Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 12

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When Cory entered the Gunroom a very low-key party was in progress. The door to the Chiefs Mess was open and as he passed the open door Cory could hear the laughter as Tyler and Val entertained Mark and Tony.

In the Gunroom Two Strokes was engaged in an arm wresting match with Harry. Chris and Jon were playing cards, while Fred was asleep on top of his bunk, snoring softly. Greg was sitting on his bunk sorting his clean laundry and kibitzing Harry and Two Strokes. Todd was industriously polishing his boots. Cory walked to his locker and began taking out some clean boxers and a towel.

"Hey, Cory. Where have you been?" asked Todd, looking up.

"Oh, here and there." Cory replied nonchalantly. He opened his locker and smiled lovingly at Todd.

Todd smiled back. "What was that smile in aid of?"

"I just felt like it. You're my brother and I love you. When I was talking to Phantom and I told him about Stanley Park I realized how much I love you."

A look of surprise crossed Todd's face as he put the boot he was polishing on the deck. Cory never talked about Stanley Park. "You told Phantom about Stanley Park?" he asked softly.

Cory nodded. "Yes, I told him," he replied without apology, "Just after I went for a walk to dry off." He began rummaging through the disaster site that was the interior of his locker. "Phantom was sitting in front of the Wardroom having a cigarette so I stopped to pass the time of day with him and we talked a bit. I told him about Stanley Park, not all the details, of course, as there are some things that . . ."

"All stop! Back both!" Todd moved to Cory's bunk and sat down. He grabbed the back of Cory's wets shorts and pulled him down beside him. "Just what in the hell do you mean you went for a walk to dry off? How did you get wet?"

"I fell into the harbour. I was wet so I went for a walk to dry off," Cory replied casually, as if falling onto the harbour was an everyday occurrence. "I met Phantom and we talked. I asked to him come over for a while. I also told him that if it got too late he could stay over with us, you know, for the night. He told me he had to go home, so he isn't coming over."

Cory stood up, ignoring the look of utter confusion on Todd's face. He pushed down his damp shorts, stepped out of them and wrapped a towel around his waist. "I even told him he could sleep with me, but no dice," he said, his face a theatrical mask of sadness.

Todd ran his hand across his face, shook his head and grabbed Cory's waist, pulling him back down again. "Cory, before I blow a gasket, would you please tell me what the hell you are talking about?" he demanded impatiently. Cory could be so damned obtuse at times!

Cory sighed dramatically. "Well, if you must know, I fell into the harbour. I was tidying up and missed my footing." He was not about to go into any more detail than he had to. "Since I was wet, I decided to go for a walk and dry off. I went to the beach, but every bugger and his brother was there so I left. I walked around a bit more and then I decided to come back here. I met Phantom. We talked a bit, I copped a feel, and then I came home. Are you satisfied now?"

"No!" snapped Todd. He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, not wanting to attract any more attention than was necessary. "You left out the part about asking Phantom to sleep with you. You also left out the part about you telling Phantom about Stanley Park and Cory, why the fuck are you wearing a towel?"

"Well, I'm going for a shower."

"So? Since when do you wear a towel?" Todd raised his eyes toward the deckhead. Cory was definitely up to something, or had done something! Todd just couldn't think which - yet! "We just spent two days buck-naked and you never complained," observed Todd. "Shit, Cory, most of the time I can't keep clothes on your behind."

"I seem to recall you insisting that we should project a more conservative persona," replied Cory archly. Then he sniffed. "Somebody has to set the tone around here. Just look around."

Todd looked. Harry, who was now taking on both Greg and Two Strokes, was wearing boxers. Harry's legs were wide spread with the Pride and the Escorts alongside his thickly muscled leg. He was nonchalantly sipping a drink of rum while Greg and Two Strokes, their hands firmly grasping his fist, were grunting and straining, trying to pull Harry's arm down. Both were wearing tight white briefs, their skinny asses clearly outlined.

Jon was lying on his bunk, playing cards with Chris, who was seated half on and half off the bed. Jon was wearing a pair of very brief cut-offs and the rosy pink head of his penis was peeking out of the leg. Chris's boxers had ridden down, exposing his butt crack. Nicholas was bent over, searching in the bottom of his locker for a pair of underpants to cover his hairy ass.

Thumper was lying on his bunk, on his stomach, his bubble butt rising nicely under his pale blue briefs. He was hiding the erection he had gotten from watching the lump in Fred's yellow boxers grow bigger and bigger. Fred was lying on his bunk, sound asleep, stirring occasionally as he dreamed whatever dreams he dreamed.

Thinking that it was just another night of show and tell in the Gunroom, Todd ran his hand over his face and shook his head. He waved Cory to the showers. He had no doubt that Cory had been up to something. His suspicions confirmed, he settled back, leaning his head against the bulkhead. Cory was up to something but Todd knew that if he waited to get an answer out of his stubborn brother he'd be dead a long time.

As Cory rounded the corner of the Gunroom and went into the washplace, Todd left the bunk and rummaged in his sea chest. He pulled out a bottle of vodka, found the can of tonic water that Cory had hidden in a box labelled "Todd, Don't Even Think about It!" which Cory kept hidden under his dirty shorts, sat down at the mess table as far as possible from the combatants - and scroungers - and glared into the corridor. He could hear the shower running and thought that his brother could be the most damnable close-mouth, frustrating SOB when he put his mind to it.

Todd poured a drink, and then surveyed the Gunroom. He smiled knowingly at Thumper, who was desperately trying to calm his raging erection, which was difficult. Todd could hardly blame Thumper for staring. Fred was huge! If Todd was any judge Fred could boast of a solid eight inches of neatly circumcised cock, with a broad, clean-lined, deeply flushed crown, which was protruding a good two inches above the elastic band of his boxers.

As Todd raised his drink to take a sip he saw Fred raise his hips slightly and his eyes widened as he watched a watched a small drop of clear fluid ooze from the broad head of Fred's penis. Todd heard Thumper whimper and looked over to see the boy burying his head in his pillow.

As Thumper thrust his hand down the front of his undies and squeezed rapidly on his throbbing erection, Todd chuckled. Poor Thumper! The guy was so horny that the crack of dawn was in danger!

