“I solemnly pledge myself before God and these witnesses to practice faithfully all of my duties as a member of the Hospital Corps. I hold the care of the sick and injured to be a sacred trust and will assist the Medical Officer with loyalty and honesty. I will not knowingly permit harm to come to any patient.” ~ US Navy Corpsman’s Oath ~
Participating in Lincoln High School’s Junior ROTC program for four years, Kevin Kasberg dutifully serviced his military science instructors, cadet officers, and countless corps classmates. Feeding his addiction, many appreciatives found release inside his accommodating mouth.
But he desires more than Shinnston West Virginia can provide.
The small town is 99% white and he craves ethnic cuisine.
Yearning for meaning & purpose, adventure & camaraderie, he visits the Armed Forces Recruiting Center. Committed to cause, cock, and country, he possesses essential attributes for successful enlisted servitude. And the competition between recruiters to fill a quota is robust.
After years of missing recruitment goals the military needs new applicant pools. Lifting the stigma, embracing a diachronic perspective, diversity is now celebrated. Filling the void, rainbow capital is wooed at high schools, pride celebrations, and on social media forums.
“I want medical training,” declares Kasberg.
Boys with special inclinations are drawn to be pecker checkers. Comprised of 80% young males, the military affords unparalleled opportunities to explore masculinity. Possessing extra enthusiasm in delivering compassionate care, who doesn’t benefit from more gays in uniform?
Pitches extol branch virtues - narratives of accomplishments and traditions. Opportunities to play with impressive big-boy toys: tanks, jets, helicopters, ships, and submarines. Patriotic paraphernalia and a profusion of promises are proffered to persuade preferences.
Choose your affiliation and you choose your fate.
Army Combat Medic, Air Force Medical Technician, or Navy Hospital Corpsman?
Capturing his imagination, Kasberg can’t resist the witchery of the Navy’s dress blue bell-bottom crackerjacks with thirteen button front flap. Providing no place for a guy to stow his gear, the stunning uniform is an effective advertisement billboard for nautical salacity.
Enjoying a well-deserved reputation, the Navy consistently attracts a disproportionate number of homosexuals. It’s the allure of randy sailors spending months secluded at sea. Ships brimming with desperate, needy, suckable cocks. Who could wish for anything more?
“Sir, I want to be a Hospital Corpsman.”
“Excellent! We’ll need to confirm your aptitude,” explains the Navy recruiter.
Deferentially taking position on indurate knees, Kasberg happily services the Lieutenant, a Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate, and two E5 petty officers. Sequentially sucking, savoring, and swallowing saporous semen he impresses them with his alacrity and artistry.
Passing a medical examination, toxicology screening, police background check, and the ASVABs, he’s highly qualified for the Corpsman (HM) rating. Embodying transitioning gender-expansive values, there’s definitely a place in the Fleet for the talented cock sucker.
And he signs a five-year enlistment contract.
Three-month delayed entry provides time to complete necessary paperwork and enjoy one last carefree civilian summer. Sucking every last drop out of Shinnston, Kasberg consumes as much hometown elixir as possible to sustain him before departing for boot camp.
* * *
Indoctrination. Militarization. Transformation.
Recruit Training Command, Naval Station Great Lakes, IL can process 16 divisions of 88 recruits every 9 weeks. Many barracks are unused since conscription ended and manpower levels were reduced. Each building contains berthing compartments, heads, and training classrooms.
Fresh meat stews in the Naval cultural caldron. Tenderized, seasoned, and infused with nautical flavor (core values, customs, and traditions), recruits receive instruction on command structure, Navy Regs, uniforms, UCMJ, ship classes, seamanship, damage control, and water survival.
Every moment is meticulously scripted and sedulously supervised.
There’s no place for modesty in the Navy.
Working, living, sleeping in close quarters at sea, there’s no privacy, no secrets. Constant physical intimacy is an inescapable reality. Sailors must be desensitized to ubiquitous flesh and suppress carnal desires to function as a cohesive warfare fighting team.
Open barracks and communal heads help recalibrate recruits. Eclectic masculinity is on full display. Arresting portraits of America bathed in light and shadow. An opportunity to address every curiosity, inquisitive eyes are inexorably drawn downward to take the measure of men.
