucking a female I might," said The Gunner, drawing Joel's cheek close to his. "But, since I make love to men, I treat them like men."
Drawing back a bit Joel smiled warmly. "Thanks. It means a lot when you treat me like a man." He was well aware that his slim build and fine features hinted at a femininity he did not have.
"If you weren't a man you wouldn't be here," replied The Gunner. The tips of his fingers gently traced the outline of Joel's chin. "If you weren't a man, I wouldn't love you. And, if you weren't a man you wouldn't be all smelly."
"Asshole!" Joel snapped. He pulled hard on The Gunner's rigid penis.
"Ouch!" The Gunner yelped loudly and pulled away. "That hurt!"
"I guess this means you don't want to play in the shower."
Joel slipped his arms around The Gunner's waist and pulled their bodies close. He slowly ground his hardness against The Gunner's. "You are such an asshole," he said, smiling. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"