Uss Independence

USS Independence CV62

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

Author's Notes: A notoriously rigid service, the Navy thrives on conformity where policies, regulations, and instructions govern every facet of a member's life. Unfortunately, some sailors do not readily submit to enlisted servitude and require a vigor of discipline to make them comply with requirements and do reasonable work.

When extra military instruction and other leadership tools fail to achieve desired results, the next option is non-judicial punishment, and if necessary, incarceration in the ship's brig. Operated by the embarked marines, the devil dogs excel in motivating wayward sailors, affectionately known as `brig rats'.

Chapter 12: Brig Rat

"The purpose of discipline is to bring about an efficient military organization. Punishment is not personal, vindictive, or inflicted as revenge for misconduct. The Navy realizes it cannot right the wrong resulting from an act of dereliction. The value of punishment is the object lesson the punishment teaches the wrongdoer and others - the offense must not be repeated." ~ US Navy Regulations ~

"Attention on deck!" orders the corporal.

Descending the inclined ladder, Ensign Rozo enters the vestibule of the ship's brig as the Marine guards and incarcerated rats snap to attention.

"Carry on," the officer replies.

The ship's detention center, 3-185-8-L, consists of an administrative alcove, two individual holding cells, and a 12-man brig. With racks stacked 3 high, a small corner shower, steel commode, and close circuit camera watching their every move, there is no privacy for the rats.

Confined in close quarters with poor ventilation and high personnel density, a distinctive perfume permeates the air - an amalgamation of male pheromones, sweat, and lemon scented bleach.

"Good morning sir," a guard greets the Ensign.

"Corporal Rodriquez, how are the rats today?

The punishment a commanding officer can impose upon a sailor embarked aboard a vessel under his command is strictly regulated by the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 15 - Commanding Officer's Non-Judicial Punishment.

Depending upon the CO's rank, he can impose one or more of the following without the intervention of a courts martial: reduction in rank, forfeiture of half pay for 2 months, 60 days restriction, 45 days extra duty, 30 days correctional custody, and 3 days restricted rations of bread & water (E3 and below).

Entering the disciplinary toolkit in the mid-19th century, confinement on bread and water became prevalent as a drastic but less deleterious punishment when the Navy phased out flogging.

Aboard America's first aircraft carrier, USS Langley CV1, restricted rations of bread & water was a popular punishment. Unfortunately, the brig was located below the galley, and friends of the confined sailors would pass food down through the portholes. Clueless, the ship's officers were amazed that somehow the sailors were gaining weight while on restricted rations.

Today's super carriers don't have portholes.

And the brig is completely isolated below the waterline.

A harsh disciplinarian, Independence's commanding officer always awards the maximum combination of penalties allowable by law. Teaching sailors that improper actions have deleterious consequences, it's an object lesson for the perpetrator and his recalcitrant shipmates.

"The rats are great sir... enjoying all the comforts of home."

And it's another fine Navy day for good order and discipline.

At sea there are limited options for holding and interrogating sailors, and only aircraft carriers and big-deck amphibious ships have brigs. Destroyers, cruisers, and frigates lack the space and resources to operate a dedicated facility, and therefore transfer detainees to the capital vessels.

While some sailors are incarcerated for serious or repetitive UCMJ violations, others are held for transfer to a shore facility and courts martial proceedings.

"The service you provide is invaluable."

"Thank you, sir. We do enjoy running the brig."

Dedicated and motivated, the marines are imbued with a strong sense of duty and a commitment to professional excellence. Ferocious guardians of regulations, they delight in providing sailors with tangible military lessons. And a modest amount of harmless physical and mental abuse is part of the corrective reeducation process.

"I'm here for HTFA Cramer."

"Yes, sir... he's been asking for you."

Ensign Rozo's first obligation is the care and welfare of his men. Safeguarding government property, the Navy takes care of its own... even dirt-bags with disciplinary problems. And Navy Regulations require a division officer to visit the brig once a week if he has an incarcerated rat.

Clad only in skivvies, the rats have lost the privilege to wear a uniform.

It's a vivid reminder of their insignificant position in the hierarchy.

Surveying the landscape of inferior males, the Ensign swells with pride at being an officer and gentleman by an act of Congress, serving at the pleasure of the President. His khaki uniform with gold ensign insignia, his symbolic power, affords him unquestionable respect from all enlisted men.

