Dutch came first. It was a particularly busy and boisterous night in the Dick Hut, tucked in the back shadows of an alley off the Nuuanu Stream in the heart of Honolulu’s red light district. The sign over the door actually said “Richard’s,” but that’s not what everyone called it. Naval ships were in harbor, more than ninety of them, I was told, and all of Oahu was abuzz at the rumbling of war, with the Japs getting more belligerent with each passing day.
All the sailors could talk about was how we were on the brink of something big.
As the night wore on and the drinks flowed and sailors overflowed our little bar, it was getting a little dicey for me. Hung Lee, the bar’s proprietor and my virtual owner as well, kept a string of young Hawaiian men like me in the bar for when the sailors wanted something more exotic, smaller, more lithe and compact—and more undressed—than each other when they poured off their docked vessels, randy, needy, and with a month’s pay in the back pockets of their regulation tight whites. Our main responsibility was to keep the men in the bar and paying for drinks. Inevitably, though, we left the bar with one or more of the men and took them to our small rooms in the upper floors of surrounding buildings. This was where the real money was, and Hung Lee let us keep a third of whatever we earned.
I had already left the bar once that night—with a blond, pimply young sailor of no more than nineteen, who was shy and embarrassed and didn’t know for sure what to do. All he knew was that he was far from home, he was lonely and a bit scared, and he had had a raging hard on for weeks because he was missing poking some sweetie back in Ohio on the mainland.
I took him to my rooms mostly because he was being circled by the older, much more experienced and aggressive sailors, and I knew from experience that he was in danger of having something far different happen to him than what he had hesitatingly come into this bar for.
When we got to my small two-room working and living space, he didn’t seem to know what to do, where to start. So I started for him. I untied and dropped my sarong, the only thing I wore at the bar, and directed him to disrobe, which he did almost furtively in the corner of the room and turned from me. Then I laid him on his belly on my single bed, the most sturdy piece of furniture in the room—out of professional necessity—and I rubbed his shoulders and back with fragrant oil, loosening up both his tension and his inhibitions. He was grinding the bed clothes with his pelvis by the time I had finished with his legs and had moved to his well-rounded butt cheeks. He was sighing and moaning like he was in the heights of sex, but then I turned him over and my hands and mouth showed him what real sex felt like. It had been some time since he’d had sex, so he shot off quickly and prodigiously almost as soon as I sank my mouth down on his throbbing cock.
And then he was very embarrassed and was stammering and was quite beside himself with apologies. I felt sorry for him and didn’t want him to leave with a bad impression of how he would be with a man, so I shushed him and covered his mouth with kisses until he subsided back on the bed with a sigh. He was young and virile and in need, so he was already hard again. I mounted him and slid my hole down on his cock, straddling his pelvis as he lay back in the bed, and I taught him that all he had heard on shipboard of what a man could give him was true.
I was late in getting back to the bar because I had instilled such confidence in the young sailor that instead of leaving when I thought we were done, he bent me over the back of a straight chair and took control of a vigorous second fuck, covering me closely from behind. I cried out in the taking for him, telling him how good he was and how fully he was using me and how much I wanted him—all to help him get seasoned in this new lifestyle he was trying out.
When he asked me how much I wanted, I asked for far more than my usual fee. And I did so to be kind to him. I didn’t want to leave him with a great deal of money to spend. I wanted him to go directly back to his ship from here, not return to the bar where the predators were circling the waters. I told him that if he just kept his eyes open for the possibilities, that he should be able to find a special friend on the ship who would bottom for him with more opportunities for encounters and less of a risk of falling in with those who would want to use him for their bottoms until he was more seasoned.
When I returned to the Dick Hut, Hung Lee was beside himself with anger and slapped me hard across the face and pushed me into the thick of the boisterous, rutting crowd of sailors. There were entirely too many ships in Pearl Harbor, too many sailors free in Honolulu. Too much testosterone flying around the red light district. Too much tension in the air. Too much frantic need with an eye on the curfew time.
And there were very few of us bar boys to go around. We were easy to spot in a swirling crowd like this. We wore only gaily colored sarongs knotted at our waists, hanging low on our slim hips. We were barefoot and bare chested and had orchids over our ears. We left the impression that all a sailor had to do was to pull loose that knot and we’d be accessible and ready for action.
