|
The battle computer goes 404. Our starcruiser is almost defenceless. But, there's me.
'Cadet Tony to the bridge! Stat!'
bellows out on the address system. The battle alarm goes off next, noise enough to wake the dead.
Tony's not dead, I'm just asleep. In that deep slumber that thirteen-year olds sleep in
the four hours that they are off watch on a starcruiser. But the general quarters alarm was designed with me in mind and in an instant I awake, partly due to the noise and partly due to my excellent
training as a cadet. I slide out of my billet and slip on my boots, which lie properly aligned on the floor, ready for such an emergency. If I woke with a woodie, as I sometimes do, I don't notice
it. Training says take no time to dress properly, and I tear out of my cabin wearing just my boots and my uniform trousers. My uniform shirt hangs in the locker, where I put it before falling asleep. I
tear up the passageway as general quarters continues to sound, alternating with repeats of the voice-call summoning Cadet Tony to the bridge.
I slam to a halt in front of the captain and throw up
a salute. My eyes line up with the second button on his jacket, for I'm much shorter than him. That Tony's not in proper uniform will be overlooked today, I'm sure. For battle rules say
report to action station first, never mind state of dress or undress. Besides, I may be only thirteen but my chest and arms are nothing to laugh at, even if they be smaller than the men's. I
don't mind showing them off.
The captain returns my salute. Then he reaches towards me and jiggles my danglers in the special salute that he sometimes gives me. Just a friendly bobble of his
fingers through the stretch fabric of my uniform trousers and regulation briefs. He knows where I keep my softie, tucked straight up and pointed at my belly-button. I'd love a kiss too, but I
don't get one.
'Battle computer's 404, son,' he says. 'Take over on manual control.'
I'd love for his friendly jiggle to continue. And for my boner to firm up.
The captain's expert finger knows where to find my dickie and tickle joy along its length. It would only take a few seconds, but this is not the time for that, not even for an ever-horny
thirteen-year old cadet at action stations. For I know my duty. I've rehearsed long and hard for this critical function on the starcruiser. So I slip into the chair at the battle computer. The nasty
blue screen of death shows on the main monitor, so I know for sure the dang thing is 404. It probably needs a patch. You know that one, too.
The captain leans over my shoulder, kisses my ear, and
says: 'There's no enemies around when it went 404. But we go to high alert and you stand by to manually track any sightings and compute the firing angles. Sound general quarters when you spot
trouble. The gunners will fire to your command. And tell me of any countermeasures I need to take. Meantime the techies are trying to boot the computer.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' I reply,
hoping he'll run his tongue inside my ear, which is one of my favourite things, or run his fingers over my bare belly, which is another of my favourite things. But I turn my concentration on the
radar screens, sweeping from one to the other and taking in the entire scene surrounding our ship. Nothing shows, luckily. But my job is now to monitor the space around us as shown on the radar screens,
identify any objects, and compute their positions relative to ours. If their position appears hostile, I have to work out possible firing angles and ranges. Then I have to alert the gunners in their
turrets so they can begin tracking the targets with their phasers. At the same time I have to inform the captain and stand by to receive his order to fire. Then we fight for our lives. And without a
functioning battle computer, which does all this instantly and with no mistakes, all depends on the brain of a thirteen-year old cadet.
One who's not too horny to concentrate on his
task.
Back when space exploration started, the first couple of expeditions failed when crew members died or became incapacitated so that essential functions could no longer be carried out. Same
thing used to happen in ancient times on sailing ships. Smart minds then made the decision to send along two cadets on each starcruiser. Crews are all-male, since the first trips proved that women crew
were irreversibly damaged by radiation, so they lost fertility and became cancer-prone. Most crews are in their late twenties or early thirties, by the time they complete the academy and get their star
badges. So they decided to add two boy cadets to each crew, as reserves. Boys of thirteen can do most of the functions of men but, being younger, they ought to live longer if the voyage be unexpectedly
extended. And they can replace a dead or damaged crew member. Plus, they look cute around the place.
Connor and I are the cadets on this starcruiser. We share a billet. Well we actually share a
bunk in a cabin. Suits us fine, sharing this bunk. Normally one of us is on watch and the other is sleeping. So taking turns sleeping in the same bunk works fine. It never has time to get cold so we
sleep in each other's warmth, even if the other isn't there. That's when we are in hostile space. But when the ship is not on station, we may both be off duty at the same time. Then we share
the bunk at the same time, which suits us even better than taking turns. Sleeping with Connor is the best thing in my life. Better even than the adventure to boldly go where no man has gone before.
Better even than learning all the workings of the latest model of starcruiser.
You see the cadets prove to bring extra benefits.
One is the happy finding that a failed battle computer,
which happens even with the lastest and best version of Windows, can almost be replaced by the mind of a thirteen-year old. Older men won't do, for they've lost the required brain power. Only
youngsters close by the age of thirteen will do. For that's the peak age of the electronic gamer. Our brains easily handle the multi-tasks of rapid, large inputs of data, make quick and accurate
decisions, and rapidly execute those decisions by thumbs on the controllers. Firing at alien ships on a computer screen's virtual reality, even as they fire back at you and your power levels decline,
even as you maneuvre your own ship into firing position and duck incoming fire, is exactly the same as firing on real alien ships. Well not exactly the same, if the alien ships hits your real ship. For
to lose on the computer hurts no one. Yet to lose in real life means your ship gets blown up with you still in it.