Taking inventory, recognizing most of the rats, gorging on the sumptuous visual feast of enlisted flesh, he studies them the way a lion surveys a herd of gazelle.

"Rat Cramer... front and center!" Rodriquez barks.

Without hesitation, knowing the routine, Cramer approaches the iron-bar cell door and smartly snaps to attention with toes behind a white line painted on the deck.

The marine unlocks the cell door.

"Sir, request permission to cross the line," Cramer shouts.

"Permission granted, rat."

Marching double-time, his gear bouncing in the worn skivvies, Cramer crosses the line, exits the cell, takes station by another white line, and stands at attention. A pathetic sight, he clearly resides on the bottom of the food chain.

"Parade rest," the Ensign orders, taking charge of his rat.

With deference, the compliant sailor assumes the submissive military position. Crisply snapping arms behind his back, hands interlocked, and feet spread shoulder width apart, his head is straightforward with eyes unfocused gazing at destiny.

A skinny kid with a contemptuous attitude towards authority, he enlisted in the Navy to avoid prison after impregnating the local police chief's 14-year-old daughter. Only after reporting to boot camp did he discover there is very little difference between the institutions.

Prisoners have some rights - sailors, not as much.

Unfortunately for Cramer, the Navy owns his ass for four years.

Defying regulations on a regular basis, bringing nothing but discredit to the Navy, Cramer has been awarded NJP on countless occasions. Impulsive and immature, lacking discipline and military temperament, he is an unreliable shipmate - the worst condemnation of a sailor.

Frustrated, Rozo authorized a performance feedback session - an effective technique for gaining a poor performer's attention. Secluded in 4Main Machinery Room, 7-119-0-E, conveying the message that unreliable sailors are a detriment to Engineering, the snipes relentlessly educate Cramer's worthless ass.

Ensuring the beneficial lesson resonates for days, providing extensive beatings, they also take turns feeing the recalcitrant plenty of cock... transforming him into a serviceable cocksucker.

Punching in and out of the battered throat, shipmates expanded his culinary horizons and educated his palate. Exploring a world of sophisticated flavors, the submissive sailor quaffed quarts of decadent jam.

The day's lesson concluded with a nice greasing.

Stretched and secured over a section of main propulsion line shafting, a grease gun's 18-inch flexible metal hose was snaked up inside him. Discharging the gun, jubilant sailors took turns pumping the lever...emptying three 16 oz. cartridges up inside the anfractuous passageway.

It's a clear message that insubordination will not be tolerated... and the beatings and greasings will continue until his attitude and performance improves.

Traumatized and packed with grease, he deserts the Navy.

Hitching a ride homeward, Cramer was picked up by a trucker - a retired navy master chief. Taking advantage of the pre-lubricated sailor, exercising his inherent right after 30 years of service to his country, the trucker brutally ass fucked the little sea urchin.

Used relentlessly, passed around by alpha males, riding Peterbilts up and down the east coast, Cramer is quickly ruined and discarded. Left naked and battered by the side of interstate I-95, he is discovered by the local police, and returned per regulations to the Navy for disposition.

UCMJ Article 8. Apprehension of Deserters

Any civil officer having authority to apprehend offenders under the laws of the United States or of a State, Territory, Commonwealth, or possession, or the District of Columbia may summarily apprehend a deserter from the armed forces and deliver him into the custody of those forces. When a military service sends out a description of a deserter, with a request for the deserter's apprehension, the notice gives civil officers the authority to apprehend the person.

Smiling with satisfaction, Rozo inspects the subjugated rat.

Exceeding grooming standards, his hair is sheared to within a quarter-inch of shaven. Lacking defining musculature, completely smooth, he looks like a pre-pubescent boy. Shattering the illusion, his oversized gear is clearly discernible inside the diaphanous skivvies.

"How are you doing, Cramer?"

"Oh sir, please help me," beseeches the sailor.

"What's the problem now?"

"The marines... they keep fucking me," he cries.

"Really? Why would they do that?"

Unbeknownst to Cramer, Ensign Rozo helped orchestrate the hapless sailor's plight. During a productive conversation with the Marine Detachment's Gunnery Sergeant, the senior enlisted marine afloat, he strongly encourages the robust beating and utilization of the sailor's sorry ass.

Nobody likes a deserter... especially honor bound marines. And the devil-dogs need little encouragement to brutally punish him.