Reciprocated exhibitionism and voyeurism.
Indelible images captured on internal canvases.
Foregoing customary privacy protocols, adjacent to large gang showers are partitionless stainless-steel shitters. A dozen fixtures out in the open sit side-by-side. In the center of the head, like an Italian courtyard water fountain, is a four-foot diameter circular communal urinal.
Adjusting to military life, shy and embarrassed boys must overcome ingrained anxieties - paruresis and parcopresis. Fully exposed and on display, having no choice they evacuate bladders and bowels in close proximity while other males attentively observe the proceedings.
Inexplicably immersing, it’s a spectacle rivaling ancient Greek Olympics. Paying homage to Zeus, unabashed naked athletes with kynodesme tied around foreskins proudly displayed their physical prowess to appreciative audiences… men, boys, and young maidens.
The allure is undeniable.
And Kasberg captures constitutionals with photographic eyes.
* * *
It’s the last Sunday before Thursday’s graduation.
After eight weeks of ramrod restrictions recruits revel in relative release.
Naked, jockeying for position around the urinal, transformed cock-confident boys with no inhibitions purposefully parade packages. Swinging hips. Dancing dicks. Skylarking, they massage ballooning shafts and retract redundant prepuces over blood-engorged glans.
Micturition commences as torrential flows strike stainless steel. Strongly scented small-batch brewed pale ales and pilsners. Ten fluid ounces of golden filtered water, lightly kilned malted barley, and spicy hops. Bright, crisp acidic notes… distinctive yet familiar.
Like mischievous little boys with water pistols, scampish sailors cross streams, splash, and splatter. Mock outrage as a water war erupts. Spontaneous escalation; mutual assured soakings.
Thrusting pelvises, clenching abdominal muscles, contracting bladders, urethral sphincter nozzles spray at high velocity. Legs, chests, and faces get drenched in comforting warm salt water. Reservoirs are rapidly depleted, and just as quickly as it started, it’s over.
Ribald banter. A rising tide of desire.
Stimulated sails unfurl in splendor as salacity soars.
Anticipatory release is close at hand as throbbing, pulsing shafts, are needfully pulled and pumped. An intrinsic sacred celebration of life, many civilizations cultivated cock-centric ceremonies. And masturbation was an integral mythological component of mundanity.
Egyptians believed the god Atum created the Milky Way by ejaculating into the cosmos. Paying homage, pharaohs ceremoniously jerked off into the Nile yearly with enthralled audiences in attendance. Initiating the rebirth cycle… the offerings ensured fertile farm land and prosperity.
The Aztec, Maya, and Inca believed masturbation was a gift from the gods. In ceremonies atop pyramids so gathered masses could watch, kings would jerk, ejaculate, and pierce foreskins. Semen and blood offerings ensured rain, agricultural abundance, and the continuation of life.
And countless tomes have been written about Greek and Persian masturbatory practices.
Sailors shamelessly stroke swollen shafts.
With no correlation between flaccid and erect, they’re fascinated with inflation. Foot-longs and cocktail franks; winners and losers in genetic roulette. Massive meaty Black and Latin cocks amaze and delight while diminutive Asian & Irish heritage offerings validate whispered tropes.
Conspiratorial grins. Consensual nods.
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by beckoning, blood-bloated boners, hands extend and exchange prizes. Squeezing and kneading, they savor surprising sensations supplied by unfamiliar digits. Employing a wide array of techniques, clearly there’s no wrong way to jerk a needy cock.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, wringing hands wrestle girthy cylinders pumped to priapic proportions. Desiring completion, wishful thrusting hips instinctively accompany rhythmic strokes. Shallow ragged breaths, fast and furious, as smooth chests rise and fall.
A profusion of deity invocations.
A powerful act of theurgy, sharing the spiritual experience, celebrating brotherhood, males manifest gratitude in mindful mutual manipulation. Reaching heightened levels of pleasure, unlocking innate universal energy, they connect on a higher plane of intimacy.
Moans, groans, lustful tones.
Flushed fevered faces dazed and delighted.
Approaching intense climatic throes, shafts swell, testicles retract, legs shake, asses quake, muscles clench, and toes curl. Glazed eyes rollback under fluttering lids. Incipient orgasms percolate upwards as undulating waves of ecstasy course through cores.
