Naval Dilemma

Then, using large quantities of the oil, he began to open me up. His thumb was replaced with his middle finger, which was as long and as thick as many of my men's cocks. He gently fucked me with this, in and out and around, opening me slowly. This wasn't so bad, and neither was it that difficult when he added his index finger. I began to pant and arch my back, though, when the third finger went it. He fisted my cock with his other hand and stroked me to another ejaculation to take my mind off the opening of my hole to his needs.

Not long before I spouted off, I felt I couldn't wait any longer. "Fuck me!" I cried. "Take me now! Fuck me. And no rubber. I'm clean. I want you to drown my insides! Now!" And it was true. I was doused regularly because some sailors just wouldn't wait. And I'd yet to have a problem. Hung Lee was Chinese. They knew what to do.

"Sorry, Not yet, I can't yet," he croaked, my begging for him affecting him deeply, almost choking him up to where he couldn't speaking. The three fingers inside me were quaking with excitement and anticipation. "I don't want to ruin you, and I'm afraid once I've started I won't be able to stop."

As I shot off, the fourth finger went in, the fingers cupped and gently pressing out, stretching me, if ever so slowly. I writhed under the invasion, moving my pelvis back and forth, trying to help stretch my channel. My fingernails clawing at the bed spread.

"And are you sure about the rubber? I don't want—"

"Yes, I sure." I spat out between clinched teeth. "Skin on skin. I want to feel that thick pulsing vein under your cock. Directly on your cock. My muscles moving on your cock, making love to your cock, Pulling you into me, being flooded by you. Deep, deep inside. NOW!"

That did it, With a sob, Dutch rose up off the chair and crouched between my legs, and I felt the gigantic bulb of his cock head at my hole, between his cupped fingers inside me. As the fingers withdrew, his cock head tried to push in, slowly and as gently as he could, but I had him worked up to the limit now and his legs were shaking.

I arched up to him and reached down and grabbed at the root of his cock and held it steady and tried to draw it into me, willing the cock head to breech the sphincter. We were both panting and groaning. With a plopping sound, the cock head was past the entrance, and he was inside me.

I screamed and flopped back onto the bed, arching my back up then, though, and clawing at the bed spread with my hands, taking up great globs of material in my fists. Panting hard and groaning and grunting at the strain.

"I can stop. Tell me to stop," Dutch cried out.

"Don't you dare," I yelled back. "All the way. Fuck me. Stretch me. Ah, I can feel the vein! Oh, Shitttttt!"

And then I was taking all of him. He had prepared me well. He was sliding up inside me and my muscles were making love to his cock, undulating around his huge cylinder, inviting him in, wanting him to force himself all the way in.

We didn't say anything for a half hour or more. We were concentrating on giving and taking as much as each of us could. When he had bottomed out and was sure that I could handle him, Dutch bent down to me and we kissed deeply. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck and kissed me deeply and gently bit me there. His mouth went to my pits, as I raised my arms, one after the other, and he licked and kissed and nipped me there. Then he worked his mouth down my torso as far as he could go, giving loving attention to my nipples.

He was pumping me. Slowly, but deeply. Alternating rhythms so I was never sure whether he was going shallow or deep, whether he was going straight or corkscrewing me. Holding me on the edge; taking me over the edge again and again. Both giving and taking a full measure of pleasure.

He nipped a nipple, and I ejaculated again, up his hard belly.

He picked me up with hands on my waist and turned and sat on the bed. My torso arched back and he crouched up off the bed and fucked down into me. Then he stood, still a bit crouched, with me suspended below him, my hands leveraging off the floor, my legs wrapped around his upper thighs, his hands holding my thighs, as he fucked down into me deeper and I met his thrusts with thrusts of my own, pushing off from the floor with my quaking hands.

With a cry of ecstatic passion, he fountained off down into me and then filled me and filled me and filled me, great flowings of semen burbling up around his cock and out the sides of my hole. Flowing for more than a minute. Emptying those lemon-sized balls inside me.