While all the rats are invariably abused to some extent, Cramer is singled out for special attention. Escorted to remote compartments throughout the ship by eager marines, the sailor is fed an assortment of cock and aggressively shafted.

"I don't know... they think I'm sea-pussy," Cramer explains.

"It's a reasonable conclusion considering your exploits."

"I... I didn't have a choice, sir."

"Perhaps. But from what I understand, you also didn't offer much resistance. No real man would ever surrender his masculinity so easily. Would they?"

"N... no, sir. I guess not," the sailor shamefully admits.

Possessing captivating pictures, the officer knows the rat's ass is a stunning palette of vibrant tones - striations of crimson, carmine, and burnt sienna. Much to Rozo's delight, the sailor's once tight orifice is now completely ruined and the undulating pink passageway discernable.

It's a win-win situation for Rozo and the marines.

For Cramer, not so much.

• • • • • Flashback - - - - -

HTFA Cramer is returned to Independence.

Escorted by Military Police, the handcuffed sailor is transferred to ship's force. Accepting custody, several Master-at-Arms take him to the MAA Shack, 2-216-2-Q. After processing he will be transferred to the brig for pre-trial confinement.

Intending to permanently leave the Navy, Cramer will be charged with desertion, a UCMJ Article 85 violation. During war, this violation may be punished with death. In times of peace, the maximum punishment is a dishonorable discharge, confinement for 3 years, and forfeiture of all pay and allowances.

Exercising authority, the MAAs have growing smiles and erections.

"Ok, dirt-bag... strip," the senior MA1 orders.

Obeying the lawful order, the subjugated sailor undresses. Stoically he pulls off his shirt and unbuckles his trousers. Undoing the clasp, slowly retracting the zipper, the garment slides off his hips, down his legs, and pools around his feet.

"Everything," the petty officer demands.

Having no choice, Cramer's hands shake as unsteady fingers slide under the elastic waistband and slowly retract the skivvies over his substantial gear. Sliding off his hips and down boney legs, the little sailor is naked... stripped of his clothing and dignity.

All eyes are drawn instinctively downward as they scrutinize the defenseless sailor. Everyone stares at the impressive oversized equipment hanging pendulously between the boy's legs. The massive meaty shaft hangs over a generous floppy bag containing lemon sized testicles.

"Damn... it's huge," a sailor exclaims.

"Why do little shitheads always have big dicks?" laments an MA3.

Cramer's form invokes images of Priapus... the Greek god of male procreative power. The son of Dionysus and Aphrodite, the fertility god is celebrated for absurdly oversized genitalia. A popular figure in Roman erotic art, Priapus' giant phallus is depicted in many frescoes found at Pompeii.

Also a navigational deity and protector, merchant sailors carried terracotta phalluses and wooden Priapus figures aboard ships during voyages. Represented in its erect form, the phallus was thought to have a mind of its own, animal-like, separate from the control of men.

Willfully, Cramer's cock stands proudly at attention.

And Independence enjoys Priapus' protection.

Gathering around the prisoner, taking advantage of the opportunity and accessibility, the spellbound audience takes mental pictures... committing every amazing detail to memory. It's unabashed voyeurism, and everyone is enjoying the spectacle... devouring the surreal cock with incredulous eyes.

The stunning asymmetrical visual - one naked squid surrounded by fully clothed men, emphasizes the unambiguous difference between the inferior and superior males. At a significant psychological disadvantage, the naked male is inherently submissive and deferential.

Under time constraints, the in-processing of Cramer continues.

"Ok, up against the bulkhead... spread your legs."

Facing a transverse bulkhead, inclined with extremities spread wide, Cramer is positioned for yet another cavity search. Although the Military Police conducted an exhaustive and through search, the ship must execute their own aggressive inspection.

Donning latex examination gloves, an experienced MA2 takes station off Cramer's stern. Grasping the prisoner's waist, rotating his hips, he spreads him open.

"Will you look at that!" he exclaims.

"Fuck... that hole is wide open," notes a shipmate.

Exchanging wolfish grins, looking to satiate prurient curiosity, a scrum of sailors maneuver for unobstructed views of Cramer's battered oculus. Centered in a deep indentation, showing signs of intensive use, the plum colored pussy lips look like a little mouth wearing lipstick.

