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*Coast Guard ships are called “cutters”
The difference between a fairy tale and a sea story is
a fairy tale begins, “Once upon a time…,” while a sea story begins, “This is no shit…”
I was a young hotshot petty officer, 22, when I reported for duty at what was in 1963 the Coast Guard Recruit Training Center on Government Island in the estuary between Alameda and Oakland, California.
I learned to my initial dismay, notwithstanding my exalted status as a journalist, second class petty officer, one of my duties would be conducting tours of both the base and any available one of the three large cutters (large in CG terms; Taney of 327′ and Dexter and Gresham each of 311′) based at Government Island. But as a horny young guy I soon changed my attitude. I came to relish these tours. This is the story of how that change occurred.
Many, the great majority of these base or cutter tours, or both were for youth groups, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, church youth groups, school students, and etc. Invariably they were accompanied and overseen by young matrons whose children were members of the groups. The vehicle of my attitude change did not have wheels but rather it, more properly, she had legs. Her name was Ramona Artfelder,
One Saturday morning on schedule for 0930 hours, Ramona and four other women arrived in a church bus with 17 “Webelos” (older cub scouts) in tow for a cutter tour. I met them and would be with them through the tour.
Only CGC Taney was in port. I had extracted a begrudging agreement from the Captain, Ezra “Goddamn” Hazard, a very salty mustang WWII veteran of North Atlantic convoys. He was ex-enlisted up through the ranks from the deck gang to command of his own ship. Captain Hazard would suffer his ship to be boarded by this bunch of goddamned civilian women and children. It being clearly understood that I, the fucking PIO guy, would be responsible for them while aboard and goddamned sure not let any of them out of my sight. And they were not to interfere with goddamned ship’s business, understood? Anything happened it would be my goddamned ass, understood? Oh, and another thing, you conduct the goddamned tour and don’t be trying to shove it off on any of his goddamned crew, understood?
I thought, goddamned right. But I said, “Aye-Aye sir.”
There are a few things to understand as this “sea story” continues. Stairways on naval, including Coast Guard ships are properly called ladders. Whether vertical or inclined any non-moving shipboard construction meant to allow human passage from one level to another is a ladder. That is ship’s nomenclature taught in boot camp, as fundamental to Coast Guard culture as learning an altar boy’s Latin responses once was to Roman Catholic ritual. Moreover to call a ladder a stairway in the fleet was to incur ridicule from and the contempt of real sailors. On Taney there were numerous inclined ladders. Because space is critical on a warship, such ladders are quite steep, much more so than conventional stairways ashore. Using them requires both physical and mental adjustment by landlubbers.
Also, in 1963 the cultural revolution of that decade was not yet (although to be before the year was ou) born of the national trauma, anger and loss of innocence precipitated by the violent death of President Kennedy. Americans lived in the myths of Norman Rockwell’s Saturday Evening Post covers and gift cartons of Camel cigarettes sent weekly with grateful thanks to the residents of this or that VA hospital. Hair down to here or down to there could get a male roughly arrested as a sexual deviant. Women still wore nylons and garter belts, full cut undies, pointy tit bras, foundation garments and dresses, high heeled shoes, matching purse, hats and gloves to go shopping in the city; downtown in the city, where seedy characters dared not venture lest they be caught in the glare and under the truncheon of Officer O’Toole.
Many ladies were used to looking their best when they ventured further than the end of the driveway in the early morning to fetch the paper. Few ladies had any notion of what a ship tour involved. So many of them put on day dresses or sun dresses but left at home their foundation garments, hats and gloves. They did wear panties, hose and garter belts; after all they were not going to abandon all propriety. In one concession to safety, in the advance packets I did tell them it would be best to wear flats rather than high heels. But I did not mention that slacks might be preferable for the ship tour. At first out of my naïveté in a then virtually all male service, I simply didn’t think to mention it. But when it became quite apparent to me that slacks were in order for the sake of matronly modesty, my horny element won out and I deliberately wrote or said nothing more about appropriate attire.
Part of my paraphernalia for conducting these tours was a 35mm Yashica with which I photographed the members of a tour in a group shot with the ship just toured bahis firmaları behind them and a dozen candid shots during the tour, making an effort to include each person in at least one of these shots. Later I put together an album of the tour sent with the complements of the Coast Guard.