Todd was not all that surprised that watching Fred's bone would turn Thumper on. Guys always seemed fascinated by their mates' erections, even straight guys. Show hard in the showers, sport wood in the morning, and you were guaranteed an audience! And if you had a magnificent weapon - as Fred did - you were always guaranteed an audience.

Not that Todd was all that interested in Fred's erection. It was nice, and big, but he and Cory were not big fans of oversized dicks. As far as they were concerned, anything over six inches, maybe seven if the guy was a total stud, was a waste of good dick.

Todd's attention was turned to the other end of the mess table by a loud string of curse words. He turned and watched as Greg and Two Strokes, grunting and groaning noisily, tried to pull Harry's iron hard arm down. Both of them were red-faced, every muscle straining, their faces contorted from their effort. They were getting nowhere fast and Todd thought that at any moment the pair of them would either shoot their loads or drop dead from a heart attack.

Harry, who was tired of playing silly buggers, and in need of a refill, let out a roar, so startling his struggling antagonists that Greg let go of Harry's clenched fist and flew backward, landing on Harry's bunk with such force that he bounced twice before settling into a breathless heap.

Two Strokes, made of sterner stuff, held on. Harry lowered his arm and dragged Two Strokes across the width of the rough wooden table, which forced Two Strokes to released his grip on Harry's arm. He ended up bent at the waist, his front end hanging over the end of the table.

Harry reached over and pulled down the back of Two Strokes' briefs. "Anybody ever tell you that you have a skinny ass?" he asked nonchalantly. "Nicely tanned, but skinny."

Two Strokes reached back and snatched his briefs from Harry's hand. "You've been looking at my skinny ass for a month now. You also saw it yesterday and the day before that."

As he struggled upright to sit on the table, Two strokes grimaced and a strange look came over his face. He reached down, gingerly felt his dick through his underpants and then leaned forward. "Harry," he whispered, a desperate look on his face, "I think I've got a splinter in my dick!"

"What?" Harry pretended not to have heard.

"Damn it, Harry, I've got a splinter in my dick," repeated Two Strokes fiercely.

"Why are we whispering?"

"Because, Harry, the whole fucking Gunroom does not need to know that I have a splinter in my dick. That's why we're whispering," Two Strokes snarled, angry at Harry's indifference to his plight.

"Oh, is that all?" Harry grinned and smiled malevolently. He deliberately raised his voice, making sure it carried. "Well, Two Strokes, if you think you have a splinter in your dick I better have a look."

Harry stood up, reached over, lifted Two Strokes and sat him at the edge of the table, his legs dangling. Before Two Strokes could object Harry pulled open the front of his briefs and peered in, nodding sagely. "Yep, looks like a splinter," he said gravely. "Looks like you'll have to go to Sick Bay," Harry opined as he released the band of Two Strokes' briefs.

"Sick Bay?" Two Strokes breathed a low groan of despair.

"Sure," grinned Harry. "Matron will get it out for you. She likes pulling splinters from tiny Sea Cadet dicks." Then he roared with laughter at his own joke.

Harry's howl of laughter echoed throughout the Gunroom. Fred sat up with a start, took one look at his lap, swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and bent forward, hiding his erection. Thumper, taking advantage of the commotion, rolled from his bunk and, bent forward, hiding his erection, hurried to the heads where he locked himself in a cubicle.

The other cadets gathered around the now irate Two Strokes, offering useless advice, agreeing with Harry. Two Strokes would have to go to Sick Bay.

"I am not going to Sick Bay," said Two Strokes with flint in his voice. "That Gorgon is not touching my dick."

Todd wandered over and put in his oar. "Well, you'll have to take it out yourself. If you leave it until tomorrow, when Doc is on duty, it might get infected and rot off."

Fred, his dick more or less back to its normal size, pulled on a pair of sweats and offered a needle from his locker. Greg offered the tweezers from the First Aid Kit. Everyone else demanded a look at the injured member.

"What's the matter with you guys?" demanded Two Strokes heatedly. "You act like you've never seen my dick before."

"Not with a splinter in it," said Nicholas with an evil grin.

"Maybe that's how he managed to get that limp thing he calls a dick into that bimbo last year," offered Greg, with a lewd grin that matched Nicholas'. "You know, wrap a splint around it and . . ."

Two Strokes' face turned so red that the other boys thought that his head would explode. He opened his mouth several times before he snarled through clenched teeth, "At least my 'limp little thing' found its way into a pussy, and I didn't need a splint, internal or external, to do it," he returned with a triumphant stare. Then he delivered the coup de grace while staring pointedly at Nicholas's virgin crotch. "Unlike some people I could mention!"

The cadets oohed and snickered. Todd laughed quietly, thinking Well done, Two Strokes! Game set and match!

"If you want to take that tone you can handle your own dick!" returned Nicholas as he sat down on Greg's bunk, pretending indifference.

Two Strokes gave Nicholas a dirty look and jumped off the table. He snatched up the offered needle and tweezers, went to his bunk, and sat down, his back to the gathered audience. He fiddled in the front of his briefs, and then stared at the needle in his right hand. He swallowed and turned, white-faced, to face the other cadets. "I can't do it," he croaked. "I can't stand needles."

Harry roared with laughter. "Looks like Matron gets lucky, because I am definitely not touching your dick."

There was a chorus of agreement from the other cadets. They all adamantly refused to help Two Strokes remove the splinter. Then Cory returned from his shower.

******

The Devil was in Cory this night. He was not all that hot to trot about Two Strokes and could not pass up the opportunity to revenge himself for all the snide cracks that Two Strokes had made in the past month. Cory's eyes glistened malevolently. He had waited long and patiently for his moment to arrive.
Tyler and the other Chiefs, hearing the noise, came into the Gunroom and gathered around the hapless Two Strokes. Tyler, in his role as Master-at-Arms, demanded to see the injured party. A self-inflicted wound was cause for a charge.

Two Strokes reluctantly pulled down the front of his briefs. "It is not, damn it, a self-inflicted wound!" he shouted. "It's a Harry-inflicted wound. He dragged me across the table."

Tyler considered this for a moment. "Consider that a lesson. Don't play with Harry." He turned to Harry who grinned at him. "Harry, try not to be so rough with the children."