And everyone knows Cramer has been taking it up the ass.

The excitement is palpable... the pungent perfume of testosterone intoxicating.

Commencing the invasive search for contraband, the MA2 probes the bruised ring. Encountering no resistance, he aggressively stuffs two thick digits up inside the sailor's inner sanctum. Underway, making way, he traverses and explores the well-dredged channel.

Twisting his hand, massaging the silky smooth interior walls, the sailor luxuriates inside the velvet glove. It's the ultimate conquest. There's nothing like it... controlling an inferior shipmate, forcing calloused digits up inside a defenseless ass, violating another male's most private inner space.

The rapturous MA2 is grateful to be in the Navy.

Cramer, not quite as much.

With his disgraceful secret exposed and a hand halfway up his ass, Cramer's face is a portrait of misery and shame. Surrounded by lewdly laughing shipmates, the devastated sailor drowns in a sea of humiliation as he is abused with impunity.

Watching the performance, several sailors have expanding erections struggling for quarters inside their confining uniforms. Imprisoned at sea, hidden desires of desperate men are amplified. Living fragmented lives, embracing fate, sailors inevitably become prisoners to their own fantasies.

Brazenly stroking their shafts, they envision using the sea-pussy, ramming unmercifully up inside the hole, aggressively breeding the inferior male.

It's nothing personal... just predators fucking prey.

Nearing the end of the search, finding nothing of interest, the MA2's knowledgeable fingers manipulate Cramer's sensitive prostate gland. Due to the close proximity of nerves, the stimulation quickly results in an uncontrollable need to ejaculate.

Powerless to stop the proceedings, Cramer moans in shame as his testicles ascend in the floppy sack, visually announcing an impending orgasm. His traitorous cock twitches uncontrollably and ropes of chunky white jam violently explode onto the deck.

"Oh yeah blow your load," encourages a sailor.

"The fag is getting off being searched," said another in disgust.

Turning his attention to processing Cramer's paperwork for transfer to the brig, the MA1 doesn't notice a young MA3 near the prisoner. Harboring a disquieting fetish, the third-class petty officer brutally clutches Cramer's balls... trapping them in the stretched sack.

Applying increasing pressure, he has Cramer's attention.

"You're a deserter... and these balls will pay the price."

Enlisting in the Navy, striking for the master-at-arms rating, the alpha male displays a profound ability to take charge of shipmates. Afforded unprecedented opportunities to indulge his dark interests, he is intoxicated with the authority to control and abuse sailors. In the course of performing his duties, often indiscriminately and to excess, he scrambles the eggs of well-deserving dirt-bag shipmates.

"I'm going to ruin you," he whispers with a demonic grin.

Painfully erect, he's fixated on the destruction of Cramer's gear.

Trembling in fear, Cramer is at the mercy of the superior male. In extremis, his compressed and protesting balls are nearing the breaking point. Nauseous, with explosive pain radiating throughout his groin and abdomen, he screams in agony, drawing the attention of his captors.

Regaining situational awareness, the MA1 takes action.

Up for promotion to Chief Petty Officer, he doesn't need another incident of `accidental collateral damage' on his watch. And he has warned the MA3 on several occasions about the application of excessive force. While Cramer's insignificant balls are of no concern, it wouldn't look good transferring yet another sailor to the brig with ruptured testicles.

"Let him go," the MA1 orders.

"But he's a deserter... he deserves it."

"Now fuckhead! Or I swear you'll be sorry..."

By signing an enlistment contract, sailors surrender their civil law rights and voluntarily accept military authority and jurisdiction delineated under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Facing serious consequences, the MA3 could easily be charged with article 92 and 108 infractions - Failure to Obey an Order or Regulation' and Destruction of Government Property' respectively.

With his designs thwarted, the MA3 silently curses fate. A self-appointed dispenser of justice, he believes sailors must obey regulations or suffered dire consequences. Disgusted by the deserter, but having no choice, he follows the lawful order. Delivering one more bone crushing squeeze, he reluctantly releases the bruised eggs.

And the destruction of government property is narrowly averted.

Completing custodial paperwork, the MA1 escorts Cramer to the brig.

Provided with a jumpsuit, bound with stainless steel handcuffs, he is unceremoniously marched forward up the starboard passageway, 31 frames. Traversing awthortship, heading outboard, descending an inclined ladder, they enter the ship's detention center, 3-185-8-L.

