Meet The Spartans by Moosemind (AI)

A collection of images by Moosemind with a Roman/Greek/Spartan theme.
I have strung them together with a narrative of my own that is pure mitchmen.
It tells the untrue story of the renowned Spartan Army. 

The Shaming of the Spartans

1

In Sparta, lovers are parting,

 

"Farewell, my love, the Army is assembled.

Today I must march on Throbos*".

 

*A city about 10 leagues from Troy, it was reputed to be the home 

of some of the greatest treasures of the Trojan Empire. 

With an equally renowned, lively nightlife. 

 

 

2

The Army departed from Sparta to the accompaniment of fireworks and celebrations.

Proudly, they bared their weaponry in the traditional way, for which the city was famed. 

 

2

 

The Spartan army stopped off in Homos on the way, to replenish their provisions.

There, the second in command was interrupted, while pillaging one of the locals.

 

"Sire, you must come quickly! 

The Throbbers have sent emissaries!"

 

The General was informed and hastily made himself decent to receive the delegation,

but he was mindful that all Trojans would be still be seething 

from the humiliation they had recently suffered at the hands of other Greeks.

'It will take more than a Trojan Horse to catch me out', he resolved.

 

 

2

Wary of such trickery, the Spartans took no chances with the Ambassador,

They stripped him naked and tied him hands and feet.

 

"Sire, we have come in peace, our only desire is to serve you", he protested.

It was true, he had not come bearing gifts. Instead, his gifts were bared.

 

The General was impressed by the hunky Ambassador.

And turned on by his submissiveness in bondage

He sent him to his personal tent for a private meeting of minds.

 

 

A more relaxed atmosphere spread through the camp.

The emissaries were soon mingling with the ordinary soldiers

and quickly made many friends with their openness.

 "See, I bring a peace offering, for anyone that wants it"

 

 

That evening, to the dismay of sceptics amongst the Spartan officers,

the emissaries produced multiple emissions throughout the camp.

Including groans from the luxurious Commander's quarters.

 

 

The commanders were rudely wakened the next morning by an Aide de Camp.

 

"Infamy General! It's infamy!" he declared, (camply, as custom dictated).

"The Trojan emissaries have infiltrated the entire army during the night,

and they have stolen all our clothes and weapons!

All I have left is my dagger, which I always keep well hidden".

 

"I fear, I too was infiltrated last night", the Officer replied, 

"It was my first time, and it was bloody brilliant!".

 

"I’ll tell the General, But without our weapons, we cannot go on. 

Sound the withdrawal! Everyone withdraw!"

 

 

And so the long march home of the demoralised Army began. 

It was embarrassing returning naked through the same villages that had feted them.

But, unhindered by possessions or clothes, they made good progress. 

 

Their officers rallied their men and kept them going.

"Courage lads! Once we're through the next pass, we'll be safe!

I'll buy you all a beer, when we're back in Sparta"! 

But the Throbbers had taken a shortcut and reached the pass before them.

 It was no good, they were trapped.

 

 

And so the proud Spartan army, in its entirety,

passed into captivity without a blow being struck.

300 blow jobs had brought 'The 300' to their knees.

 

 

 

They entered Throbos, not as conquerors, 

but as humbled, angry prisoners.

 

 

 

The Spartan General voluntarily offered himself to the King of Throbos,

hoping to spare his men the worst of the Throbbers' revenge.

He was taken to the city square and punished severely, like a common criminal.

 

 

Other Officers had also bravely identified themselves

A few with impressive-looking credentials were picked out by the King personally.

To be held in his personal household as hostages and for ransom.

He made them pay a humiliating price for their mistake. Nightly.

 

The rest shared the fate of the ordinary soldiers..... 

 

"Citizens of Throbos! Behold the proud sons of Sparta!"

 

"Three hundred of them dared to challenge us, but confronted by real men,  

they meekly surrendered without a fight, without a stitch on.

We, in Throbos, do not make prisoners of cowardly hooligans like these.

To pay for their pillaging, they must be sold to the highest bidders.

Citizens! Get out your purses! "

 

 

The captive, young Spartan soldiers were horrified.

"They can't do this to us, Sir, can they?" they pleaded with their Sergeant,

"We didn't do any pillaging, well, not much anyway".

 

"I'm afraid they can" the wise old hand told them.

"There's a convention on the treatment of Prisoners of War,

but we don't count as POWs, because we didn't even have weapons.