Two Strokes puffed up with anger and indignation. "Oh, that's just great. I have a splinter in my dick and you tell Harry not to play rough. Come on, Tyler, you're my Chief. Please take the splinter out."

Tyler shook his head. "Not me. The only dick I touch is my own. How about you, Val?"

Val, who had been into the grappa, declined. "He got it in there, he can get it out." He turned to Mark and Tony. "Unless one of you would like to help a Canadian sailor in distress?"

"I'm all for international co-operation," replied Mark gravely, "but I don't co-operate with another guy's dick, thank you."

Tony nodded his head in agreement. "I somehow think that Nelson did not have taking a splinter out of a guy's dick in mind when he talked about a Band of Brothers."

Two Strokes gave the Americans a sour look and then glared at Harry. "Damn it, Harry . . ." he sputtered.

"Let Harry take it out." Val grinned widely and waved his hand toward Harry.
Harry looked at Val over the rim of his glass. "I don't think so," he said as a menacing smile spread across his face.

Everyone promptly agreed that Harry was not the man for the job.

"Well, fuck, guys, somebody's got to do it. I can't leave it in there," whined Two Strokes.

Cory casually walked over and looked into Two Stroke's briefs. "I'll do it, if you like," he said with feigned casualness.

Two Strokes almost fainted at the offer. "Oh, no! No, you won't!" he howled. He pulled up the front of his underpants, flopped on his bed and pulled the coverlet over his head. "Cory is definitely, never, ever going to touch my dick. No way, no how!" he howled.

"Suit yourself. I offered." Cory strolled back to his bunk and began to dress, pulling on white boxers and his spare pair of gym shorts.

Tyler raised his eyes toward the deckhead and then bent down and addressed the curled, covered lump that was Two Strokes. "Two Strokes? Are you in there?" Tyler asked soothingly.

"Of course I am! Where the fuck do you think I'd go?" snapped Two Strokes angrily. He buried his head under his pillow.

"Two Strokes, you have to listen to me." Tyler's voice was velvet. "You can either go to Sick Bay and have Matron removed the splinter, or Cory will do it for you. You can't leave that thing in there. Your penis is a very delicate organ. You don't want to get an infection, do you?" The coverlet shook. "Well?"

"Only if he promises not to do anything to me."

Two Strokes was wavering. Every time he moved the splinter seemed to dig just a tad deeper into his most precious possession.

Tyler motioned for Cory to come over. "Two Strokes, Cory is only trying to help. He's not going to do anything but take the splinter out. Isn't that right, Cory?"

Cory nodded, a false look of concern on his face.

Two Strokes peeked out from under his pillow. "I suppose he has to hold it."

Tyler sighed. "Two Strokes, the splinter is in your dick. Of course he has to hold it. How else can he get the splinter out?"

Two Strokes considered this. He pulled the coverlet down. "Well, okay. But he has to promise not to try anything funny. And do all you guys have to witness it?" The gathered crowd nodded in unison. "Sheeit," moaned Two Strokes. "Okay, but I mean it Cory, no funny business."

Cory assumed a hurt look. "I promise, Roger, I will be as gentle with your dick as if it were my own, which, as you know, is very precious to me. Besides, would I harm The Pride of the Fleet?"

"That's Harry," Two Strokes pointed out crankily. "Mine is very handsome, one that any man would be proud to own."

"And so it is," cooed Cory. "Now get out of bed, take off your underpants, and lie down on the table."

"What? I am not lying on that fucking table. I might get a splinter in my ass, and wouldn't you have fun with that!"

"Two Strokes, we'll put a thick, blanket over the table. You have to lie down there. I need the light to see," explained Cory patiently.

"You could also use a magnifying glass," snickered Fred.

"To see the splinter?" asked Chris, always willing to play the straight man.

Fred shook his head. "No, to find Two Strokes' dick."

"That did it!" shouted Two Strokes. He dived back under the covers. "It's bad enough that I have a splinter in my dick, I don't have to take these insults!"

Tyler made a face and waved his fist at Fred. Mark and Tony, totally absorbed in the drama going on in front of their eyes, all but choked to death in trying to stifle their laughter. Tyler sat down on the bunk and rubbed Two Strokes' back. "Come on, Roger, Fred didn't mean it," he said soothingly.

"No, no I didn't," confirmed Fred. "I was just trying to lighten up the situation." He grinned stupidly at Tyler and shrugged.

"Roger, you have to make up your mind. Do you want Cory to take the splinter out or do you want to go and see Matron?" asked Tyler, continuing his massage. "Which do you want?"

"It will hurt," whined Two Strokes.

"Just a little," agreed Cory. "But a good stiff shot of rum will take the pain away."

"Well . . ." Two Strokes was definitely wavering.

"I'll get the rum." Chris grabbed Harry's bottle and poured a generous slug into a cup. "Here, Roger, get this down you."

Two Strokes threw the covers aside and sat up. He reached for the cup of rum and downed it in one gulp, choked, grimaced, took a deep breath and said, "Okay, Cory can do it. But no funny stuff!"

"I already said I wouldn't, didn't I?" replied Cory. "Now take off your underpants and lie down on the table."

Jon spread a thick sea blanket on the table and the cadets watched as Two Strokes, blushing furiously, pushed his briefs down and off. With as much dignity as he could muster he climbed onto the mess table, lay on his back, and closed his eyes. The cadets gathered on either side of the table, staring alternately at Cory and at Two Strokes' splinter-pierced tackle.

"Okay, this is what I'll need," began Cory, taking charge. "I'll need some antiseptic. Todd, you can get it from the First Aid kit. I'll need the tweezers and a needle. Also, some clean towels. Clean handkerchiefs would be better."

"I have some clean handkerchiefs. They've never been out of the box," offered Nicholas. He rummaged in his locker and handed Cory a box of brand-new linen handkerchiefs. "My mother packed them. I almost forgot that they were there."

Cory nodded and assumed his clinical mode. He opened the box and, using the tweezers, took out the handkerchiefs, which he placed on the table beside Two Strokes.

"What are they for?" asked Chris, totally absorbed in what Cory was doing.

"To drape the area. You always drape the working area so that only the part you're working on is exposed," explained Cory. This was total bullshit. Cory had once seen a medical documentary on television and was repeating what he had seen.