You probably think that I'm some sort of pervert or something because I think
about sex all the time. Well, I do. Think about sex a lot. I used to feel bad about it, but at the space academy the cadet captain told the whole class that it's normal for kids our age. Then he told us
what to do about it.
They had discovered the drawback with most thirteen-year old cadets substituting for the battle computers. Fire control requires total and absolute mental concentration. Any
lapse in concentration and the alien fire might hit home, bust through a shield, and wreck the ship. It's a really bad time to have a woodie attack. After losing a ship or three to this unfortunate
lapse in cadet concentration, they figured out what caused it and what to do about it. Training methods were changed at the cadet academy. And that's how I end up paired with Connor. At first we were
allowed to mingle freely, making and losing friends. Connor wasn't my first choice. But his face kept coming up in my mind, as the cutest of the eleven-year olds in the first year class. I started to
get major woodie attacks whenever I saw him. And that's how I knew that he was for me. Luckily he felt the same about me and the academy let us pair up. They gave us another year to see how much we
would disagree with the other, and we didn't much disagree. So they confirmed us as a matched pair. And in our thirteenth year we were assigned to our starcruiser, two boys happy with each other and
just as able to live in each other's pocket as we are able to live in each other's heart. For both are important on a starcruiser.
So Connor and I have this special duty to each other,
beyond our duty to the ship. We take care of each other's needs and make sure neither one of us is ever so horny that he can't concentrate on his duties. That's why we are assigned to the
same billet. And when the ship is not on station we sleep in the bunk together. Where we rub and tug on each other's dickie and enjoy giving pleasure as much as receiving it, until we both pop a nut.
Or, two or three. For at thirteen, once is not usually enough. Then we snuggle tight against the other, full of love and happy of heart, and sleep. And wake in a couple of hours to do it all
again.
When we are on watch and can't both sleep at the same time, we do it differently. First off, our duties are sometimes arranged so we get game practice time together. Then Connor and I
play-fight each other for an hour or two, using the battle computer's training mode. Sharpens the mind and works the reflexes to tackle each other in serious play. Sharpens the mind to take turns
being attacker and defender. And it allows us to practice tactics in virtual space, where mistakes don't matter too much, except to the player's egos. Just as they taught us at the academy, the
winner of the game gets to pick the prize. The prize is exactly what you think it is - squirting. Only the winner may surprise the loser by not asking to do it to the loser, but by asking for the loser
to do it to him. For we know that variety is the spice of life. 'Sides, we love each other and half our fun is knowing the other has his fun too. And you know there's an infinite variety of ways
to pop a nut.
The other way we do it when we can't both sleep at the same time is this. The officers allow the one of us who is on watch fifteen or so minutes of "light" duty every
so often. With a wink and a nod they allow us to slip away from our duty station. I bet they well remember when they were cadets. Then we quickly slip along the passageways and find our cabin, and the
other cadet sleeping in that billet. I don't know how many times I've woken to the feel of Connor's warm, wet mouth on my dickie. Or, how many times I've woken him by slipping his dickie
between my own lips and drawing suction on him. Only takes a couple of minutes when you're thirteen, if you don't deliberately work at dragging it out, to squirt and a happy cadet falls back
asleep in the bunk as his pal slips back to duty station, a grin of satisfaction on his face, smacking his lips.
Now I'm on watch at the battle computer and my stiffie pops up. There's
nothing on the screens that's any threat to us, and my mind wanders. Did I say I think about sex a lot? Like every five minutes? I try to keep concentrating on the screens as I try to will my willie
to go down. And, it can't be I gotta pee. For didn't the captain himself bring the bucket that we pee in when we can't leave the bridge two hours ago? And, didn't he hold my dickie for me
while I peed, aiming it for me so I didn't have to take my eyes off the screens? Well he did just that, so it can't be a pee-stiffie.
My stiffie is insistent, as befits its young age of
13. As much as I try to ignore it, it yells for my attention. There is an emergency procedure that lets me call the officer on deck to find Connor. But I'd rather not have Connor's fingers or
mouth around me while the bridge crew looks on. I'd rather everyone not hear me grunt as he pops my nut. I'd rather them not see me squirt all over the deck. Tony's not shy, but he's shy
enough to want privacy for that kind of thing. The captain kissing me, or touching me through my trousers is about all that I'll allow on the bridge. So I don't put out the emergency call for
Connor to be woken and brought to me.
Suddenly, I see movement on one radar screen. How long it has been there I don't know. Did I lose my concentration for a second, or a minute? Or, ten? I
focus on it and silently curse myself for the lapse in concentration. The enemy is closer than needs be, were I on the ball, not governed by my balls. As alarmed as I am, my woodie doesn't go down,
but lies hard along my lower belly, pointing up at my belly-button.
'Target off the port bow,' I sing out and sound general quarters.