We lay on the bed panting, time in suspension while I reveled in hearing his ragged breathing of fulfilled passion, my back enfolded into the bulging muscles of his torso. When he entered me this time, I required no extra preparation and we needed no oil. His strokes were long and deep and slow and melting, and the flow of his semen was enough to lubricate us. I nestled my butt back into his pelvis, and he lifted my leg for greater access and gently fucked me to an exhausted sleep, his massive calloused fingers gently rubbing my nipples. All the time him whispering in my ear how good I was to him, me knowing that, rather, it was he who was giving me the stretched and sustained loving I hadn't had for several years. The thickness of that cock alone something that few had known and been able to take. Me only taking it because of the patience of his preparation.

I didn't wake until morning. He'd left enough money on the table to shut off any complaining Hung Lee might have done because I didn't come back to the bar the previous evening.

Dutch was a regular customer during the next couple of weeks. And I never again needed the preparation to take him that I did that first time. But I always felt stretched to the limit, fully taken.

We had to be careful how we fucked; if Dutch moved to a position on top of me, there was a danger I would be crushed. There was always the fear that he would lose control. Men were afraid of his bulk and the size of his cock, and when he came to me he was full of need and aching with semen. But he never did fully lose control; he always let me determine when we should stop to allow me time to open to him. It was only while he was in those long moments of miraculously long flow of semen at the height of passion that he would stroke hard and deep and fast. And by that moment, he had worked me so expertly that these were the most pleasurable moments for me as well.

He visited me every three days, and the men in the bar grew to know that when he entered the door, they were to move away from me. He couldn't get enough of me; he worshipped me. I invariably started by oiling his awesome muscles, hard and as beautifully cut as marble. I tried to give him suck, but I could hardly get more than the bulb of his engorged cock in my mouth. The rumbling groans of pleasure from him were well worth the effort, though.

Usually we would start with me sitting in his lap, facing him, my wrists locked behind his neck, my lips on his jutting nipples, while stretched me open with oiled fingers. I loved the feel of his pulsating cock pressing against my belly. Then, when I felt I was open enough, I'd rise on my straddling knees and either slowly impale my channel on his tool while facing him and kissing that ugly face of his or turn away from him, arched forward with his big mitts on my pecs, and lower my butt cheeks into his pubic bush. One glorious afternoon, he corkscrewed me, revolving me around and around on his lap as he sank farther and farther into me. In an equally melting, but not so advisable, fuck, he leveraged his back against the wall, crouching down to provide a perch for me on his thighs, and he lap fucked me, moving me up and down on his tool with strong hands at my waist—but the whole building shook when we got lost in passion, so we only did that the once. Invariably we ended stretched on the bed, me folded into his belly, and he side splitting me languidly until we both drifted into sleep. He would be sighing, and I would be thrilled that I had given him satisfaction.

I was awed at the thought of how an ugly sailor like that, only a boilerman on a battleship, could have learned to be such a gentle and expert lover. And a lover he was becoming. All of the rest of the men in my life for the previous three years had been quick-fuck marks—or a young sailor I fancied or pitied. But what I had for Dutch was very close to love. It certainly was love for him. And he told me so. And within two weeks of our first lovemaking, he was telling me that he wanted to take me from the Dick Hut and set me up in an apartment in a safer, less seedy neighborhood and have me for his own. That he wanted us to be life partners.

It pulled at my heartstrings. I'd been taught to avoid this. I knew what could and couldn't be. I knew that I would never be destined for that. But now I had received the offer. And within a week, I'd received another. And that was when the naval dilemma set in.

His name was Richard Randolph, and he made a point of never separating those names. They always went together. I gathered that the Randolph was supposed to mean something. Maybe it did, on the mainland, on the East Coast where he made clear his family was from. He was a lieutenant, serving on the light cruiser, the USS Raleigh.

He was all spit and polish, well groomed, extremely well turned out, his body obviously his temple. He marched into Dick Hut one Thursday afternoon, when business was light. He gave the distinct impression that he wouldn't come in such a place at night when the enlisted sailors held sway.

He marched right up to Hung Lee, who was at the bar supervising the Barkeep's cleaning of glasses. I and the other bar boys were milking the few afternoon drunks that we could—mostly civilians, because few of the Navy men were given leave from their ships in the middle of the day.

The lieutenant, standing straight and tall and slim, and pristinely white in his officer's uniform, stroked his thigh with some sort of stick, a swagger stick, maybe, but it looked more like a riding crop, as he spoke to Hung Lee in low tones.