"Where did you learn that?" asked Tony, impressed at Cory's expertise.

"Could someone bring me a bowl of hot water and some liquid soap?" asked Cory. "I have to wash my hands." This also was total bullshit. He'd seen many movies with medical scenes in them and the doctor always washed his hands and asked for hot water. He forgot that most of the scenes involved childbirth. "To answer your question, Tony, the Headmaster's son at our school is a Pecker Checker with the militia. I used to help him with his anatomy and something called management of wounds."

Todd was standing to one side, his arms crossed, laughing so hard inside that his liver ached. Not only did he know the Medical Assistant Cory was talking about, he also knew just what kind of anatomy they had been studying and that any "wound" either of them had sustained had been when they were both about three days old.

Nicholas carried in a bowl of hot water and placed it on the table. Todd watched as Cory made a great production of washing his hands thoroughly. He ostentatiously held his hands in the air, something he had also seen in the documentary, and bent down and looked at his subject.

Assuming what he hoped was a professional look, Cory nodded sagely and pretended to study Two Strokes' slim, very sleek, soft, two-and-a-half-inch penis. Just below Two Strokes' pale tan circumcision ring was a tiny bit of wood imbedded in the flesh of his penis. Cory nodded knowingly. "All right, Roger, here we go. First, I'm going to drape the area."

Two Strokes grimaced, nodded, and threw his arm over his eyes. All those eyes from the Peanut Gallery staring at his dick, and Cory acting as if he were about to perform major surgery, was simply too much and Two Strokes could not watch.

Using the tweezers Cory picked up a clean handkerchief and gently placed it under Two Strokes' penis, so that the handkerchief was flush against the base of his shaft. He then draped another handkerchief over Two Strokes' pubic area and lower stomach.

It all looked very professional and the Peanut Gallery nodded its approval, watching closely as Cory draped a clean handkerchief on either side of Two Strokes' flaccid organ.

"Now, Val, open up one of the packets of antiseptic," directed Cory. "Don't touch the swab."

Val did as directed and Cory plucked the dark, coppery coloured swab from the package with the tweezers. He gently smeared the injured area with Betadine. What had been tan and pale pink was now a deep, reddish, coppery colour. He dropped the used swab into the packet that Val held out to him and began rubbing his hands together.

Two Strokes peeked out from under his arm and saw Cory's gesture. "What that's in aid of?" he demanded to know.

"I am merely warming my hands," Cory assured his patient. "I have to hold your di . . . penis, and you would want my hands to be warm, wouldn't you?"

"I always warm my hands before I milk the cows," put in Harry. "They like warm hands."

"I am not a cow! And my dick is not some tit!" flared Two Strokes.

"Harry, you're not helping," warned Tyler.

"Sorry."

"Yes, you surely are," retorted Two Strokes. His arm went back over his eyes.

Cory placed the needle and tweezers on another clean handkerchief and had Nicholas pour a packet of antiseptic over his instruments. This done he looked at Two Strokes. "Now then, Roger, I have to hold your dick," he said importantly.

"I know that. Get on with it!" snarled Two Strokes in reply.

Cory nodded. He had planned on telling Two Strokes that, being a normal, healthy, and presumably horny 17-year-old, he would have a reaction and bone up. However, since Two Strokes was being bloody ungrateful, Cory thought, Screw him, and picked up the needle.

With his left hand Cory gently cupped Two Strokes' soft penis, which fit perfectly in his hand, with room to spare. Cory squeezed Two Strokes' dick, holding it firmly. Then, holding the needle lengthways, he gently pushed the bottom of the small splinter of wood up. He realized almost at once that the splinter was not in all that deep and would come out with little effort, probably without using the tweezers. However, since he did have an audience standing around holding their collective breath, he decided to play the crowd. He gave Two Strokes' dick a gentle squeeze. "Almost there, Roger." he murmured.

A Harvard trained surgeon could not have been more professional looking.

Two Strokes had never had another person's hand on his dick before. Being a normal, healthy, horny, 17-year- old, he reacted as Cory expected. He could feel Cory's warm hand enveloping his dick. He could also feel his dick starting to harden. He groaned and turned beet red.

"Jesus Christ, he's getting a hardon," gasped Greg, watching wide-eyed as Two Strokes' dick lengthened to almost six inches of deep red, hard, flesh.

Holding Two Strokes' stiff penis down, Cory nodded. "It's just a natural, quite normal, involuntary reaction to digital stimulation," he babbled. "It's not a problem. I'm almost finished."

The other cadets nodded their understanding. Who wouldn't bone up if some other guy were holding your dick in his hand? It was, indeed, a natural, quite normal reaction.

With a flourish Cory dropped the needle, picked up the tweezers, and plucked the offending sliver of wood from Two Strokes' rigid dick. "And there, gentlemen, is the splinter," he announced dramatically. He held it up for all to see. As all eyes turned to look at the splinter Cory slowly drew his hand along Two Strokes' hardon, squeezing it gently and in the process running his thumb across the curving glans.

Two Strokes felt his balls tighten and his dick trembled. Oh, no, not now! he thought, inwardly cringing at the thought of what he feared was about to happen.

Just at that moment Brian and Dylan stormed into the Gunroom. Brian was waving a forty pounder of rum over his head. "Hey, guys, welcome home. I come bearing a gift," crowed Brian.

As the assembled cadets turned to look at the new arrivals Cory's hand brushed gently against the sensitive underside of Two's Strokes' dick, his fingers caressing ever so gently the small knot of scar tissue just under the curving ridge of Two Strokes' circumcised penis. This was probably the most sensitive spot on Two Strokes' body and he trembled because . . .

Two Strokes had been aptly named. He had a hair trigger at the best of times and Cory's quite deliberate stimulation pushed him over the edge. His face contorted, his back arched and his dick spasmed, oozing a warm, thin flow of his semen into Cory's palm. In quick succession Two's Strokes' dick spasmed twice more, his seed filling Cory's cupped hand. Two Strokes' gasped as the pleasure flooded through him.

Cory, grinning inwardly, pretended to be horrified. He released Two Strokes' twitching cock and quickly pulled the top handkerchief over it, hiding the semen-streaked organ. He snatched up the antiseptic stained handkerchief and rubbed it over his palm, wiping away the evidence.