Emphatic explosions; exultant ejaculations.
Effluent emanations everywhere.
* * *
Graduation arrives.
Two hours of military pageantry in Midway Ceremonial Hall.
Marching lockstep in pass-in-review, newly minted sailors are enrobed in nautical splendor - form fitting dress blue crackerjacks with iconic dixie cups. Executing a series of well-practiced maneuvers, eight divisions face forward in formation towards fascinated family and friends.
Seven hundred sleek silhouettes adorned with vibrant, radiant promise. Standing at parade rest, thirteen button flaps perfectly profile possessions. Making a presence on the landscape like Neolithic monuments across Britain, masculinity’s megaliths and mounds attract attention.
Proud and prominent; captivating and compelling.
And the admiring audience’s cameras flash continuously.
The Navy Band plays the National Anthem, a chaplain offers a brief nondenominational invocation, and the men recite the Sailor’s Creed. Awards and presentations. An inspirational speech by the RTC Commanding Officer, and the band plays Anchors Aweigh.
* * *
Naval careers get underway.
Sailors depart for contractually guaranteed technical training. Those without specific rating designations (non-rates) and bottom dwellers lacking sufficient intelligence or military bearing to warrant an additional investment in specialized training are vectored directly to the Fleet.
Norfolk. Little Creek. Mayport. San Diego. Everett. Pearl Harbor.
Government property unencumbered by expectations, most will accomplish shit jobs: chip & paint hulls, labor in scullery or laundry rooms, scrub engineering bilges, stand midwatches, and clean heads & berthing compartments. All necessary crap that no one joins the Navy to do.
Fresh seafood always attracts attention. Savvy seadogs looking to mollify appetites will subjugate the new boys. A perishable commodity, many rectal rings will get stretched, wrecked, and ruined. Eventually, fists are crammed up inside convulsing cranberry gloves for appreciative audiences.
And who isn’t captivated by the ultimate act of conquest?
Kasberg is transported to Joint Base Fort Sam Houston, San Antonio, Texas.
The Medical Education and Training Campus is a Joint DoD training facility. Over the course of nineteen weeks he learns clinical techniques, procedures, and skills required to support Navy & Marine Corps field units as an entry-level HM-0000/ L03A basic Hospital Corpsman.
Hundreds of attractive enlisted men abound on campus. Mouthwatering dining options. After a steady diet of rich seafood, he’s eager to sample some interservice beef. Advertising desire, many Army Combat Medics and Air Force Medical Technicians reciprocate interest.
Brobdingnagian bundles gesticulate.
A cornucopia of comestibles.
Speaking to his soul, an irresistible verity, bobbing cocks demand sucking. Licking lips in anticipation, Kasberg demonstrates considerable technical talents. Massive blood-engorged Black and Latin cocks sequentially disappear down his accommodating Navy throat.
And indisputably no one sucks like a sailor!
Committed to rendering service, impressing senior leadership with exceptional aptitude and unbridled enthusiasm, he’s meritoriously promoted to HM3 and selected for advanced training as a Preventative Medicine Technician (PMT). Enlisted classification HM-8432/ L12A.
The ultimate pecker checker designation.
Besides standard Navy OSH surveillance duties, shipboard PMTs perform berthing & head sanitation inspections, administer immunizations, investigate epidemiological sightings, and diagnose/ treat shipmates’ communicable and sexually transmitted diseases.
After an additional sixteen weeks of training Kasberg graduates and receives orders to the medical department of an aircraft carrier home ported at Naval Base Norfolk, Virginia.
* * *
Built in Newport News VA, commissioned July 98, the 103,900-ton ship is 1,092 feet long with a draft of 37-feet. Propelled by two Westinghouse A4W nuclear reactors driving four 21-foot screws, she can exceed 35 knots with a range of three million nautical miles before refueling.
HST departs Norfolk for an extended 8-month Mediterranean - Indian Ocean - Persian Gulf deployment. Escorted by cruiser Anzio and destroyers Bulkeley, Gonzalez, Ramage and Gravely, she supports 5th and 6th Fleet missions against the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant.
Aboard are 6,012 sailors, airmen, and marines.
An approximate 80 /20 ratio of cock to split-tail.