The sailors, however, were heavily regulated to remain in their starched white uniforms, with the tight midsections and bell bottoms and the pullover top. The Navy didn’t care too much what they did on port leave as long as they remained squared away in their sailor costumes while in public. The only saving grace was that they still had buttoned cod pieces for easy access when they needed to piss. It, of course, provided easy access for other things as well. Thus encumbered, the sailors, in their urgency, gravitated more to the half naked, willowy and exotic Hawaiian and Chinese bar boys than to each other.
And there were few even vaguely private places for the sailors to go together. Hung Lee had a back room, but it was quickly filled—at a premium price. As were the surrounding alleys, even if they were free, if you didn’t count the danger of being accosted by a roving military police patrol. The sounds of grunts and groans and slurping floated above the whole backstreet and its allies, as white-dressed sailors gravitated to whatever unoccupied shadow could be found to kneel and suck or cover and dog fuck.
It was late enough in the evening, and there were so many sailors in the bar that most of the rest of the bar boys were off in the rooms over the bars, servicing the highest bidders. Hung Lee thought I’d spent entirely too long with the pimply blond, although he was less angry when I showed him how much money I’d gotten out the bumbling sailor.
I was no sooner back in the center of the barroom before the situation got out of control. I was surrounded by a sea of white and of lust-filled faces. A sailor was close behind me, lacing his arms under my pits, immobilizing my arms, and lifting my feet off the ground. A drunken buddy of his had a fist at my knot, pulling at it, and my sarong drifted down to the floor.
He was leering at me and unbuttoning his cod piece fly and pulling out a hardened cock.
Sailors were surrounding us, coming in close, licking their chops, and a rhythmic chant of “Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him” was swelling.
Hung Lee had gone up on the bar top and, red faced, was bellowing at the top of his lungs, yelling that he needed to be paid first and that this wasn’t allowed in the barroom, that the military police would be along at any minute and shut them down.
I wasn’t scared of the sailor’s cock or even what he intended to do with it. But I was apprehensive about the ten sailors who might follow him and about the mob conditions in general, that I might be gravely hurt in the process.
The sailor in front of me was lifting and parting my legs and was crouching his hips under me and between my legs. My feet already were off the ground. Most of these sailors towered over me, all of them were bulked up and at least twice my size.
I winced and flinched as the cock head found my hole and just pressed inside and pushed higher and higher into me. The mob was crowding in closer and cheering at the initial invasion and picking up the “Fuck him, fuck him” chanting.
My assailant was sweating and smelled of too much beer. His cock wasn’t thick, but it was long enough that he was rising up further in me with each thrust. He certainly was longer and more insistent and demanding than the young, inexperienced sailor I’d just serviced had been. He was palming my butt cheeks and leveraging on them to pull me up and down on his cock. His teeth went to one of my nipples, and I screamed out in pain at that. And the crowd cheered.
The crowd noise swelled and then inexplicably tapered off, and my tormentor had pulled his cock out of me and I was being lowered, more gently than I imagined was going to be the case, down to the floor. The grip of the man behind me lessened, and he was trembling. But he didn’t drop me.
I looked up to see a gigantic, broken nose of an angry-faced head pushing its way through the crowd. The mouth was open, showing uneven, broken teeth; it was bellowing at a level that demanded attention. A monster of a man in sailor whites was cutting through the mob that had surrounded me, and the men were shrinking away from him. Those who didn’t give way fast enough were being swatted into the men behind them, all struggling hard not to go down like bowling pens. The man mountain was virtually bulging with muscle. His torso was thick, but not fat, and the material of his sailor bell bottoms were straining to hold in his massive thigh and calf muscles. He was a good foot taller than any other man in the room. And he was ugly as sin.
But he had saved me and had quieted the crowd into docile and skittish sailors instantaneously. The two men who were my principle assailants melted into the crowd, and the mob somehow largely evaporated from the bar.
The man leaned down and lifted my sarong from the floor and held it out for me.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“Yes, now,” I replied, “Thanks to you, of course.” He looked away, almost bashfully, while I reknotted my sarong low on my waist. I was trembling, but I fought to regain control. Just another night at work.
“May I buy you a drink?” he asked, diffidently, almost in a whisper. He still wasn’t looking at me.
“Yes, of course. At the bar.” This was what I was here for—to push drinks for lonely sailors. I looked over at the bar. Hung Lee was behind it now. I could tell that he was still half in shock, his whole future having passed before his eyes. I’m sure he figured he came close to having the bar closed down by the naval authorities because a riot had occurred here. And there was no question in my mind that he’d blame me. I’d have to walk very carefully until he forgot this incident.
