United States Navy. The seventeen lucky/unlucky sailors received sentences ranging from one month to ten months in gaol. Rear Admiral Kane was the butt of endless jokes at the Officers Club.

Word was that President Roosevelt wasn’t upset. This was a proper masculine attitude from a former Under Secretary of the Navy, who was currently engaged in a liaison with his office secretary.

Johnnie and the others knew about it and said nothing. The scam blew up when Chief Petty Officer Walsh asked Johnnie about the story and Johnnie told all. It wasn’t really a snitch, in Johnnie’s view, because Mr. Walsh knew enough already. Verifying a fact is not a snitch.

Chief Petty Officer Walsh protected Johnnie and the others and Johnnie parlayed his co-operation into getting the small hold where the hooker sucked and fucked the Lucky Seventeen, as they were known, turned into accommodation for Johnnie and his crew. Thus it happened that Johnnie, Dan, Brian, Jesus, Pauli and Elton all ended up together in their own hold, sleeping and living together. For each of them, in different ways, it was like “going to heaven, without dying” to quote Johnnie Torrio.

They were half way through their meals when Pauli and Elton arrived. The three burst into whistles and applause.

From behind the bar, Big Bill watched the scene, smiling. He caught Elton’s eye.

“You guys want more beer?” said Elton, standing up.

Brian looked around the office. The shutters were already closed when he entered the room with Dr. Mike Harris, the wearer of the Hawaiian shirt. As the doctor had run his hand over Brian’s ass when they were walking up the stairs, the sailor had a fair idea of what was required for the agreed payment.

The green leather Ottoman sofa was out of place in a Honolulu doctor’s office, but it was convenient to keep clean. Just a wipe over with a moist cloth and the secretary would never know that a sailor with a tough looking cock had been all over it on Friday night. Cloth covered sofas had a tendency to absorb and display body fluids. Not a good message to send to the doctor’s pregnant patients.

The doctor silently dropped his pants onto the floor near his slip on loafers. He had no underwear. Unbuttoning his shirt he let it open and fall to the floor as he sat down on the sofa and opened his legs wide.

He was about 32 and in top condition. Clearly defined pectoral muscles sat atop a flat and strong stomach and abdomen. A fine spray of chest hair, blond and sparse coated his upper chest. The small tuft of blond pubic hair had been cropped.

“A guy who takes this much care of himself is going to be a hell of a ride, thought Brian.

A smile came to his lips.

“What’s so funny?” said the doctor in a friendly tone.

Brian was buck naked, standing on the Persian rug in the middle of the office, stroking his semi-erect cock.

“I see that your desk is completely clear. I presume that you are going to fuck me on it?

“You ought to be a detective with powers of observation like that. Let’s see what you can observe with my cock in your mouth.”

Brian knelt down in front of him, and remembered his night in St. Louis. He remembered