Bloody Shore Leave

He concentrated on shooting off and I concentrated on sucking him into weakness. I fed and we fucked. He made some effort to resist when he began to have some realization of what I was doing, but he hadn't come yet and had to worry about that as well. He also was growing increasingly weak. He no longer controlled. I did. His ejaculation, which I matched, marked his collapse under me and the acceptance that the feeding, added to the flow, was raising him—us—up into the realm of sexual nirvana that I had experienced before and that Tremble now was experiencing—for one last time.

As I fed and worked him with my hands, he sighed and moaned and let me move him up into the higher levels of pleasure and sensuality to accomplish a second coming—and then a third, all the time he was draining of resistance, power, energy—and blood. An hour and a half of feeding, fucking, and draining, and I was satiated—for the fourth time on this cruise—and Tremble was a mere husk of his former self. But I continued to feed—down to the last drop.

The locker was mere steps from the side of the ship. It was three in the morning, pitch dark outside, and no one was stirring on deck as the aircraft carrier cut through the waves on its way to Guam. After checking for anyone else who might be about and not finding any activity, it was mere seconds needed for me to pull what was left of the petty officer to the side of the ship and heave him out into the void. The deck was far enough above the choppy water that not even I heard the splash.

I supposed that, since Tremble was a crew chief, it would not take that long to discover that he was missing. But what care did I have? I doubted they'd ever find out what was happening on the Carl Vinson—or why—or would believe it even if it were staring them in the face. And Stefan, when he had whispered to me what I'd become—what he'd made me—had assured me that I would live forever.