Female roles expanded in 1978 - allowing them to serve on tenders, oilers, and other auxiliary ships. In 1993 Congress repealed the Combat Exclusion Law allowing sea cows aboard all Navy combatants - forever altering the traditional at-sea male bonding experience.
Prejudicial to good order and discipline, sex on ships is prohibited by Navy Regs Article 1165 and OPNAV Inst 5370.2B. In the junior enlisted ranks transient liaisons are natural and un-stoppable. Instead of wasting money on hookers & hustlers, sailors just fuck & suck each other.
Unfortunately, the preponderance of HST’s split-tails are lesbian.
Precious little opportunity for satisfying relief from a ‘shaft alley Sally.’
Riled men find alternatives to alleviate pent-up sexual energy. Clandestine collaborations of convenience, mindless lustful reciprocations, are common in remote and secluded spaces: pump rooms, load centers, engineering spaces, store rooms, damage control voids, etc.
Facilitating an otherwise impermissible mixing of race, rate, and rank, it’s the confluence of combustible compulsions and carnal cravings. And most every passion, perversion, and paraphilia is accommodated. Disturbing dalliances only possible aboard a deployed carrier.
And what happens at sea stays at sea.
* * *
Kasberg enjoys unfettered access to cock.
Between sick calls, health assessments, and sanitation & habitability inspections, he’s seen thousands. Every conceivable configuration. Earning a reputation for providing compassionate care, sailors seek out the openly gay corpsman’s salutary ministrations.
Utilizing available resources, a dozen well-passed around sea-pussy boys deleteriously impact the health of unsuspecting sailors. Enjoying frequent unprotected congress, transmission of fulminant diseases are endemic - chlamydia, syphilis, gonorrhea, human papillomavirus.
Many throbbing, burning, dripping cocks require Kasberg’s expert attention.
Providing clinical diagnosis, treatment, and follow-up care, cocks are lovingly nursed back to health. Educating sailors and encouraging better choices, he discusses their sexual histories, behaviors, and desires. Going the extra mile, he dutifully sucks 10 to 15 every day.
More if scrumptious midshipman cuisine is on the menu.
A sailor from Air Department V-3 Division reports to medical.
ABH3 Lopez, Third Class Aviation Boatswain’s Mate (aircraft handling).
A boy with captivating cinnamon complexion and more muscle than a New England clambake. Flashing a wide radiant knowing smile, he extracts his cock and gives it a purposeful, taunting tug. Accentuating length and girth, the instrument commands immediate attention.
“Can you take care of this for me, doc?”
Kasberg’s expressive eyes exude unconcealed desire. Sublimely beautiful, a powerful aura surrounds the awakened idol. Sacred and eternal. Craving communion, professing his faith like a good Christian, the corpsman willingly worships on his knees.
Leaning forward, retracting the redundant prepuce, his tongue runs across the swollen glans. Sampling seeping sebaceous secretions, layers of sumptuous flavor resonate… smoked chiles, achiote, garlic, oregano, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and cocoa.
Breathing deeply, musky pheromones suffuse senses.
Opening wide, instinctively tilting his head back for proper alignment, he greedily swallows the whole cock balls deep in one, easy fluid motion. Innately talented, lips encircle the thick base as he provides comfortable quarters down the accommodating throat.
“Fuck yeah… suck it!”
Savoring rhapsodical sensations, Lopez enjoys intense pleasure from feeding the talented corpsman. Persistently thrusting in-and-out of the stuffed passageway with passion and determination, working with maniacal energy, the moment of release rapidly arrives.
Tensing, tightly gripping the head, trembling in ecstasy, Lopez violently explodes and provides Kasberg with a substantial serving of thick spicy custard. Appreciating the moment, with a smirk of satisfaction, he’s thankful the Navy stocks deployed ships with insatiable cock suckers.
“Thanks, doc.”
“Anytime. Spread the word… I’m here to help.”
* * *
Arguably, there’s no better billet in the Navy than PMT aboard a deployed aircraft carrier. Caring for thousands of needy cocks, Kasberg is in seventh heaven. Performing his duty, the voracious chowhound sucks, savors, and swallows staggering quantities of intoxicating elixirs.
Inexhaustible indulgences beyond his wildest dreams.
And what gay boy doesn’t want to be a Navy pecker checker?
