Tim Sweeney fell back on the pillow, sated and still partially hard. His wife of six years, Becky, had just finished giving him one of her amazing tit-fucks as an anniversary present. She was wiping the gobbets of come from her chin and from between her H-cups and licking it off her fingers greedily, when she suddenly looked at him strangely.
"What's the matter, honey?" he asked.
"I know that look on your face," she replied. "You're thinking of something."
"Yup."
"Wanna tell me?" Becky lay across Tim's outstretched legs and began absent-mindedly grooming his pubic hair.
"I was just remembering the first time you ever did that to me," he replied with a wistful sigh.
"Mmmm, yes," she said. She noticed a little dribble of spunk leaking out of his softening cock and darted her tongue out to lick it off. "I remember it as if it were yesterday."
****
The mood of the troops at muster that morning was grim, as if everybody knew that bad news was going to arrive simultaneously with the division officer.
Tim Sweeney, the leading petty officer, stood facing his men but looking over his shoulder every few seconds, a look on his face like something was after him. Tim had heard scuttlebutt that USS Kohlgreen was finally going to succumb to political correctness and integrate women into her crew.
Like most scuttlebutt, he discounted it the first time he'd heard it. Most other ships in the navy were trying a mix of men and women, sure, but he was hoping that Kohlgreen would be the last bastion, a safe harbor so to speak, female-free.
Female-free means trouble-free: something he'd always thought but never dared say out loud, at least not in front of women.
Now, however, it appeared that the rumors were true. Tim had heard them too many times, from higher up than the mess decks, to keep considering them false. The ship would take on women, and before you knew it there would be trouble. Guys would have to watch their language or get charged with sexual harassment. Women wouldn't pull their own weight, would say, "I'm a girl, I can't lift that. I'm a girl, I'll break a nail if I swab the deck." Shit like that. He'd heard all the horror stories before.
"Hey, you guys, pipe down," he napped. "Murphy, square that shirttail away. Johnson, are you wearing white socks, you shitbird?" Tim just hoped the chief and division officer would come down from Officers' Call already and get the bad news delivered and over with. Griping at the men this morning was not the pleasure it usually was.
Hearing the watertight door open behind him, Tim swiveled his head around and saw khaki. "Attention on deck!" he called out. The division snapped to and Lt. Connor received Tim's salute. The chief, who had been following the lieutenant, crossed behind Tim, whispering, "Brace yourself" as he stood beside him. Tim fought the impulse to roll his eyes.
****
Six months later, USS Kohlgreen was ready to take her female crewmembers aboard. Special arrangements had been made in the sleeping compartments and heads designated "female only" – for one thing, the urinals had been taken out and commodes had taken their place.
The male crewmembers had all taken mandatory Sexual Harassment Training Workshops, the USN not wanting to take any chances on the men saying they "didn't know they weren't supposed to say" whatever it was they would say to get them in trouble.
Tim had spent most of that time, when he wasn't assisting with the FemCon – for Female Conversion, the navy was big on acronyms and abbreviations – holed up in the Damage Control Shop.
As leading Damage Controlman and Ship's Fire Marshal, it was his responsibility to make sure all of the ship's fire fighting equipment was in top condition. He'd received word that much of the gear, including face pieces for the breathing apparatus, and fire-retardant coveralls, would have to be reordered in smaller sizes to accommodate the women.
More trouble than they're worth, he thought, and more work for me. Fucking cunts. He'd be damned if he even said two words to a single one of them when they finally got aboard.
At last the day came when the first two females reported aboard. Well, night, actually – they came in on a late plane from Chicago and checked in with the Officer of the Deck at about 2315, so only a couple of people saw them when they got to the ship.
At reveille the next morning, however, the bulkheads were already buzzing with the news. Tim rolled out of his rack and tried to ignore his shipmates as they speculated on what the "chicks" looked like.
"Are they hot?" one of the younger guys asked.
"Oh, god, I hope so!" another prayed.
"Has anybody seen 'em yet?"
"Smitty did, he was Messenger last night with the OOD, but he ain't sayin' nothin'."
"Maybe we'll see 'em at breakfast! Ten bucks I get a date with one of 'em by Thursday!"