I got both interested and a little apprehensive at the same time when both Hung Lee and the lieutenant started gazing in my direction as they talked. I saw Hung Lee's eyes go wide and his mouth begin to quiver. And then his eyes slitted and he said something to the lieutenant, which caused the lieutenant to take a wallet out of his tight white uniform and slap a big wad of bills down on the counter. And then the lieutenant turned and walked over to the entrance door and stood, as if ready to take a freeing, cleansing step out into the street as soon as he could. He was looking out the door, not at anyone in the bar.

Hung Lee shuffled over to me. "This gentleman has bought you for three days, 'Ano'i," he said. "In your rooms. He says he saw you on the street and wants you and followed you back here. Don't keep him waiting."

As soon as we entered my flat, the lieutenant kicked the door shut and pushed me over to the table I ate on and pushed my chest down roughly on the wood. he held my cheek painfully to the table top with a firm hold on the back of my neck, while he unknotted my sarong with his other hand. Once my sarong was falling down my legs, he had the palm of his hand on one of my butt cheeks and then worked it over to the crack and was roughly fingering the rim of my asshole.

"Open," he said with mild surprise. "Wide open for one so small." I could tell he was pleased.

Of course it was open. Dutch had been fucking me for weeks now.

He had knelt down, and I felt his mouth and tongue at my hole. He was licking and nibbling at me. I started to rise off the table and he slapped me on the rump.

"Stay down," he said. I put my cheek and chest back down on the table, and he went back to eating me out. While he was doing that, he slapped me on both sides of the rump until I felt myself chaffing.

"Where's the lube?" he asked. I noted that he didn't ask for a rubber. I assumed this had been covered with Hung Lee when they were talking. I told him it was in the night stand, and he told me not to move until he returned.

While at the nightstand, he stripped off his uniform, neatly folded it, and put it in the center of the bed. That was the clue that we probably wouldn't be using the bed for a while. Before he came back, he glanced around the room, zeroed in on a stool without a back on it, and pushed it over into the center of the room with his foot.

Then he was back at me. Working my hole with lubricated fingers with one hand and arching my back with his fist in my hair with the other.

He pulled me off the table and propelled me over to the center of the room and pushed my belly down on top of the stool. Then he was riding me like a horse and fucking me like a dog and beating on my thighs, arms, and back with his riding crop.

He had a respectable cock, but nothing I couldn't handle. His rough fucking, however, made something other than his cock the center of our sex. Whatever he lacked in cocking, he made up for in invention and maximizing of sensation and risk-edged ecstasy.

He played me alternately like a violin and a set of drums for three days and nights. He was not unlike the sailors I usually served in his intensity and concentration on his own needs and his cruelty in the fuck. But he went way beyond those others; he took me beyond what had become numbing sameness of the act. He would still be fucking when the others would have had their immediate needs met and wanted to get back to the liquor at the bar. And he would take me far out over the edge each time. I would moan for him to slow down or stop and he would quicken his pace and go on forever—and I would find that awakened me.

He made me hard, something that had been slipping away from me in the routineness of my life at the Dick Hut, and he kept me hard. And he brought me off—repeatedly in a session. The cruelty and invasiveness was overbalanced by the height of passion he brought me to—beyond, I must admit, even what Dutch transported me to. The sailor had to be very handsome and well built and hung to make me ejaculate these days—and most had no interest in doing so. They were only there for their own temporary needs.

I was only there for the lieutenant's needs too, but his needs included having me writhing and quivering like jelly and begging for mercy while incongruously also begging for the cruel fuck and crying out in passion and release—and not pretending to do so as I normally did with the other sailors. I had come to need the cruelty and explosion over the edge that he was providing. It was sweeping the numbness of my life away.

He'd leave for meals and then return to floor me wherever I was and fuck me and prod me and slap me and beat on me with his riding crop. I'd meet him at the door and he would push me down on the floor and fuck me roughly from behind as I tried to move across the floor, wanting to escape the onslaught, but equally wanting what the lieutenant was giving me. Once as I tried to escape him, he pulled a plump, curved cucumber off the table and fucked me with that, reminding me of Dutch's cock stretching me to the limit.