Legally, we're just tourists, an anti-social gang of foreign louts".

 

The once proud fighters, realised they had no choice.

Engulfed with shame, they hung their heads, 

It was an agreeable gesture to on-lookers, who increased their bids.

 

One by one, they went under the hammer

 and were led away by new masters. 

 

Sold into slavery, the Spartan boys were dispersed far and wide.

 

In Egypt :- "I am bored with this Spartan vassal, bring me my whip!"

 

 

 

In Rome:- "Get up, dog!"

 

"Tonight you will serve me in my bedchamber

and, by Jupiter, you will regret your insolence!"

 

 

In Britannia, a young conscript, toiled in the fields, 

still naked as he had been the day he was captured.

Far from home, parted from his lover,

his only rest and solace was a nightly dose of the farmer's lust.

 

~

 

Such was the disgrace of the Spartan Army, defeated by deception.

Not by a Trojan horse, but by a crack squad of Trojan whores. 

See also: Roman Prisoners of war by 'Gay-Roman-Fantasy'

 

More Moosemind and link next time

Targeted

Colin's in a fix after being kidnapped at gun-point on a quiet country road.
Not only abducted but his tighty-whitey's ripped to shreds in the process.
Now, collared and chained, he finds himself up for sale to the highest bidder.
The solid gold collar they gave him suggests these are very wealthy buyers
It's scary, but kinda exciting too. All these people want to buy him!

They'll never believe it when he tells them about it, back at work. 

 They've even promised he can keep the collar, no word about new briefs, though.

 

~

This photo-manip is by Herodotus, whose work can be found at Telemachus 12 
Telemachus 12's site boasts an incredible collection of gay art with edge

Targeted Hunk

 

Brock checked the time for the hundredth time that morning. Where were they? The Pick-up Squads had a reputation for strict punctuality and woe betide any man who wasn't ready for them, exactly as stipulated, when they called.

Officially it was called 'The Agricultural Levy' but ordinary people knew it as 'Farm Slavery'. Five years of work in the fields of the South for any man who was a 'burden on society'. Brock had been unemployed too long and accepted this would be his fate. His wife and kids would get his wages while he was away. He just had to be ready for the pick-up at the designated time wearing nothing but underwear for decency's sake. They'd probably strip him of that too once he was in the van and shackle him, along with the rest of the men on that morning's list.

Hardly anyone volunteered for the Slave Corps, so discipline was necessarily tight to keep them all in line. Stories of harsh punishments for the smallest infringements circulated in the social media. Brock didn't intend to make waves and hoped to avoid that fate. He'd kept himself fit and healthy and didn't mind hard work, which ought to get him a good, straightforward posting. In five years time, he could make a new start.

He jumped as the doorbell suddenly rang and quickly went to the door. Two men in dark uniforms were there and immediately pulled him out. They twisted his arms painfully up behind his back and frog-marched him down to the street. “What's this?” one of them said, “A wristwatch? You were told to bring no personal possessions!”.

“I thought this one looked like a trouble-maker” the other one said, “That's the third one I've had to sort out this morning”. As they hustled Brock roughly into the darkness of the van, he heard his kids calling “Bye Bye Daddy” from the windows above. 

~

Click on the labels below for more tales of enslavement and hairy hunks @mitchmen.

Mercenary Nick - Part 2

Start reading at Part 1

 

Day 4

8

After a night of humiliation at the hands of the Guards, I had to face my torturers the next day clad only in underpants. Even they were not my own clothes, for my guards had either destroyed, or taken for souvenirs, every item of clothing that I had on. As a sop to my modesty, they gave me a pair of underpants taken from another prisoner. He had no further need of them, they said and out of spite, they told me his name. It was one of my comrades who had disappeared some 3 months earlier, while on the same mission as myself. I was trained not to react to barbs like this or dwell on the truth of them, but the symbolism of losing the last of my possessions did hit me hard. 

I felt like I had been condemned to extinction.

Having been suspended by my wrists during those long, cruel hours of darkness, it was a perverse pleasure to be taken down and spread-eagled on an X-cross instead. I was still tied up and defenceless, but able to stand on my feet again. It was obvious that this restraint would enable the interrogator to attack all parts of my body, if I continued to deny him the information that he wanted. However, he surprised me by producing, not some ferocious flesh destroyer, but an incongruous, small batten of wood. It looked like it was fresh from a DIY shop, an unwelcome reminder of the normal world that was carrying on outside the walls of my prison, oblivious of my plight. 