Two Strokes was mortified. Jesus, he thought, the guy goes to all that trouble to help me, and I go and blow my load in his hand! He sat up quickly and bent over. He tried to wipe his penis clean but the head was so sensitive he had to stop.

"Hey, Two Strokes, are you all right?" asked Jon, hurrying to his friend's side.

Two Strokes nodded slowly. "Just a little pain, is all."

"Yeah, I should think so," commiserated Jon. "How about another drink?"

"Good idea," groaned Two Strokes as Jon hurried off to get the booze.

Cory accepted the congratulations for a successful surgery with feigned embarrassment. When the crowd dispersed and settled down for a recuperative drink, Todd sidled up to his brother. "You did that deliberately, didn't you?" he sniggered.

"Did what?" asked Cory, all sweetness and light.

"You deliberately made Two Strokes pop a bone!" Todd accused. "I don't know how you did it, but you did. And don't give me any of that natural, normal, crap."

"It is a perfectly normal, expected reaction," insisted Cory, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. A sly look came over his face. "I suppose then you don't want to know how I made him cum?" he asked with a wicked grin.

Todd almost choked. Then his jaw dropped. "You didn't!" he gasped.

Cory waggled his eyebrows and grinned an evil grin. "Drink?"

******

While the other cadets settled around the table for what they thought was a well-deserved, post-trauma drink, Two Strokes wrapped a towel around his waist and scurried into the washplace and showered, scrubbing away the discolouring antiseptic and the drying residue of his orgasm.

As he stood under the stream of water pouring from the showerhead the anger that Two Strokes felt at himself burned in him. While he was very embarrassed about getting a hardon, and mortified that he'd shot his load in Cory's hand, he had to admit it had been very satisfying. Cory's gentle hand and deft fingers had inadvertently caused a massive orgasm, quite unlike any Two Strokes had ever had before.

Two Strokes' feeling of euphoria was quickly replaced with a feeling of self-loathing. It was bad enough that he had shot his load into Cory's hand but what made matters all the worse was that Cory had been such a gentleman about it, first defending his hardon, then covering his still spurting dick and pretending that it was all just a natural accident, compounding everything by not saying a word.

Damn it, Two Strokes thought as he turned the water off and shook his head. He had suddenly realized that, despite all his loudmouthed cracks and mild insults, he actually cared for the Twins, Cory most of all.

Todd and Cory were good friends, as they had demonstrated time and again, and would do anything needed to help out, never complaining, always willing to go the extra mile for their messmates. They could, and did, chuck shit with the best of them, giving as good as they got. But, and here Two Strokes was being brutally honest, they had never been malicious, which he admitted he had been, on more than one occasion.

Two strokes ran his hand over his face. He liked the Twins, as friends, as shipmates, as messmates. But. Dammit . . . It was just that they were, well, they were queers and he was not supposed to like queers.

Everybody said that queers were naturally no good, creatures to be shunned. Two Strokes sat on the bench, idly rubbing his parts with his towel. Everybody said that if you met a queer he would try to do you, to suck your dick, maybe try to fuck you up the ass, especially if you were young and not bad looking. Yet neither Cory nor Todd had ever tried anything funny. Sure, they kidded around, but then so did the other guys. Neither one of the Twins had ever tried to cop a feel. Hell, if the truth was told he was the one who had squeezed Cory's balls the morning of the Church Parade. And if the truth was further told it had not been Cory who had been stimulated and excited when they slept together on Texada, and again on Harwood.

A feeling of guilt and embarrassment seeped through Two Strokes' body. Neither Cory nor Todd had done one damn thing queer throughout the entire trip. They hadn't cracked off at the size of the other cadets' balls and dicks, hadn't leered suggestively, well, except when The Gunner was wrestling with Harry and The Gunner had started that, not the Twins.

A strangled sob of self-loathing and recrimination escaped Two Strokes' lips. No, it had not been the Twins.

It had been him, Roger Home, big macho Regulating Petty Officer Two Strokes, who not once, but twice, had popped a bone and beat his meat, his hind end pressed firmly against an unsuspecting Cory's body while he did it!

******

That first night, as they lay together, snuggled under the thick blankets, Two Strokes had awoken with a hardon. He was lying on his back, his hip pressed against Cory's warm bum. His dick was pulsing and he knew that . . . He had rolled on his side, pulled aside the sleeping bag he was sleeping on and beat off furiously, grunting and spurting into the sand.

The second night, after Cory had given him a thump and snatched away that stupid clasp knife that he had brought to bed, Two Strokes had put his arm around Cory, and held him tightly, revelling in the warmth of Cory's smooth body. He didn't know why he had done that. He'd never done it before with anyone, let alone another boy! But he had done it, and he had drifted off, feeling warm and comfortable, feeling so . . . Two Strokes slammed the palm of his hand on the bench. God Damn it! Sleeping with his arm around Cory, feeling Cory's warm, smooth skin under his hand, had felt so fucking wonderful, so fucking right!

He had not meant for it to happen, but it had. He had woken sometime during the night. He never could say what had caused him to wake up. It could have been a critter scrambling through the underbrush; it could have been The Gunner moving about, checking on the sleeping cadets. It didn't matter, really. What mattered was that he was lying against Cory, and that not only was he hard, but his erection, his boner, his woody, was pressed neatly into Cory's soft butt crack.

Two Strokes had lain there, his dick pulsing, listening to Cory's slow, steady breathing, afraid to move for fear his dick would explode. His instincts, his culture, everything that was Roger Home, told him that what he was doing was wrong. But his heart, his mind, his being, told him that what he was doing felt wonderful, felt . . . This was where he wanted to be, lying beside this wonderful, glorious young man, this warm, loving, caring young man. His mind told Two Strokes to roll away. His heart, his emotions, told him to hold Cory closer, to feel the softness that enveloped his penis, to feel the soft beating of Cory's heart, to hear the zephyr of Cory's breathing, to feel a peace such as he had never known before.

Then he had felt Cory's hand reach around, probing whatever it was that was poking him in the ass. Galvanized, afraid that Cory would wake up and discover his dick poking him, Two Strokes had rolled quickly on his side, which was fortunate, for his balls had already tightened and his penis had throbbed. Two Strokes had not touched himself, yet he was climaxing, his body one huge, brilliant flash of delight.