It's Cramer's new home for the next 30 days.

And the Marines take custody of the worthless rat.

A coterie of guards... prolific predators with fearsome reputation and insatiable sexual appetites for seafood, sporting impressive erections and malicious grins, surround Cramer. Their gaze wanders, feasting on the sailor while envisioning the tantalizing possibilities.

Quintessential alpha males, the devil dogs enjoy tormenting brig rats. HTFA Cramer, however, is a special case. Provided with advanced notification and specific instructions from their gunnery sergeant, the deserter will receive especially brutal treatment.

"Strip," a staff sergeant orders.

Frightened by the leering guards, Cramer is filled with hopelessness. He recognizes their hunger - like predators staring down at prey. Without hesitation, knowing the routine, he strips completely and stands at attention. Immediately his massive cock draws attention.

"Fuck... look at the size of that thing," roars a PFC.

Gathering round for a closer inspection, the marines study the naked sailor from every angle like pool-hall hustlers calculating options.

Savoring the erotic potential, they can't wait to take liberties with the rat. Aroused, several marines rub expanding erection cloistered inside olive-green camouflage utility trousers.

Intensifying the experience, they take perverse delight in frightening the defenseless rat, gang raping him with licentious eyes. Unquestionably, the ultimate pleasure resides in conquering a rat, shattering his confidence, obliterating his pride, domesticating his spirit, and stealing his masculinity.

"We're going to teach you about obligations, rat."

"And your sorry ass will learn some valuable lessons."

Talking among themselves, exchanging conspiratorial nods, they glance at the rat and smile knowingly. Sanctioned by leadership, appreciating the opportunity to punish the deserter with impunity, an operational plan quickly coalesces.

Mobilizing, six marines escort Cramer through a quick-acting water-tight hatch and down an inclined ladder to the fourth deck. Navigating a short passageway, they approach a remote outboard storeroom. Opening the high-security lock, pushing the rat inside, they enter the secluded compartment.

Dogging the water-tight door, privacy is assured.

And the whirl of an adjacent HVAC system masks all sounds.

Strategically positioned in the center of the compartment is a small metal table. Bolted to the deck, it is held fast against the ship's linear motions and rotational forces. Prodded and pushed down, no match for the motivated marines, the rat descends without protest.

Mounted across the sacrificial alter, his wrists and ankles are firmly secured with plastic zip ties. Spreading his legs, the rat's anus, perineum, perineal raphe, and swollen orbs housed inside the floppy sack are perfectly framed between his skinny legs.

"Damn, that's beautiful," exclaims an excited PFC.

"Sweet sea-pussy," said an enthralled carnivore.

Encircling the immobilized rat, moving in for the kill, they plan on savagely shafting the dirt-bag sailor. Focused on their personal enjoyment, indifferent about consequences, abhorrent fetishes and perverse sexual predilections will be freely indulged.

And it's another fine day to be a marine... ooh-rah!

For their prey, not as much.

Alarmed by his captors' menacing leers, the rat intuitively understanding his dire predicament. No stranger to being used by alpha males, he knows he'll be shafted and sucking cock for hours - ingesting pints of premium US Marine Corps jam.

A stunning Latino sergeant with a silky-smooth cognac complexion moves towards the bound rat. Taking station inches from his face, the marine's magnificent uncut cock sways menacingly like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.

"You want this, cocksucker?"

Mesmerized, Cramer is unresponsive.

Running his hands provocatively down the shaft, the marine strokes the serpent and accentuates its length and girth. Massaging the foreskin, he retracts the fleshy hood over the leaking glans. Positioning the blood-engorged cockhead against the rat's pouty lips, he spreads the leaking juices like lip balm.

The sweet salty taste of masculinity resonates on Cramer's lips. Intoxicated, he willingly kisses the cockhead and demonstrates respect to the superior male. Rolling his tongue around the flared contours, he savors the amazing taste and texture.

"Blow me," the Latino commands.

And the rat obediently opens his mouth.

A serviceable cocksucker, he takes the broad crimson crown and several inches of shaft inside his accommodating mouth. Displaying more enthusiasm and determination than a straight sailor should, he greedily sucks the tumid ophidian.

Insistently pushing the tongue out of the way, the cupidinous marine steadily advances, twisting and slithering forward, until he is perched upon the throat's precipice. Ensuring proper alignment, applying increasing pressure, bucking forward, he demands entrance.