The Interrogator complimented me on my physique, running his hands over my abs and acknowledging that I had been well-trained. Then he proceeded to apply his stick to my torso, landing vicious blows on it from all angles. That batten might have been small, but by heavens it stung! As time went by, the cumulative effect of hundreds of blows from it, switching between the flat sides and the sharper edges, generated a fiery furnace of pain all over my body. He beat me with it patiently, conserving his energy, so my agony might last as long as possible.

 

 

9

After a while he stopped, looked at my bruised body and sighed, as if in regret. Then he went to his bench and returned with a second batten. He used them simultaneously to beat both sides of my body. The effect of the wood smacking my abs had dulled by them, but when he switched to my ribs, the pain was excruciating. I'm ashamed to say that I gasped, quite loudly. My torturer smiled, then hit me again. I managed better control of my responses the second time, but it was difficult. My struggle to remain silent was obvious. That made him smile again, for it was a sign, a small one, that I was losing, and he was winning. We both knew that, and I trembled inside. 

Before he left to take his lunch, he signed off with the battens by rasping their rough cut edges across my body like a saw. My bruised skin was repeatedly pricked and punctured by splinters, with many of them breaking off and sticking in me. He was playing a childish game, but left me with widespread soreness that returned every time I stretched to relieve the stress of the prolonged restraint.

After he had gone, to my surprise, the Guards took me down and gave me a small but nourishing meal. I ate it appreciatively, imagining that someone, at least, wanted to keep me alive. But for what? As soon as I had finished, they tied me up again.

 

10

When the torturer returned, the games continued. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy the task of wearing me down, waiting for me to crack. He was relying on time and repeated attacks to persuade me, rather than extreme wounding. This time he took up a wooden paddle with which to torment me. 

I'd experienced the paddle before. It looks slightly comical, but its flat surface produces a wider spread of pain. The holes in it ensure that air making way for its delivery do not impair the impact. It is most effective on large muscle groups and so is widely used for buttock spanking. Naturally, my Trainers hadn't spared me that experience and humiliation, although they claimed to think it beneath them. I wasn't convinced about that after experiencing their efforts, but my torturer seemed to share their view, he made no move to turn me round to feel its sting on my behind. Instead, he applied it to my pecs and thighs, two areas which had largely escaped his attention in the morning.  

Vast new areas of fiery pain erupted to torment me.

 

11

 It was a long, long day and it left me raw, bruised and physically exhausted. My borrowed underpants were sopping wet from profuse perspiration, but thankfully, the relatively low level of brutality had spared me the humiliation of losing all control of my organs. I was glad it was over, but, tomorrow would be another day of torment and before that, I faced another night at the mercy of the Guards.

 

 Day 5

 

 

12

 

My Guards must have lost interest in me that night, for I slept right through. There had been visitors, I could tell, for when I awoke, my underwear was round my ankles and there were deposits on my skin. But I hadn't been treated badly enough to wake me up. Perhaps some other unfortunate soul had claimed the attention of the brutalisers. 

 

As usual, the Guards took me straight from my cell to the interrogation room after I had eaten. This time, however, instead of tying me to the cross or a post, they simply shackled my ankles, tethered my wrists to a dangling chain and left me standing in the middle of the room. I stood like that for about an hour, puzzling over this turn of events. Had something happened? Was my torture ended?

 

These foolish thoughts were immediately extinguished when my tormentor returned to resume his painstaking exploration of my inner reserves. To my horror, he was brandishing a bull-whip which made the reason for the changed restraints perfectly clear - he was going to work all over my body and wanted no obstacles to impair his lashes. The ploy of keeping me waiting had softened me up nicely, for I immediately began to tremble with fear. He gleefully used the stock of the whip to lift my chin and make his usual request, was I going to talk?

 

13

 

It took all my courage to refuse once again. 

Seconds later, the whip fell across my body and all the previous bruises re-erupted.

It was just the start of a slow-paced barrage of lashes that spared no part of my body. 

14

 

Before long, I was on my knees blubbering. 

But I had the strength to refuse to give in and tell them what I knew.

 

15

 

My reward was a barrage of kicking and whiplashes which sent me sprawling. 

I lost consciousness.