An avalanche of exquisite pleasure roared through Two Strokes as his dick jerked and spasmed, adding more and more of his semen to the growing pool forming near the edge of the sleeping bag and soiling it. He knew what was happening to him, just as he knew that his low moans of euphoria disturbed the night. He knew that his entire body was stiff and rigid and he bit his lip to stop from screaming out the utter glory he felt consuming him.

When, finally, his eruption slackened and then ceased, he had lain there, so in the thrall of one of the best orgasms that he had ever had that he could scarcely breathe. The orgasm had been so wonderful that the next morning Two Strokes could have sworn that his body was still glowing.

******

With his mind now in turmoil, Two Strokes recalled every moment of the last two hours of the sail from Harwood Island to Miracle Beach to AURORA. He could feel his hands forming fists, a simple gesture that confirmed the anger he felt, the anger that filled him, the anger at himself for what he had done.

He leaned back against the mildewed tile bulkhead, his eyes closed, feeling the anger seeping from him and being replaced by a feeling of frustration, frustration at the knowledge that he would never again experience the happiness he had felt for two brief, star-dusted nights.

******

As Two Strokes thought of those two nights he played idly with his semi-hard penis. While he recalled the pleasure of his second orgasm, his penis hardened and he unconsciously made every effort to repeat it as he slowly stroked his hard cock. For once his hair trigger failed to function and he stroked slowly for longer than he had ever done before. All too soon he could feel the wondrous feeling building, first in his testicles, then spreading to engulf his entire body.

Two Strokes pushed his hips up and out, his erection tightly gripped in his hand. He groaned, his dark eyes tightly shut, his teeth clenched as he gave himself over to the power that streaked through him. As his slit gaped and a huge torrent of milky white semen flew out he moaned and writhed, bucking slightly, thrusting as each successive stream squirted onto the concrete floor.

When, finally, his dick stopped twitching Two Strokes tried to clean the residue from his curving helmet, which was so sensitive that he practically leaped from the bench every time he tried to wipe the excess spunk away.

As he waited for his hormones to settle down and his penis to return to at least a semblance of normality, Two Strokes considered that he had ejaculated four times in two days, once almost in the ass of the boy who he now realized was one of the best friends he could ever hope to have. He had also creamed that same boy's hand. He had slept with that boy, had held that boy's body as tightly as he could against his own. He had rubbed his hard dick against that boy's soft, warm ass.

As he rose unsteadily to his feet Two Strokes had a thought. Who, then, he wondered, is the queer in all of this?

******

When he returned to the Gunroom Two Strokes was forced to undergo a post-operative inspection. Cory, as Surgeon-in-Chief, reviewed his handiwork. Except for an almost invisible redness over the entrance wound caused by the tiny splinter, Two Strokes' penis was clean and unmarked. "There will be no scar," Cory announced ponderously.

Todd almost peed himself trying to contain his laughter.

"Is it going to get hard again?" asked Brian, which earned him a cuff from Dylan.

The assembled cadets laughed and clapped and permitted Two Strokes to put on some clean briefs. The briefs came down almost immediately. Rob, David and Ryan had wandered into the Gunroom and, upon hearing of the splinter, demanded to see Cory's handiwork. Much to everyone's surprise Two Strokes, who had a prudish nature in him as wide as the room, agreed. He lowered the front of his briefs and allowed them a good, long, look.

When everyone's curiosity was satisfied Two Stroke's sat down beside Cory. Their thighs were touching and Cory could feel Two Strokes' warmth through the thin cotton briefs he was wearing.

Tyler and Harry began regaling the cadets with their expurgated tales of derring-do on the high seas and the noise level in the room rose steadily, as everyone who had actually been on the trip just had to put in their own version of events.

Two Strokes put his arm around Cory's shoulder. He squeezed gently and bent his head, his mouth an inch or so from Cory's ear. "Thanks, Cory," he said as loud as he dared, "Thanks for everything."

Cory smiled and gave Two Strokes' knee a pat. "Two Strokes, you don't owe me anything."

"Yeah, I do," replied Two Strokes. "You could have made a big deal out of my . . . well, you know, in your hand."

Cory giggled. "It happens, so don't beat yourself over the head about it."

"Well, thanks for not saying anything. And I am truly sorry for being such a shit to you and Todd. Please don't lump me in with the same lot as Little Big Man."

Cory smiled and squeezed Two Strokes' knee. "Roger, we would never do that. You are far above that little prick." He smiled again and leaned over to whisper in Two Strokes' ear. "This does not mean that we are going to take long, warm showers together during the Middle Watch with you."

Two Strokes' face tightened, then brightened. "I'm usually free during the Dogs. How about then?"

Cory reached over and gave Two Strokes a huge hug. "Two Strokes, you are officially forgiven. Now, lets have a drink."

******

Tyler and Mark sat at the end of the Gunroom table watching the antics of the Canadian cadets. Harry had decided to take on all comers in arm wrestling. He even agreed to take them on two at a time. He was winning handily and had not yet been beaten. Tyler noticed that the Twins and Two Strokes were sitting about halfway down the table, out of the line of fire, chatting quietly, laughing and making the odd face as they discussed the weekend. Jon and Chris were standing beside Nicholas, who was waiting his turn to arm wrestle Harry. Greg was hovering about, vowing revenge for his earlier defeat.

A shout went up and Tony, defeated, came and sat down beside Mark.

"Jesus, is Harry strong," exclaimed Tony. "I thought for a minute my arm was going to come out of the socket." He rubbed his aching shoulder.

"Hey, that reminds me." Mark stood up and pulled off his tee. "Look at this." He pointed to a newly acquired tattoo decorating his left arm.

Tyler looked at the white, green, and gold, stylized rose tattoo. "You do know that's the White Rose of York, don't you, Mark?"

Mark looked at the tattoo. He laughed. "All I know is that it's not the last rose of summer. I saw it in the tattoo parlour and had the guy do it."

Tony snorted. "It was either that or a garter snake."

"A garter snake?" asked Tyler. "What are you talking about?"