Instinctively Cramer swallows hard.

And the cockhead pops inside his throat.

Tunneling down, stretching the esophagus, the thick shaft disappears inch-by-inch until two-blocked. With balls pressed against Cramer's chin, it is prevented from proceeding any deeper. Securing quarters inside the convulsing tube, the magnificent shaft is protruding obscenely in the sailor's neck.

"Damn... he took the whole thing!"

"Oh yeah, throat fuck him."

Luxuriating in the convulsing conduit, the sergeant breathes deeply and savors the amazing sensation. Enjoying the many privileges of rank, he loves being in the Marine Corps... the amazing adventures and opportunities, rewarding and satisfying.

"Awk... ugh," Cramer babbles incoherently.

"Oh yeah, choke on it."

Savagely thrusting in and out, impaling the protesting throat, the marine's balls lift inside the tightening bag. Trembling involuntarily, he explodes and feeds the rat his custard - a molten decadence of white chocolate ganache, cinnamon, vanilla, and exotic spices.

"Take my load, cocksucker."

"Swallow, swallow," the enthralled audience chants.

Feasting on the substantial meal, nutritious and delicious, Cramer quaffs the creamy goodness. Breathing slowly, milking the deflating cock, he savors the amazingly addictive jam. Containing cadherin, a protein involved in learning, it strengthens the neural connections in the brain's reward circuits.

And he craves another dose of the potent drug.

Descending from the euphoric high, the expended marine vacates the cocksucker's mouth without a glance or any acknowledgement. Stepping aside, he makes way for the next feeding.

Cramer glances around the compartment and notices all the predators have extracted impressive erections from their camouflage trousers. Twitching with anticipation, most are standard issue... but one is freakishly large, elongating to epic proportions. Its owner, of course, is a big black marine.

Radiating power, it commands immediate respect.

And Cramer knows that one is going to hurt.

Shamelessly displaying their masculinity, proudly stroking blood engorged shafts, the jubilant marines celebrate the rat's debasement. Taking pictures and documenting the proceedings, they exercise impressive discipline... queuing up and patiently waiting for their turn.

The feedings continue and three marines use Cramer in rapid succession.

To the amusement of his friends, a corporal deliberately pulls out of the cocksucker's mouth, unloads, and glazes the startled face like a cinnamon bun with sticky white icing. To great applause, the gelatinous jam slowly rolls down Cramer's cheeks, across his bruised lips, and falls into his stunned mouth.

Meanwhile, the rat's ass has attracted justifiable attention. Mustering by his stern, feasting on the beautifully proportioned ass, everyone admires its innate perfection. The curvaceous ass, enticing and inviting, beckons to be explored and ravaged.

Wielding complete control over the rat, intoxicated with the power granted by the Corps to utilize government property, the authoritative marines shiver from the unbearable anticipation.

"Rat, you're so getting ass fucked."

Conducting reconnaissance, kneading the supple flesh, the marines run roughly callused hands over every inch of Cramer's silky smooth skin. Seeking every crevasse, teasing the pliant slot, they envision the unparalleled pleasure of being inside the exquisite chute.

"Please... I don't want it up the ass."

"Of course you don't... who would?"

Combating the tribulations of nautical life, isolated at sea without women, marines naturally seek alternative outlets. Entrenched in a competitive environment where predators and prey cohabitate, the devil-dogs unsurprisingly utilize sailors and midshipmen.

And honestly, who doesn't enjoy an occasional piece of sea-pussy?

Unfortunately for Cramer, he's the current object of opportunity.

As the dominant alpha male and senior marine present, the first fuck is the big black staff sergeant's inherent right. Smiling confidently, he rubs his massive ebony cock, ensuring it has reached maximum tumescence... 10 solid inches of destruction. A veteran at fucking sailors and rats, he knows substantial force will be required to stuff it in balls deep.

"Still... your ass belongs to us. And we want to fuck it."

"B... but... but I'm not gay," Cramer whimpers.

Firmly entrenched in their clutches, the rat is utterly helpless.

The marines delight in seeing the range of emotions playing over his face: panic, dread, dismay. Quivering in terror, he's consumed with the horrific knowledge that he's going to get gang fucked again and is powerless to prevent it.