 

16

 

I can recall very little of what happened after that. I woke up in a primitive, wooden shack with 3 other prisoners. They nursed me back to some semblance of health, until my captors decided I was fit to work in the quarry, which was just outside our hut. This is the place I now call home.

As soon as I was able, I searched for my missing comrade, the man whose underpants I still wore, but I did not find him, only more strangers, most of whom did not speak my language. As I became better acquainted with my new companions, I was able to join in their secret, nightly intimacies, which were unexpectedly tender and comforting. Necessarily so, because of the patrolling guards who might otherwise hear us. 

In reality, though, my only real bond with them is our experience of the Orange Room, of which none of us ever speak. Whether I broke and talked or kept my silence until they gave up trying, I cannot say. It doesn't matter, because I know for sure that my mission ended in failure. It gives me no comfort to have escaped death when my other comrades may well have perished, for I have still paid a terrible price for my failure.

 

17

It's hard work, breaking the stones and carrying them to the collection point where the lorries come to pick them up. I soon discovered that slackers quickly feel the whip, and that invoked such terrible memories for me that I take care not to provoke the overseers if I can help it.

I think about escaping sometimes, but the fire in my belly has gone out. The fear of more, remorseless punishment has finally quenched my spirit. My comrades seem to feel the same, although none of us talk of our past lives or what we endured to get to here. I am one of the lucky ones, supposedly. 

So I wield my sledgehammer and count the hours 'til the next meal, which is usually quite nourishing and designed to keep us alive and working. The alternative would be starvation rations until we die. 

I'm not sure which is the worse fate of the two. 

 ~

Imagery for this story is from 'Mercenary Nick' at Real Chained Heroes.

The star is 'Robert' flaunting his fabulous physique. 

Go to Part 1

 

The Tie Game by Cybertied

 This is a brilliant fantasy about a 'sports centre' where men can go to experience being tied up. Luckily for us, they are all extraordinarily cute or handsome and there's a shop full of sexy gear for them to wear while they live out their bondage fantasy. You can see it's the first time for some of them, and they are plainly surprised and sometimes shocked by the unexpected reality of being in the hands of an unseen and none-too-gentle rope-master. There's even a hint that his work goes on, after the centre is closed for the night, leaving you wondering just what happens in the end to all those 'rope-curious' men.

~

I'm full of admiration for all the creative effort that has been put into this by Cybertied, negotiating the restraints and wilful disobedience of the AI Art engine and creating a storyline that is tantalisingly sketchy and vague about what is really going on.

Visit Cybertied at 'X'.  and  Cybertied @ Tumblr

To Serve Is Pleasure

A1

From Curiosity to Submission: 

The Transformation of Fraser

SERVE-625 moved through the city streets with precision, his posture upright and controlled. Beneath the neoprene hoodie and slim athletic joggers he wore, the tight black rubber of his SERVE uniform clung to him like a second skin. Every step reminded him of his purpose, though the faint squeak of his concealed suit was audible only to his own ears.

A2

 

The grocery store was crowded, but Fraser navigated it effortlessly and efficiently, picking out what he wanted and ignoring distracting offers. He had lunch to cook for a guest. As he hurriedly exited the store, bag in hand, he collided with a man who was passing by. 

“Sorry about that!” he exclaimed, glancing up. Then recognition lit his face. “Oh, hi Ricky!”

The man was a familiar face from the gym. He nodded and replied coolly,
“Acknowledged. No harm done.”

“Nice hoodie,” Fraser said, his eyes lingering on the material. “What’s it made of?”

There was a slight hesitation before Ricky replied. Almost if he was weighing his response.
“It’s a neoprene rubber composite, Fraser. Durable, comfortable, versatile”.
He sounded more friendly now.

Fraser’s eyes widened. “That’s awesome.” He stroked the material with his fingers. 
“I love it! Where did you get this?”

Ricky nodded knowingly, rubber had that effect on some men.
“It's from a nearby store. It has your size. I *will* take you.”

Fraser had intended to finish his errands quickly and go home, but Ricky spoke with such assertiveness that he didn't hesitate to follow him as he set off towards the store. As they walked, Ricky explained that his rubber clothing was an important part of who he was, almost an ideology, he laughed. It had to do with unity, precision, and purpose.

Fraser chuckled, but his curiosity grew. “You’re really selling it”, he said.

“Wearing it enhances focus and clarity”, Ricky asserted. “You *will* enjoy it.”