Tony grinned and poured himself a fresh drink. "Me and Mr. America here, we go down to the docks one night. We're half in the bag and Mark says he wants to get a tattoo. I say he's nuts." He took a sip of his drink. "We find this tattoo parlour and we go in. We look at all these pictures of tattoos and such and Mark falls in love with this fucking snake tattoo."

"It was a python," moaned Mark, as if in the throes of lust, "A beautiful python."

"Who's telling this story? You or me?" asked Tony darkly. Mark motioned for him to carry on. Tony nodded and carried on. "So, Mark says to the guy that he wants the snake tattoo. Only he wants it on his dick."

"His dick? You didn't!" exclaimed Tyler, his eyes wide with surprise. Mark gave the impression of being so conservative in his thinking that he could have been the poster boy for the Young Republicans!

Mark blushed and shrugged. "I was pissed. What can I say?"

"Anyway," growled Tony, "the tattoo guy says he'll do it, but it's awfully painful. Mark says that's okay, he plays football and is used to pain. I say balls, since Mr. Big High School Football Jock spent most of last season sitting on the bench playing with his!"

Tyler looked at Mark and laughed. "Another illusion shattered." He turned to Tony. "So, what happened to the snake?"

"Well, the guy says for Mark to drop his pants and his shorts, which he does," continued Tony. "The guy looks at Mark's dick, then he looks at the tattoo of the python, then he shakes his head and says, 'Well, son, the python is out, but I have a very nice garter snake that just might fit.'"

Tyler laughed so hard he strained himself and Mark, who swore that every word of Tony's story was true, laughed so hard at himself he cried. Tony fell off the bench, which caused another fit of laughter.

There was another shout from the far end of the Gunroom. Another candidate had bitten the dust. They watched as Ryan, all 5 feet and 100 pounds of him, muckled onto Harry's heavy fist. Ryan grunted, groaned, and strained, the sweat pouring from him, plastering his black hair to his head. Try as he might, he could not move Harry's arm.

Harry grinned. "Tough little fucker, aren't you?"

Ryan growled low. "Just wait, you big ox."

Harry roared with laughter and watched as David sidled around behind Ryan. He winked at David who winked back and reached out, whipping down Ryan's blue shorts, revealing a very well formed behind covered by black, white banded briefs.

"Hey!" yelled Ryan, letting go of Harry's fist. He flew backwards, tumbling over David and landing on Harry's bunk.

Snapping, snarling, and threatening David with mayhem and murder, Ryan was struggling to extricate himself from the wreckage of Harry's bedclothes when Rob calmly walked over, reached down and flung the boy over his shoulder. He gave Ryan's briefs-clad bum a resounding smack. "Behave yourself, you little git," Rob ordered. "We're guests here."

Ryan immediately stopped his wiggling and went limp. His shorts fell softly to the deck. Then he moaned. "Agaaiin," he groaned, his voice reeking of lust. He ground his crotch against Rob's bare chest. "Do it agaaiin."

Rob coloured and very quickly threw Ryan back on Harry's bed. Ryan writhed seductively, offering the small mound pushing out the front of his underpants to a thoroughly startled and nonplussed Rob. "Take me, Rob," he moaned in mock ecstasy. "You know how I love it when you do it rough!" He groaned loudly then sat up and offered his arms to his friend. "Take me, pleaaase!"

Harry and Greg roared with laughter as Rob, who had finally realized what Ryan was up to, lunged. "You little Frog bastard!" he howled.

Ryan nimbly rolled from the bunk, leaped to his feet and took off, heading for the door, where he collided with Stuart, who was just coming into the Gunroom. Rob was about to snatch Ryan to his feet when Tyler took control and told both of them to settle down and to go and play at the other end of the Gunroom. He poured Stuart a drink and returned to his seat.

Mark shook his head and then waved his arm, his gesture encompassing the whole Gunroom. "What is it with you guys?" he asked. "You all have some sort of religious conviction against wearing pants?"

Tyler and Val roared. "Look who's talking," Tyler said between gales of laughter. "I seem to recall the last time a certain Master Chief visited this place it didn't take much to get his pants off of him."

"When in Rome . . ." replied Mark airily.

When their laughter finally subsided, Stuart turned to Todd. "I almost forgot," he said. "There's some American Sea Cadet outside looking for Petty Officer Arundel."

"Which one?" Todd asked. "There are two of us."

Stuart shrugged. "He didn't say. I didn't ask. All I know is the way he's dressed he's either going to a wedding or a funeral."

Cory, who had a fairly good idea just who the American Sea Cadet was, suddenly had a consuming desire to join the gladiators at the end of the table. "Come on, Two Strokes. Let's whup Harry's ass."

Todd looked at his brother's retreating back. As he left the Gunroom, he wondered if Cory's hasty retreat to the other end of the Gunroom had anything to do with the young American cadet standing in the barracks yard.

******

When Todd stepped onto the barracks stoop he saw a white uniformed, young cadet, pacing back and forth. He was having an animated conversation with himself, obviously rehearsing what he was going to say. He was squeezing his Dixie cup cap tightly. On the left sleeve of the American cadet's white jumper Todd saw the single chevron, crossed anchors and eagle of the American cadet's rank: Petty Officer Third Class. On the right sleeve were the crossed signal flags of his trade: a Bunting Tosser.

The American cadet was about 5 feet, 7 inches tall, muscled, with a long, oval, firm-jawed face. He had curling black hair and a high, wide, brow. He also had one hell of a good ass and, if the neat package bulging the front of his tight bell-bottoms was any indication, a very nice set of tackle. The cadet turned and looked at Todd, his soft, yet masculine features creased by a shy smile. His most arresting features were his flaming sapphire eyes.

Todd, who was quite taken with the young man, smiled back. "Hi. I hear you're looking for Petty Officer Arundel."

The young man nodded. "Yes. Can I speak with him, please?"

"There are two of them. Which one did you want?"

The young man ducked his head. "Petty Officer Cory Arundel, please."

And one part of the puzzle plops noisily into place, thought Todd. "He's a little busy right now. I'm his brother, Todd Arundel. Can I take a message?"
The young man paled and took a step back. "Please, don't hit me." He held up his hands. "I only want to talk to him, to tell him that I'm sorry for what I did."