We bellied up to the bar. I ordered a gin and tonic (which, of course, would come without the gin), and the sailor ordered a Coke. Anybody else in here who ordered a nonalcoholic drink would have been jeered out of the place. But I was pretty sure that no one messed with this monster of a man.
I discovered the source of his almost obscene bulk. He was a boilerman on the battleship the USS West Virginia, which was docked at Pearl Harbor. His was perhaps the dirtiest and most muscle taxing—and developing—job on the whole ship. His name was Dutch, which he seemed anxious for me to know. He seemed to want me to know more than that he was just in this bar to find some man to fuck—or be fucked by.
“And your name?” he asked quietly as we worked on our drinks. As required, I quickly downed my first one and was already on my second one, all on the sailor’s tab, of course. He had saved me, so I felt badly about doing this, but Hung Lee was right there, watching my every step, and the sailor didn’t seem to mind.
“‘Ano’i,” I answered.
“‘Ano’i, ‘Ano’i,” he repeated, almost in a whisper, treating each syllable like velvet. “What a beautiful name. Is it Hawaiian?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m Hawaiian. Well, mostly. A little Chinese blood, of course, and I’m told there’s a Presbyterian missionary or two from the mainland in there too. We’re all a mix of something here.”
“And it turned out quite well, too,” He said, giving me a smile that was almost pathetic as ugly as he was. I almost felt like laughing. It seemed like he was courting me. Here in a bar, where I got paid to lie on my back and open my legs, no real pleasantries exchanged.
“Thank you,” I said. Then. “And thank you again what you did over there; I would have been in a lot of trouble if something had happened to get the bar closed down tonight. Now, I guess I should—” I was standing up, ready to mingle with the much smaller crowd in the room in the wake of the excitement.
“No, please. Can’t you stay a bit longer?” he asked, his eyes pleading with me. “I have money; I can pay for the drinks. Barkeep, another round over here, please.”
I looked at Hung Lee for a sign of what I should do. But he was being inscrutable. I knew he’d want me to jolly up the men around the tables and get them to drink faster to cool down their hard ons as I flirted with them. But it also was obvious that Hung Lee realized that it was only Dutch’s presence that was maintaining calm on this unusually crowded night. A night full of tense talk of what was happening, why so many ships were in harbor, what were the Japs up to?
“‘Ano’i,” Dutch said again, almost in loving tones. “A beautiful name. Does it have a meaning?”
“Yes,” I answered. “It means desired. And it can be either a boy’s or a girl’s name. They often use that name when—”
“I know what it means to me,” Dutch said in a low, hoarse voice, cutting me off in midsentence.
I didn’t respond. I just let that hang there. He was ugly and maybe three times bigger than I was, and it frightened me a bit to think that he was that proportionally big everywhere. And his hulking strength. He could smother me or break me in two in his excitement and lust. An uneducated sailor, a boilerman working in the bowels of a battleship. He might be cruel and rough and incapable of holding himself back at the height of passion. But he had saved me from possible harm, had saved the bar from maybe being closed down when there was so much profit to be made.
“Can we . . . could we . . . would you . . .? I have money; enough money.” he was struggling to get the proposition out. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was ugly as sin and frightfully big. He didn’t need to be told that. He lived that.
I looked at Hung Lee, who nodded slightly. Not really an acquiescence as much as a command.
“Yes, yes. of course,” and then an “I would like that.” Ever mindful of the role I played the fantasies that were mine to weave for the money. “I have rooms across the street. We can go there. Now, if you’d like.”
He perched precariously, straddling one of my straight chairs reversed, his massively muscled arms folded over the back resting his bulging chest against the slats, as I stood by the bed and unloosened the sarong and let it slide to the floor in swirls around my ankles. I had no idea how much of me he had seen in the ganging earlier in the bar, but his eyes at first went wide and then slitted when he saw me fully unclothed, and I heard his intake of breath.
He just looked at me for the longest time, and then he stood up from the chair and slowly stripped off his navy whites. It was my turn to take breath in when he was done. His muscling was inhumanely bulky, but all in proportion, and his cock, as I had feared, was enough for three men, not too abnormally long as it stood straight out from his thick thatch of reddish pubic hair but as thick as a normal man’s wrist. I had never taken anything that thick. And his balls hung low and were the size of lemons. I hadn’t the slightest doubt that they could provide semen to flow for hours.