I also took upskirt pictures for my personal diversion. Okay so I used them as masturbation enhancers. This was risky business but when my common sense said, not a good idea, my libido and my gonads said, fuck common sense. I took the pictures. Surreptitious upskirt photography was not taught in the journalist basic school I attended. So I had to learn through OJT. My technique is not worth describing as it is irrelevant to today’s technology. Ramona Artfelder was about to show me an exhibitionist’s response to an upskirt voyeur.
Ramona was a woman built for comfort not for speed. She had not an obese, but a fulsome rather than lithe body; a pretty but not stunningly beautiful face, full breasts and a pronounced broad ass underpinned by two shapely legs. She was 37 at the time of this story, about 5’4″ and carried probably an additional pound a year for each of the twenty years since graduating high school, some of it carried in a pillow tummy that I liked. She had dark blonde hair and striking green eyes. She wore a pale blue sundress with narrow straps and a lace edged square cut bodice that offered a view of tanned cleavage and inviting crescents of breast that could be glimpsed from time to time. When she walked her hips swayed from side to side.
She was the group leader. I introduced myself as Petty Officer K and she slid her hand into mine in greeting. That simple but seductive grasp made my dick twitch. Still holding my hand and looking directly into my eyes she said softly how handsome I was in my sailor’s white uniform. When she finally slipped her warm soft hand from mine, I passed my sweaty palm down my trousers leg, cleared my throat. Pants bulging, I explained the tour plan. She smiled before she turned to the group and explained almost word for word what I had just told her.
I managed to recover some emotional equilibrium and led them to the ship. The officer of the deck or OOD gave permission to come aboard. When all were on deck the group gathered and I explained we would first go to the ship’s bridge pointing out where it is and the route we would take. I set out initially in the lead and Ramona trailed behind coming last to make sure no one became separated from the group.
Despite Captain Hazard’s colorful admonition not to involve his crew it turned out the executive officer had instructed the OOD to have a seaman yeoman from the ship’s office assist me. So I sent him ahead to assist members of the group as they reached the top of the ladder at the 01 deck. I remained behind at the base of the ladder on the main deck. When Ramona was halfway up the ladder I had a cock-swelling view up her dress all the way to her panty covered ass and crotch. I drank in the purloined sight of her most private anatomy. It was just as she put one foot on the next higher step thereby enhancing an already mesmerizing sight. The Yashica clicked and Ramona paused in her ascent for an ever so fleeting moment and continued. A general alarm went off in my head. Had she heard the click of the camera? Did she ken what she heard? If so did she further intuit the focus of the camera?
We visited the bridge and I explained the features for steering, speed, navigation and communications. The tour continued until, as we were about to move on forward to the 5″ gun mount, Ramona paused next to me and said, soto-voce, she needed the “ladies room.”
I responded quietly, “Ma’am this ship doesn’t have any ladies room. The crew is all male.”
“Oh shoot,” Ramona said, “I have to pee or I am going to wet my panties. Can’t you do something?”
“Okay. Look, I will take you to a head, I mean a toilet, and stand outside to make sure nobody comes in while you go. .
So I escorted her to chief petty officer country, an area for senior enlisted men, and after checking waited by the entrance while she used a stall. I could hear the rustle of her clothing as she lifted her dress and pulled her panties down. Then I heard her pee and she sighed.
“Ahhh, oh yes. I couldn’t have held that in for another minute. Thank you petting officer K.”
“Ma’am that’s petty officer,” I said, smiling to myself.
“Oh my, I thought you said ‘petting officer.’ I did think it strange and a bit forward of you to call yourself a ‘petting officer.'”
“Petty officer is correct ma’am. It’s from the French for a small or minor officer, same as NCO’s or non-commissioned officers like corporals and sergeants in the Army.”
“You are a minor then?”
“Ma’am now I think you’re joking with me aren’t you?”