Todd regarded the young man quizzically. "First of all, I don't usually hit guys I don't know. Second of all, I don't know what you did." He sat down on the stoop and patted the cold concrete. "And third of all, I don't like talking up, or down, to people. Sit."

The young man gulped and nodded. "Yes, Petty Officer."

When the young American had settled himself Todd looked at him. "My name is Todd, not Petty Officer, okay?" The young man nodded. "And you are?"

"Nathan Berman." Nathan was about to add his catch phrase when he remembered the stinging rebuke he had received from Mark and Tony in the berthing deck and closed his mouth.

"Well, that's a start. Now, tell me, Nathan, why would you think I would want to hit you?"

"Master Chief van Beck said that when you found out about me and Cory, you'd get angry and you have a big fist . . ."

"Stop!" ordered Todd. "I don't know anything about you and Cory, so I can hardly get angry. Mind you, I do have a big fist when it comes to my brother. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Nathan looked directly into Todd's eyes as he began to speak. There was no anger in Todd's bright blue eyes, and his calm face radiated serenity.

Up to a point Nathan told Todd what had happened. He had a nice, gentle voice, and the depth of emotion he demonstrated whenever he spoke Cory's name made Todd realize that as far as this sad young man was concerned Cory was no afternoon delight to be quickly forgotten. Nathan did not elaborate on what he and Cory had been doing - Todd's active and vivid imagination filled in the gaps - and Todd snickered and squirmed inwardly at the thought of Cory and Nathan in flagrante.

" . . .So, after I called him those names, he got real mad," Nathan finished, almost in tears.

"And hit you?" Todd eyes were twinkling with hidden laughter. This was better than a soap opera.

Nathan nodded. "Right on the chin. For a while I thought he'd broken my jaw."

Todd grinned. "He has a mean right hook, has Cory. You should, however, consider yourself lucky. In moments of stress he's been known to bite."

"He bites?" Nathan's eyes widened.

"He can be very vicious," replied Todd earnestly. This was a bald lie, but Todd was enjoying himself. "That having been said, now tell me what you want from him."

Nathan grabbed Todd's bare arm. "Please, Petty Officer, I mean, Todd. All I want to do is to tell him that I'm sorry. I just want to talk to him. That's all. He's got to know I didn't mean to call him those names. As God is my witness, I didn't mean to hurt him. I just want to apologize to him, that's all."

Nathan was obviously in distress and quite sincere in his need to apologize to Cory. Todd decided to take pity on the boy. "Nathan, Cory can be very stubborn when he wants to be," he said gently. "He was obviously very hurt by what you said to him. I'm not sure that he'll want to talk to you."

"Please, can't you talk to him? You're his brother. Can't you do anything?"

"I can't make Cory do anything he doesn't want to do. I don't doubt that you're sorry for what happened. I also don't doubt that you're very sincere in wanting to make your apology to him. I think that anybody who cleans into his best rig just to make an apology has got to be sincere."

Nathan smiled. "Well, my mother always told me to dress well and make an impression."

"She was right," laughed Todd. "You've impressed me. But why are you here? Like I said, Cory can be a right stubborn cuss, and if you've pissed him off . . ."

"I don't want to lose him," Nathan said simply.

"That's it?"

Nathan nodded. "That's it. I don't want to lose him."

Todd put his arm around Nathan's shoulder and squeezed his leg. "Nathan, all I can do is tell him you came by. If he wants to speak with you, he will. I can't promise anything, but I will talk to him. Okay?"

Nathan nodded and stood up. "That's all I can ask, then. It was nice meeting you, Todd."

"I'll talk to him," promised Todd. "Say, when do you guys go back to Seattle?"
"Wednesday noon."

"Then I have two days and bit to work on him."

******

When Todd returned to the Gunroom Cory and Two Strokes were just returning, defeated, from their attempt to best Harry. Mark was sitting at the end of the table, alone. Tyler and Val, with Tony along for moral support, waited their turn with Harry. "Trouble?" asked Mark when Todd sat down.

Todd shook his head. "Not for me. Cory just had a gentleman caller." He could barely control his laughter. "Shit, I felt like I should be sitting in our library at home, listening while the guy stated his intentions."

Mark nodded and chuckled. "It could only be Nathan, who's not Jewish, by the way."

Todd looked blankly at Mark. "He never said he was. He never said he was not, for that matter."

Mark roared. "Well, goddamn, goddamn, maybe Tony is right." He told Todd about Tony's assertion that Nathan had been hit by the thunderbolt. When Todd stopped laughing, he asked Mark what Nathan was really like. "He's a bit of a jerk," replied Mark seriously. "His people have big bucks, and his uncle is a power in the Democratic Party. Nathan likes to remind everybody of that."

Scratching his chin absently, Mark tried to put Nathan in a more decent light. "Mind you, Nathan does work hard. I'll give him that, and he's not too bad once you get to know him. It's just that, well, he has this thing about being Jewish. He just can't understand that nobody cares, that nobody automatically associates his last name as being Jewish."

"Cory will knock that out of him once they get together," returned Todd, a smile playing with the corner of his lips.

Mark stared. "You don't really think that's going to happen, do you?"

Todd's smile turned into a wide grin as he nodded. "Nathan seems very . . . determined. He's not going to give up until Cory either talks to him or kills him."

Mark nodded toward Tony. "I know how Nathan feels."

Aware of Mark's feelings for Tony, Todd squeezed the American Chief's arm. "You might drift by the Ropewalk. I think I forgot to lock the door when I put away some of the gear this afternoon." He smiled. "I also think that if you look in the locker near the door you'll find that some kind soul has stored some blankets in there."

Mark returned the smile and murmured, "In that case, I think I'll ask Tony if he'd like to go for a walk." His eyes brightened. "Who knows, we might just drift by the Ropewalk and check out how Canadian Sea Cadets store their blankets."

******

When "First Post" blared over the loudspeaker Mark and Tony took their leave, advising the Gunroom that they were under Sailing Orders for 0600 and, while they would not actually sail until after 0900, there was a lot of pre-operations work to be done. They would be steaming with the YAGs all day.

The Gunroom cadets nodded knowingly. It was the same in every man's Navy. The officers and the ratings played while the Chiefs and Petty officers made it so.