"I'll bet twenty you get shot down, even if they're ugly!"
"Fuck you!"
"Fuck YOU!"
Tim had heard enough. He grabbed his towel and shaving kit and hit the head, deciding to skip breakfast.
Still, the ship wasn't that big, and after a day or so Tim accepted the fact that he couldn't avoid the inevitable. As he carried his lunch tray to his usual table, he saw that it was occupied by the very females he had been trying to avoid. The nerve! The unbelievable fucking nerve!
He approached the table and stood in front of the intruders, who, deep in conversation, failed to notice him until he cleared his throat rather loudly.
One of the females was long and lank, with a slight overbite and no tits to speak of. Only the kinky red hair swept back in a bun behind her head belied the fact that she wasn't a 16-year-old boy.
The other one looked short and dumpy, with a roll of fat around her waist and short black hair. Jesus, he couldn't believe the navy would let a fat chick in.
The two looked up at him. Tim was stunned by the differences in their faces. The string bean had kind of a dumb hick look, with droopy eyelids and an open mouth; but the chunky one had a predatory look – her eyes, a deep blue, were piercing and intelligent. Neither one had stripes on her sleeve.
"Good afternoon," Tim began, cutting short his impulse to address them as "ladies". "I hate to pull rank, but you're sitting at a table reserved for first class petty officers."
Without another word, but with a look of complicity shared between them, the females gathered their trays and left the table. They didn't look back.
Tim watched them go, noticing that the dumpy one actually had a pretty nice butt. She didn't look so fat from behind, he thought, but reminded himself that hardly anybody looked good in the navy dungaree uniform. He sat down, content with having protected his turf, but nonetheless feeling a little like an asshole.
Part of Tim's shipboard duty was indoctrination of new crewmembers in the use of fire fighting equipment. The new sailors reported to him that same day for oxygen breathing apparatus training. The OBA was a heavy thing that was worn on the front of the body, with harness straps that crossed over the back.
The training didn't go well, not least of all because of Tim's indifference to the women's feelings. He showed them how to don the OBA, at first on himself, then attempted to place it on each of the females.
With the skinny one he had no problems – the clips that fastened under the arms had no tits to get in the way – but with the dumpy one he realized with a shock that her "roll of fat" was actually a pair of melons that reached her waist! As he reached under her arms to clip the harness onto the supporting rings, he accidentally brushed against something that could have been nothing but a hard nipple.
Snatching his hand away as if burned, he declared the training session over for the day, turned on his heel and stormed off, red-faced. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a stifled giggle behind him.
****
Tim was on a tall stool at his usual hangout that night, with his third beer behind him and a couple of shots waiting for him, when he felt a soft hand on his arm. He turned suddenly and found himself looking into an intense pair of blue eyes, the lids heavily made up with eyeliner and blue shadow to magnificent effect.
"Hi, Petty Officer Sweeney," the girl said.
"Hi, Sweetheart," Tim said, a goofy grin on his face. "Have we met?"
This girl was beautiful, he thought. She was wearing a kind of spaghetti-strapped top, scooped low over some cleavage that seemed to go on forever, and short-shorts made of nylon or something like it. Excellent legs, too, he thought. Nice, full lips painted a deep red. A dazzling smile. Who could she be? She called him "Petty Officer", how goofy was that?
"Yes," she replied, "we met earlier today, at first on the mess decks and then for OBA training. I'm Seaman Rebecca Turner. Becky." Becky held out a hand towards Tim.
Tim was overcome by the change in this girl's appearance. Jesus, she wasn't fat at all! That unattractive navy uniform had hidden almost all of her best attributes. "Hi, Becky," he said, shaking the offered hand. "Call me Tim off the ship, OK? And, um, sorry about what happened at training."
"Forget about it, Tim. Jenny and I – that's the other female, in case you didn't know, Jenny Williams – had a good laugh about it, at your expense, I'm afraid. But don't worry about it – these things" – here she indicated her expansive breasts – "are always getting in the way."
Tim was taken aback slightly by her outspokenness. He started to reply with a comment about how much he liked big boobs, but stopped short. She might be trying to lead him down the garden path to a sexual harassment charge. He just nodded instead, doing his damnedest to keep his eyes above her neck.