The staff sergeant inspects the defenseless hole and runs his calloused finger around the enflamed rosebud. Dispensing with needless preparations, demonstrating his inherent superiority, employing only a modest amount of spit, he brutally drives two thick fingers up inside the rat.

With practiced efficiency he stretches the ring. But not too much.

After all, he wants a reasonably enjoyable experience.

Vacating the chute, he repositions Cramer's hips to ensure proper alignment for maximum penetration. Exhilarated by the thrill of conquest, unable to contain his enthusiasm any longer, he positions the bulbous blood-swollen cockhead on the rat's terrified opening.

Grabbing the rat's hips, without warning or requesting permission to come aboard, the staff sergeant savagely lunges forward, slamming inside the shocked ass, driving deep inside the clutching chute in one continuous fluid motion. And the rat is unceremoniously mounted.

"Aggggghhhhhh!" Cramer screams.

"Oh yeah... so fucking good."

Bottoming-out in the convulsing passageway, rearranging the sailor's internal organs, the marine enjoys undeniable perfection. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it... being balls deep inside an inferior rat, stealing his masculinity, destroying his claim on manhood.

"He took the whole fucking thing!" said an impressed PFC.

"Damn, that's got to hurt!"

"Plow that pussy... rip him a new one," encourages another marine.

Unconcerned for Cramer's discomfort, providing no time for acclimation, smirking with satisfaction, he rips roughly in-and-out of the devastated cunt. His audience, vociferously cheering the endeavor, watches the carnage like patrons at an imperial roman spectacle.

"Oh god, please take it out," Cramer begs, tears streaming down his face.

"Shut up and take it like a man."

But of course Cramer is not a man... just a pathetic rat.

Repeatedly pummeling the hole, the staff sergeant advances and retreats like a union brigade harassing confederate forces. Changing angles, dragging the devastated ring along on his rapacious beer can thick shaft, he rips the rat a new one.

Elated, watching the breeding intently, the spectators grin, applaud every thrust and groan, and exchange congratulatory high-fives. Documenting the proceedings, dozens of excellent pictures are taken of the rat's battered ass and his grimacing face.

"Getting close..."

Withdrawing completely from the battered hole, the staff sergeant clutches the rat's hips in a warrior's death grip, and savagely slams forward extra deep.

"...take my load, rat."

Convulsing, a torrent of jam suddenly explodes.

Inseminating the rat's womb, he floods it with 500 million sperm frantically searching for an egg to fertilize. A few minutes later, descending the euphoric high, breathing hard, totally drained but satisfied, the marine withdraws, making way for an eager mate.

"I'm next," a corporal announces.

"No...no more, please," Cramer pleads.

"We're just getting started, rat... and everyone wants a turn."

Rising to the occasion, a marine steps forward and commences the assault. With the additional enhancement of the previous marine's lubricating jam, the corporal easily breaches the defeated ring and storms inside the defenseless chute. Delivering powerful thrust, he plows the rat mercilessly.

Broken and domesticated, Cramer accepts his fate.

And everyone enjoys another fine day at sea.

• • • • • Return To Present - - - - -

Searching Ensign Rozo's face for compassion, the rat finds none.

Broken and despondent, Cramer has endured the relentless humiliation and pain of being brutally stuffed up the ass by the marines. Against all odds, he begs for his division officer's help.

"Please sir... don't let them fuck me anymore."

"Don't worry Cramer, they'll eventually lose interest."

While all brig rats are removed from their cells daily for arduous work and physical exercise, Cramer is vectored to remote compartments for lengthy group shaftings.

Driving home the important lesson of actions and consequences, countless marines have aggressively educated Cramer. Repudiating the sailor's tenuous claim on masculinity, they will keep shafting the rat until his ass is no longer serviceable.

"But...but... I'm not gay, sir."

"Are you sure sailor? Perhaps you should rethink that."

Transformed into a cocksucker, the sailor has acquired excellent oral skills. And his stretched and wonderfully open ass can now accommodate even the most demanding shipmates. Clearly, the worthless sailor has finally found his calling in the service to his Nation.

Subjugated and emasculated, Cramer surrenders his masculinity.

In the Navy, rank is everything; and life as an officer is sweet.

For a brig rat, it's pointless to fight against the military system.

The voyage aboard USS Independence CV62 continues in Chapter 13: Standing The Watch.

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