Fraser felt convinced that he probably would.

By the time they arrived at the store,  called 'SERVE', he was eager to see more.

A3

The store looked like an ordinary clothes shop outlet from outside, but as they entered, Fraser marvelled at the many racks of rubber and neoprene garments he saw, his senses were assailed by the smell emanating from them. He barely registered the faint, hypnotic hum that filled the air, carrying subliminal whispering.

Fraser was immediately drawn to a display featuring neoprene garments just like Ricky's. “I have to try one of these on”, he said, his voice almost dazed. He grabbed a rubber hoodie and headed for the fitting room. Inside it, hypnotic spirals danced across the walls, accompanied by more of the soft whispers. Fraser’s breathing quickened as he tried the hoodie on and absorbed the atmosphere. But he was disappointed when he looked in the mirror. It didn't look as good on him as it had on Ricky.

When he emerged, the hoodie was forgotten and rejoining Ricky, he pointed to a full-body, rubber suit which was on display. “Can I try that instead?” he asked, his voice unsteady but eager. 
“It won't seem silly, will it?”

Without hesitation, Ricky lifted the bottom of his hoodie, revealing the glistening black surface of his rubber suit underneath. Fraser’s eyes widened, his mouth fell slightly open. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

Ricky nodded. “Affirmative. You *will* find it... transformative.” 

He picked a suit out and accompanied Fraser to the fitting rooms, where the atmosphere and visual effects immediately enveloped the young man's senses once more. He took off all of his street clothes and underwear, dropping them into a basket the store had helpfully provided. Once naked, he was eager to get into the suit, it took some effort, but once it was on, it clung to his form and wearing it felt so right for him. It was all he needed. The glossy surface reflected the transformation he felt, both physical and mental.

A4

 

Minutes later, Fraser stepped back out into the shop, his lean form encased in the gleaming rubber suit. His eyes were wide, his expression one of awe. “This... this feels incredible.” he said, staring at another shopper who nodded back in agreement.

“Rubber binds us together. It is our perfection. We are all part of the Hive. You feel it now, don’t you?”

Fraser nodded, almost hypnotized. “I do. I need this.”

He did not notice the faint clunk behind him, as the basket in the changing room emptied, 
dropping his old clothes through the bottom into an underground bin.

A5

 

Ricky and Fraser left the store together, with Fraser still proudly clad in his new bodysuit.
Ricky took him straight to the nearby SERVE Hive-Hub. 
Inside, he underwent the full initiation process. 
Hypnotic inductions erased his old identity, replacing it with unwavering devotion to the Hive. 

 

A6

When the process was complete, Fraser emerged as SERVE-632, his body gleaming in polished black rubber, his mind a perfect extension of the Hive’s will. SERVE-625 observed the transformation with communal satisfaction.

“Welcome, SERVE-632,” Ricky said. “You are one with us now. I am SERVE-625”

SERVE-632 bowed his head. “Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. I am ready to serve.”

Together, SERVE-625 and SERVE-632 exited the hive-hub, their polished forms glinting in the sunlight. They moved as one, through the city streets, ready to spread the Hive’s perfection further. They walked with precision, their postures upright and controlled. The tight black rubber of their SERVE uniforms clung to them like a second skin. Every step reminded them of their purpose, the faint squeak of their suits audible only to their own ears. 

Another mission complete, 625 reflected, knowing that he had served the Hive well.

~

 I was thrilled when I found this story on tumblr, it's a new twist on the themes I often promote here and a perfect complement to the recently published article, featuring the drone imagery of Hijaden, as well as the longer term, mitchmen theme of enslavement fantasies. I have adapted the text (apologies to the author) to a slightly different perspective, that of the victim, rather than the predator. This is not intended to take anything away from his great story and images. If you like my version, I urge you to go and read his original too, it reads very differently and will fill gaps in my adaptation. In any case, you must visit his serve-625 blog at tumblr which is steeped in the unsettling ideas which form the basis for this tale.

*VISIT* SERVE-632's tumblr blog to find out what SERVE stands for and see more items in this vein

and don't forget to *READ* his, original telling of this story.

Targeted - Collar and Tie

 

Dave and Sam normally spent New Year in front of the TV.

They reckoned it was the best way to enjoy all the fireworks.

But this year they got a surprise, personal invitation to a private party.

It came from 'John', but they could guess which John it was.