I'd wake up in the middle of the night flat on my belly with the lieutenant straddling me and working his cock into my ass. Then I'd find he'd bound me to the bed and he'd roll me over and attack my mouth with his hardened tool, slapping my cheeks and tweaking my nipples.

And, amazingly I found I loved it. The quick, impersonal, missionary- or dog-style fucks I'd been trapped in for years had deadened me to passion and lust, only relieved by Dutch's gentle, filling attentions. Now I had another lover, equally melting, but entirely different. For three days and nights, I found that I myself was perpetually hard and ready to ejaculate at the lieutenant's will. I didn't know what turned me on and fulfilled me the most, the giant but sensitive boilerman or the demanding, controlling, and cruel, but inventive officer.

But it seemed I would have to make a choice. At the end of the three days, the lieutenant informed me, while I was lashed by my wrists to a hook in the ceiling and he was crouched under me and fucking up into me and flicking my belly with riding crop, that I had pleased him.

He said nothing then, but the following Thursday night, the young, pimply sailor I had striven to save from the predators in the bar brought the situation with the lieutenant to a head.

The sailor appeared in the bar that night, the first time I had seen him since I had guided his floundering lovemaking. He looked around until he saw me. I saw several of the older sailors assessing him, so I walked quickly over to him.

"I thought I'd convinced you you didn't really need to come in here again," I whispered to him, while I latched on to his arm, as if I was flirting—an attempt to hold both Hung Lee and the sharks in the water off.

"I want to be with you again," he said in a little whining voice.

"Didn't I tell you that you could find someone on the ship to satisfy you. You fuck well. When that's known, you'll have all the bottoms you can handle."

"So far all I've found are guys willing to suck me off," he said. "I know I'll find someone, but my rocks are aching. And they're aching for you."

So, I took him to my room and let him fuck me. He took greater control than he had earlier, and I was laying on my back on the bed, my legs spread, his knees under and lifting my butt, and his cock working nicely inside me, when the lieutenant put in an unexpected appearance.

In the space of five minutes, he had the sailor clutching his clothes and escaping the room under the flailing of the lieutenant's crop, and the lieutenant had transferred his anger to me in a rough, wild, and totally satisfying fuck.

Immediately after that the lieutenant told me he must own me for his own and that he'd be negotiating with Hung Lee for my contract and wanted to set me up in an apartment away from here where only he could be fucking me.

This set me back on my haunches. I melted to Dutch. I loved what he did to me and the knowledge that I could take a cock that big and that he was so gentle with me, but Richard Randolph drove me wild and made me experience ecstasy to depths that my life of opening my legs for every randy and drunken sailor who sailed by had driven out of me.

Despite what the lieutenant thought, though, he couldn't just buy up my contract from Hung Lee—at least not without my concurrence. My mother had Hung Lee by the balls; he could shove me around like he did at the bar, but he couldn't "sell" me. He didn't own me. No one would own me without my permission. But if I chose to go with Richard Randolph and the condition was that he owned me, than I would let him own me. Certainly when he was fucking me, he owned me. And owning me was part of the thrill of sex with him, the depth of sensation I hadn't felt for years—until he and Dutch entered my life.

Sundays were my off day. When I brought men back to my place on Saturday night, they left on Saturday night. Sunday I slept in and pampered myself. Or at least I did until that first Sunday in December. That Sunday I was awakened before 8:00 in the morning with the most godawful noise I'd ever heard. I tied on my sarong and ran out into the street—only to see the diving of jets over Pearl Harbor and a cacophony of explosions. The Japs were attacking the fleet anchored in Pearl Harbor—more than ninety ships of the line, the largest part of America's fleet.

Like everyone else, I headed up the slopes away from Pearl Harbor, my first thought being for myself.

Later, when all was over other than the salvage of the tonnage bombed to the bottom of Pearl Harbor—not sunk, because the floor of the harbor was only a few feet lower than the ship's normally drew, but crippled at the minimum—I remembered my beloved Dutch and the lieutenant who touched me at my very depths and went down as close to the carnage as possible. All I could find out was that my lovers' ships, the USS West Virginia and the USS Raleigh, were among the ships that had sustained damage and that had lost a large number of crewmen in the Japanese attack.