Ramona just smiled at me as she came out snapping her purse closed and adjusting her dress. “I am so relieved,” she said. “I peed before we left San Leandro kaçak iddaa this morning but something just ‘clicked’ and I suddenly had to go. ”
It aroused me that a grown woman would speak so candidly, giving a sort of oral journal of her most personal activity. Her allusion to the sound of the camera’s shutter was not lost on me. I searched her face for some telltale that would either dispel or justify my anxiety. But her steady gaze and small smile did not waver.
She put her hand on my sleeve and said, “I hope I haven’t embarrassed you, have I?” She lowered her chin and looked up at me.
“N…no ma’am, I said as my face flushed. I could feel it happening and at the same time my cock began to swell. “Um, this way ma’am,” I said pointing and she smiled again and walked away with a pronounced swing of her prominent ass from side to side. I hoped my swelling cock would subside so the bulge in my trousers diminished before we rejoined the group.
We finished the tour making our way aft once more on the 01 deck. I went down to the main deck ahead of the group and stood by as they descended the ladder, some facing forward but some turning and descending backwards uncomfortable with the steep angle. Ramona descended last.
“Don’t let me fall,” she called to me.
No ma’am, I’ll wait right here and catch you if you miss your step. If you come down facing away from the ladder and use two hands to hold the rails you should be fine.”
She stood at the top of the ladder as I looked up at her. Once more I had an untrammeled view up her skirt. Her panties were gone. I know my eyes must have bulged out as I took in the sight of her plump bare pussy. Without thinking I heard the camera click whirr, click whirr before I regained my senses.
Then, as though it suddenly came to her that she was putting on a voyeur’s fantasy show, she held one rail but let go with the other hand and pressed her dress down obscuring the premier view of her nude epicenter. But when she stepped onto the deck and walked past me I felt or thought I felt, a feathery brush of fingers across my trousers in way of my cock.
When the tour ended Ramona approached me and asked when the pictures would be ready.
“I’m so anxious to see all of the pictures you took. You will call me?”
“Yes ma’am I’ll call you as soon as they’re ready.”
“You give a very interesting tour,” she said. “I so enjoy meeting new people and having new experiences. Don’t you sir?”
“I surely do,” I answered.
“I thought so,” she said and smiled again.
By Wednesday I had finished developing the film and preparing prints. I did my own darkroom work when I was sure no one else would be barging in on me. As the images of my upskirt pictures of Ramona came into view my pulse quickened. Upskirt photography is so hit or miss. Too often the images are blurry from hand movement or focus. Or they are underexposed and there is nothing but dark shadow revealing nothing. Or the camera angle is bad and one has nothing but some uncertain expanse of flesh, or the subject’s thighs are touching damn near from knees to groin.
These upskirt pictures of Ramona were fantastic, almost as if they had been professionals, both the model, ostensibly in a candid pose, and the photographer, the shots implying not posed carefully but rather quickly and surreptitiously snatched. But there was Ramona’s pussy in two panty shots, one of them superb. Her panties snugly defined her pudenda, even showing the crease where her outer lips kissed together. They were translucent panties so I could well see her thatch of pubic hair. There was a little dark smudge that Ramona would confirm was moisture seeping into her panties. The picture was hot and could have served well to stimulate me in much masturbation.
But the bare pussy shots, only one of which turned out decent, almost made me cum immediately as I looked at it. Not only was it in sharp, crisp focus but it revealed that her sex was plainly aroused. There was an opening between her full outer lips and below the apex of her pussy a very excited and engorged clit peeked out ever so subtly. Moisture glistened in the tightly cropped print I made of that gorgeous sex organ. I took off my bell bottoms and my drawers and masturbated to a quick but intense orgasm there in the locked darkroom gazing at Ramona’s so eager looking pussy.
Normally I would just mail the package. But Ramona had insisted that I call and I was not about to object.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call. I was beginning to think I would have to call someone like a commanding officer or something to find out what happened. I am so anxious to see all the pictures you took.”
Oh shit, I thought. This woman could put me in the brig if she started making allegations about my behavior. I quickly asked her to hold for a moment. I needed to calm down before I spoke to her again. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, squared my shoulders and came back on the line.
“Well kaçak bahis ma’am there’d be no need to do that, to call the command. I have some good pictures of your group and I will get them out to you today by mail. That’s a promise.”
She did not answer for several beats. Then she spoke rather forcefully.