The black dress code was a slightly daunting to Sam, 

but Dave, who mixed in classy circles, was perfectly relaxed.

Plus, there was to be a spectacular display at midnight.

So they thought, Why Not?  Enjoy the change. 

Something out of their comfort zone, you might say.

The venue was already busy with guests when they arrived.

They didn't spot John amongst the crowd but  

they were immediately offered free drinks and food,

so they were soon enjoying the party atmosphere.

 

About half past eleven, anticipation and excitement was rising.

Dave and Sam were both feeling distinctly mellow.

Then someone called for silence, he had an announcement to make.

He asked for the Guests of Honour to come to the stage. 

 

Dave and Sam discovered it was they who were the Guests of Honour,

a group of burly men closed in and frog-marched them to the front.

Gazing out at the crowd, they realised they were all dressed in black leather.

But any feeling of being over-dressed was quickly taken away from them.

In fact, all their clothes were taken away from them, by muscular attendants.

They weren't exactly in good shape to resist, but tried their best.

The crowd appreciated their efforts and wild cheering broke out

as they were buckled into wrist suspension bars and their arms hoisted high.

 

In a final dramatic gesture, their attackers removed their underwear.

Sam cursed loudly as his new, Christmas, designer briefs were cut open.  

It was little consolation when they were replaced by soiled jock straps

 donated by audience members in the front row, their pouches still warm.

Thanking the donors, the MC reminded them of the Charity Auction

which would enable them to recover their property (with added interest!)

The front row audibly dissented, convinced that some rich bastard

would inevitably carry off the star prizes to some distant part of the globe.

'Big Ben' was invited to come to the stage to 'officiate' the midnight rites

The Guests of Honour would lead the count-down to the strokes of midnight.

That's 12 strokes each of course, he cackled, to uproarious laughter.

'Black Jack' was summoned to be his assistant and synchronise

Dave just had time to apologise to Sam before Big Ben gagged them both

So that they might bear the ritual strokes safely and with dignity.

Their only consolation was to be in the front row for the 'fireworks'.

But in all honesty, it would probably have been better on the TV at home.

 

~

for other captions, click on the 'mitchmods' label below

Vintage Targeting

Irwin Horwitz captured by Eddie Williams (WPG)

 An unusually daring bondage image from WPG. The subject of abduction itself is controversial in any age and this image is realistically modelled compared with most contemporary imagery, with the wrist restraint looking snug and the ropes held by the abductor stretched tight. All this with both models completely naked.

Irwin Horwitz fights Eddie Williams (WPG)

This image, possibly from the same series, shows Irwin holding his own against Eddie, an older man with superior size and muscle development. It's not obvious that it's the same location, but Eddie, at least, is still pouched here. Irwin seems to have a vicious hammerlock on his left arm. 

Irwin Horwitz (WPG)

Irwin's somewhat boyish appearance in the duals with Eddie, detract from their appeal for me, but this studio image portrays him in a much more desirable light, with decent, light musculature and a sexy smattering of body hair, especially in the lower regions. 

Perhaps Irwin was trained and buffed up after being captured and this is him on his big day at the saleroom. He presents well.

And if you're wondering whether Eddie managed to fulfil his capture quota that day, 

up in them, thar hills, the image below may give you the answer.

Eddie Williams in chains (WPG)

Eddie appeared in the same auction catalogue as Irwin, as Lot 112.

He protested to the end and this image captured the moment when he had to be whipped

to make him go onto the stage and mount the rostrum.

That sort of behaviour is counter-productive, it attracts the worst kind of bidders, the harsh disciplinarians and men who don't want the slave as a worker at all, just as a target for their venom.

~

I have added this post to the 'Vintage Bondage' and 'Targeted' series.

Click on the labels below for related posts (mitchmods for more captions)

Sailors Duped

A sailor on shore leave takes his buddy to beauty spot he knows,
A cruisy place where they can just relax together as friends.
But it's changed a bit since he was last there, not much cruising going on

But there are lots of new facilities to take advantage of.

 

1

       

2

The Navy sent out a Patrol to find the two AWOL sailors,

but in the end the ship had to sail without them.

By that time the boys were miles away.

Still catching the rays together in their free, sun-bathing pouches 

But hard at work, shifting stones in a quarry.

~

The original photo is by AMG of course, 

the guy on the left looks like Dick Dubois....?