All eyes swing on the screens and on me as I
compute angles in my head. Feet thud on the deck and men race about to action stations. All ears wait for my words as I call out azimuths and distances to track. No doubt all also silently curse the
battle computer, which stubbornly fights the techies and refuses to boot properly. For to fight an enemy ship with no battle computer is everyone's nightmare, mine included.
'Fire when
ready,' I sing out. The ship judders as the phasers recoil. I watch the screens and calculate corrections to my initial orders. My fire is way off target and the enemy ship isn't hit. Not even a
close miss. And she returns fire. I feel the heavier shudders as the screens take the hits and absorb them. I yell out corrections and we fire again. I overshoot and miss again. We take another hit and
it's a big one, for the whole starcruiser leaps under my feet.
I can't figure out what's wrong. It seems all I want to do is drop the controllers and grab my woodie. I know I only need
a few good strokes to squirt. And my balls will be so happy at that relief. I focus again on the real task, which is not making Mr Jolly and the Twins happy, but shooting down the enemy before he does
that to us. I yell out new orders and we get a hit in. I yell out further orders and the cockswain swings the ship desperately taking evasive action. But the enemy has our range and we take big hits, one
after the other. I seem to hit him once for every three times he hits us. That's no way to win a battle, and I know it.
But I can't seem to concentrate.
It goes downhill rapidly. We
get hit way more than we hit him. Yet all I can think of is my stubborn stiffie, begging for attention as if nothing else matters in the universe. I fight back and concentrate on the enemy again. We hit
him but he also hits us. Nothing I try seems to work right. And with every hit we take I know the starcruiser is damaged some more. Pretty soon we'll be tiny fragments floating in space.
One
by one the turrets fail to answer to my orders. And all on the bridge know they've been knocked out and can't fire back. I desperately swing the ship to bring other turrets to bear. Then they get
knocked out and I begin to despair. Yet somehow it doesn't seem to matter.
What seems to matter is the time is almost here when I can drop the controllers, grab my dickie, and turn my whole
mind to relieving the buzz in my overheated nuts. That we may be dead in space seems to matter not. That Tony fails in his duty seems to matter not. That Connor will die too seem to matter not. Only the
overwhelming need to squirt matters.
We pretty much stop firing now, with all phasers out of action. And the shields seem to be collapsing slowly. We take hit after hit, each one striking home
harder than the one before. Damage control is not working. Things don't look so good. Yet my urge to squirt doesn't go away.
Another benefit of the cadets is their loyalty to each other.
For two boys who love each other are loyal until death in a way that few other pairs are. The ancient Greeks knew this well. Fighters who are also lovers are braver beyond normal fighters. And so, as the
enemy attack presses closer, Connor finds me on the broken bridge in front of the dead battle computer. Smoke fills the bridge and the lights are dim. Yet, I spot him the instant he appears. His face
shines at me through the smoke. Connor, the boy that I love. He hugs me from behind and gropes for my stiffie as I press my bum against his stiffie.
The starcruiser shakes violently in its death
throes. This gotta be the end. We'll die with each other's stiffie. I might even manage to squirt before the end. My nuts are that close to busting. Then Connor lets go of my stiffie just as it
starts to squirt and yells in my ear: 'Hey Tony! Wake up, man!'
I awake with a violent lurch.
For an instant I don't know where I am. Then my mind fully boots. I recognize my
room at home. Recognize my bed. And recognize Connor lying beside me raised on one elbow as he looks at my face. It's my room at home, not some starcruiser. And Connor is just my best friend, not a
space cadet. My mind swirls some more and I recognize the pleasure that quickly fades even as I detect it. It's the pleasure of busting a nut. I enjoy what's left of the fading
pleasure.
So, that's what happened. A major wet dream just ends. I must have just bust a nut, for my balls have that pleasant, just-drained feeling of very recently squirting their contents.
You remember it too. And, sure enough, I feel dampness on my belly getting colder by the second.
I don't feel any shame for doing this in front of Connor. 'Cuz we've slept together for
years in either his bed or mine since we were ankle-biters. Not that we've ever done anything more than cuddle like spoons and enjoy each other's warmth. It's not the first wet dream that one
of us has had with the other in bed, and it won't be the last one either. So I lie there all relaxed and happy and enjoy my after-glow.
I often wish Connor would do things with me. If he'd
only ask he'd find how ready I am to say yes. But I'm too chicken to ask him first. And he never asks me. All we ever do is kiss goodnight every once in a while. And he always lets me sleep tight
against his body, for warmth and company. Even as I lie there wishing and hoping he'd slide a hand under my pyjamas, or start rubbing his woodie against my waiting bum.
Connor is quiet beside
me, fast asleep. Did he really yell at me just now? Or, was it my dream? I rest my hand on his belly for comfort and find it's totally wet. Slippery wet. A wet belly that I know comes either from a
wet dream or a jack session, when a guy squirts all over his thighs and belly. You know it too.
I turn into his side and nestle against his warmth. As I drift off to sleep my final thought is:
'Did Connor have a wet dream at the same time as me? Or, did he jack me and himself at the same time?'
|