He was holding back, unsure of whether I would want to continue after having seen him. But I lifted my arms in a welcoming, gathering gesture, and, with a sob, he moved to me, picked me up, gently and almost lovingly in his arms, and his mouth went to mine.
I closed my eyes, not least to close out the ugliness of his face. I wasn’t resentful, but I wanted him to think my body would respond to him, and I was afraid that the ugliness of him would freeze my desires. But I need not have had any fears about that, because his kiss was soft and tender, and sweet tasting. I couldn’t get enough of the taste of him, and sensing that, he tentatively darted his tongue into my mouth, and then when I sighed to that, he probed deeper, yet still tenderly. And all the while we were kissing, his gigantic hands were moving on my body, with tenderness and skill belying the clumsiness that would have been expected of him, knowing just what to do to make me melt.
When we broke from the kiss, I murmured “Oh god, take me, fuck me.” It was a line I instinctively used to get sailors to get on with it so I could get back to the bar. But I wasn’t at all sure that was what I meant now, in this instance.
I could feel him shudder at that. He was still holding me in his arms. But I could tell I had broken through the ice. He knew now that I would accept him.
“Yes, yes, in time . . . if we can manage. That’s not always possible,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “But first I want to make love to you. You are so lovely.”
He laid me gently down on the bed, on my back and sat down on the side of the bed next to my waist. “Do you have . . .?” he started to ask with hesitation.
“Sheaths? Yes, there, in the nightstand drawer.”
“No, not that . . . and I’ve brought my own. I don’t think yours would—”
No, probably not, I thought. And then a chill went up my spine at the realization of what was to come. How monstrously thick he was.
“I meant oil. I would like to give you a massage. I am longing to feel your curves and crevices.”
“Oh, that’s in the nightstand as well. And . . . well . . . it can be used for—”
“Yes, that’s good,” he broke in.
He was a divine masseur. He worked all of my muscles so lovingly and deeply and sensually that I was purring and getting close to dozing off when he gently turned me over. And the sensuality of what he was doing was so strong that I was fully engorged when he turned me. He worked my neck and chest and arm muscles and moved down from my chest to my pubic fringe and then up from my legs to under my ball sac.
And while he was working me, I was gliding my hands over any part of him I could reach. When I could reach his cock, he poured oil on my hand and I stroked him. I couldn’t get my fist around what he had. And it was hard as a rock and was throbbing. I knew it wouldn’t be long now before I was put to the test. He was sighing and groaning. With my eyes closed, I could completely blot out that he was a ogre of a man, in both bulk and visage.
I must have drifted off to a purring sleep, because I came back to full consciousness with a warm, moist, fully encasing sensation in my cock, which was completely sheathed in Dutch’s mouth. Then I realized my channel was being filled as well—as fully as most men could with their cocks. Dutch was working on opening me to him with oil and his huge thumb.
His thumb had found and was stroking my prostate, and, with a flinch and a lurch, I exploded into his encasing throat. I murmured my appreciation and the extreme pleasure he had brought me in his sensitive and prolonged preparation.
But we weren’t very far along in the preparation at all yet. Now it was time for Dutch’s pleasure.
He turned me in the bed to where my butt was on the edge. He pulled over the straight chair and sat there now. Placing two pillow under the small of my back, he took my calves in his big fists and pulled my legs apart and folded them up and made me dig my heels in the wooden side piece of the bed.
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.
For three days, I agonized. Men were starting to reappear at the Dick Hut, but they were there to bury themselves in drink, not to pursue hookups, and none of them could tell me about either Dutch or the lieutenant. On the second day, the pimply young sailor showed up, shell shocked, and I took him up to my rooms and we made love like he’d never done before. If nothing else, I was able to push the remembrance of that brutal attack out of his mind for a couple of hours.
But he couldn’t fill the needs of my life. Only either Dutch or the lieutenant—or both—could do that for me.
On the third day, within three hours of each other, I found out that both Dutch and the lieutenant were alive and recovering from superficial wounds.
That was two days ago. Now I am back to my naval dilemma. Either Dutch or the lieutenant, both of whom are only fleeting pleasures, as they now surely will be transferred away from here quickly. Or neither—the continuing of my life as relief and comfort for needy, now increasingly frightened and endangered sailors, like my young, pimply sailor.
I don’t know what to do. My story doesn’t end here. All I can say is that both of my lovers survived that terrible attack on Pearl Harbor. And for now, maybe that’s enough.