“Look smart ass, I know you took pictures up my dress. Those are the pictures I want to see. Do you understand? I want you to bring them to me tomorrow at…” whereupon she recited the address in San Leandro. “Bring the negatives too; all of the pictures and all of the negatives.”
She did not need to say or else. That message had already been communicated. Suddenly I was not so hot shot. I felt like a fly might have felt; clever right up to the moment it found itself about to receive,” el beso de la mujer araña”. But as worried as she made me, I was also thrilled by the provocative context of the whole episode so far.
I made up a bullshit story for my boss, the old chief who could care less anyway; said I needed to go to San Leandro High (was there such a school?) to discuss an appearance of the recruit battalion band, color guard and marching unit, at their homecoming parade.
So away I went in government vehicle no less, but stopped at the YMCA to change into civvies because in those days, only chief petty officers among enlisted men, could come and go in civilian clothes.
The residence in San Leandro looked like a small palace to my provincial view, coming from a small town on the Canadian border in Northern Michigan. I squared my shoulders, grabbed my envelope of pictures, all the pictures, and marched up to the front door. When I pressed the doorbell button, stentorian chimes echoed inside.
Ramona did not answer the door. One of the other women I remembered from the group stood before me.
“Yes, may I help you” she asked. I realized she did not recognize me in civvies.
“I’m Petty Officer K from the Coast Guard. You toured the Cutter Taney last weekend. I took your group through the ship. Ramona, sorry I don’t know her last name. Ramona said I should come to this address with the tour pictures.”
A light bulb went on for her. “Oh gosh I didn’t recognize you out of your sailor suit. Come in, Ramona is here. We’re just having a glass of vino. But I’ve got to run. Ramona will be so pleased you did come.”
As she said this we entered the large living room and Ramona was sitting on the couch smiling at us. She looked so fetching and sexy in a white blouse and tan culottes. Her blouse was sheer and I could see her bra. The culottes hung in a way that sitting with her legs crossed I could see a generous expanse of thigh.
“Petting officer K,” she said giggling. “It’s so good of you to come all this way just for me,” with a smile and a Carol Channing blink, blink.
Her friend interjected before I could say anything, “Okay. I’m off. You two have fun. Ramona darling you’ve got to finish with him and be out by four, don’t forget.”
She gave us both a quick peck on the cheek and in short order she was out the driveway and gone in a big yellow Caddy.
Ramona stood and came over close to me and said, “Would you like a sip of my wine sailor?” I could smell her winey breath and woman smells of perfume, sweat and other moisture. I could feel the warmth radiating from her body. I could feel my cock stirring. I played it cool.
“Wha, um, er, ah well gee okay.” Well, I was not that cool.
Ramona pulled the wine flute away when I tried to take it.
“I want to put it to your lips.” Which she did and gave me a far from satisfactory sip.
“More, sweetie?” she asked. Once again she tipped the flute at my lips but continued to tip faster than I could quaff it down. That which got away from me dribbled down off my chin onto my shirt and Ramona laughed.
“Oh my, look at your shirt (giggle). Better take it off and let me get the wine out of it or it will be ruined. So you’re not used to having women pour wine down your throat.”
I peeled off my shirt and my undershirt, also stained, thinking as I did so, crap, I had been with her for all of five minutes and she had already not merely taken control, but made me look like a clumsy oaf as well.
Fortunately none of the wine spilled on the pictures which I’d put on the coffee table just moments before Ramona poured wine down my front.
“I know your first and second names are not petting and officer,” she said as she took my shirt and undershirt.
“Uh, Kenneth, but most everybody calls me Ken.”
“Call me Mona, Ken.”
“Nice chest Ken,” she said then her hand was on my bare flesh. It was warm, soft and wonderfully sensuous. I took a deep breath and she smiled confidently. I was obviously erect when she looked at the prominent bulge in my jeans.
“Hold that thought,” she said, “we will come back to it. Bring the pictures and come with me.”
We went to the laundry room. There she took of her blouse while she rinsed the wine stain out of my shirt.
“Don’t want to get my nice blouse splashed. You don’t mind do you Kenneth? I know you’ve seen a woman just in her bra,” Mona said, “A horny young stud like you.”
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