A Marine, Pirate, and Giant Squid Get Sexual

An unexpected visitor interrupts a hostage situation wanting something other than money.

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here.

Heads up: This piece contains depictions of graphic sex involving a squid. Please skip if you find this type of content triggering.

Read part I of the story here.

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Illustration by Jason Leviere (@mister_dashing)

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June 2009, Camp Lemonier, Djibouti

Two weeks into basic training, Trevor was diagnosed with “delayed puberty,” or as it’s known in a clinical setting, hypogonadism. Treatment was testosterone shots with anabolic steroids (taken orally). After six months of injections and pills, Trevor was a new man, evolving from a gangly twink to a beefed-up bull. His chest, once smooth and hairless—like a dolphin—now rivaled Gaston’s. His nipples were big, puffy swirls. His traps were so large, so muscular, they made his head look tiny and shriveled, like a tsantsa, by comparison. The zits on his chin, more plentiful from the T, were hidden underneath his luscious, auburn mane.

Though he still had pectus excavatum, causing the dip in his sternum, no one dared tease him. With the rest of his physique resembling an Olympic sprinter, you’d need to have a screw missing to pick a fight.

Quickly, Trevor rose through the ranks of his platoon to Corporal and squad leader. Jax and John now took orders from him. The transition to a leadership role was not smooth. Jax and John whined to Sargent Boscow like greedy toddlers, wanting extra Christmas gifts.

Boscow said that if they had a problem with Trevor, now Corporal Jones, they should take it up with him. When Trevor caught wind of his sergeant's response, he initially thought it rather strange. Why promote him only to feed him to the sharks? He then realized it was the final test to see if he could keep his platoon in line.

The second day after the promotion, Jax and John cornered him in the showers, as they had done years earlier during basic training. Evidently, both men had screws missings.

“You may be our corporal, but we will never take orders from you,” John said, naked, taking a step towards him. Trevor heard Jax sneaking up behind him, “You will always be our bitch. You’ll always be Bowl Boy.”

As John bent his legs, setting up to lunge, Trevor uppercut him square in the chin, his jawbone loudly crunching.

Turning 180 degrees, he saw Jax over-winding for a hook, leaving his entire front exposed, a rooky mistake. Trevor quickly jabbed, breaking Jax’s nose. Blood erupted from his nostrils like a fire hydrant gushing water.

“Fuck!” Jax shouted, cupping his nose. Trevor grabbed his throat and pushed him up against the wall. His muscles flexed, and his striations popped, his shoulder now looking like a pumpkin. Jax grabbed his forearm with both hands but couldn’t free himself. His face was the color of a ripe strawberry.

Calmly, Trevor said to the room, “As your squad leader, I encourage you from time to time, and always in a respectful manner, to question my logic. If you're unconvinced that a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. Allow me to convince you right here and now; no subject will ever be taboo.”

Trevor released his grip just enough for Jax to get one breath and then reapplied pressure. “Except, of course, the subject of my chest. The price you pay for bringing up my genetic condition is your fucking head. Just like this fucker here. Now, if any of you sons of bitches got anything else to say, now's the fucking time!”

The room fell eerily silent.

“I didn’t think so…Report at oh-nine-hundred to the commissary.” Trevor released his grip, and Jax fell to the floor, coughing in a fit. Without looking back, Corporal Jones, with his dick swinging, exited the showers. His fat grin widened when he realized he had quoted Lucy Lu’s speech from Kill Bill.

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At thirteen thirty, Sargent Boscow summoned Trevor into his office. Perhaps he had overstepped asserting his dominance that morning? But Jax and John would be way too embarrassed to tattle.

“I know you’re still settling into the position of Corporal, but something big has come to my attention,” Boscow said.

“What, sir?”

“We have a report that Somali pirates have captured a small commercial liner operated by Windstar Cruises in the Indian Ocean, roughly fifty miles off the coast of Seychelles. Our intel indicates that the captain and crew are being held in the brig. The passengers have been told to stay in their rooms and informed they would be shot if they attempted to flee. Each floor is manned by two pirates armed with automatics. One attempted escapee has already been murdered, leaving ninety-six passengers.”

“Jesus Christ...”

“Captain Abdi Garad is leading the pirates. I’ve heard of him; his reputation for cruelty is known across the seven seas. Five years ago, he commandeered a small boat of a local fisherman. He didn’t reach out, demanding money. He murdered the six men on the boat, skinned them with a machete, and let them bleed out. Then, he set the ship ablaze, seemingly for the fun of it. Now, he’s demanding ten million U.S. dollars for the safe release of the passengers and crew. I have repeatedly looked over the ship's schematics, and there is simply no way to retrieve the hostages safely. I have been authorized to pay the pirates their ransom.”

“Sir?”

“I’m aware this doesn’t set a great precedent, but it’s too risky to fight them without more civilian casualties.”

Boscow rose from his chair and walked toward a cabinet, wherein lay a large safe. He plugged a string of numbers until he heard a click, and a light flashed green. He grabbed two aluminum briefcases, both bright silver, and placed them at Trevor’s feet.

“There is five million dollars in cash in each of these briefcases. You, and you alone, will bring Captain Garad the two briefcases. You will not board the ship. From a motorboat, you will throw the first briefcase overboard. Once every last passenger has bordered your boat, you will then throw over the second briefcase. Are my directions clear?

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Upon arriving at the ship starboard’s side, they are going to ask you to strip completely naked to make sure you do not have a gun on your person. Do as they say.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Jones?”

“Yes, sir?”

“May God be with you.”

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Fifty miles off the coast of Seychelles

Trevor was safely aboard the motorboat, two briefcases in hand. He was about a half-mile out, sailing toward the captured ship. With his binoculars, he could see the pirates with AK-47s lining the ship's perimeter, Captain Garad at the helm. The cold wind hit his face as he sailed closer and closer. He took a deep breath, tightened his fists, then released. Again, breathe, tighten, release.

You’ve been training for this, he told himself. You are prepared. But he knew that was utter bullshit. Nothing can prepare you for something like this. Anything could go wrong at any minute, and the stakes are innocent people’s lives. He took another deep breath, trying to calm his nerves—to no avail. He hoped Captain Garad wouldn’t see the goosebumps that lined his entire body. It would matter anyhow. A man like Garad could smell fear, taste it, discern it—even amidst the salty wind.

Trevor was five hundred feet out from the ship now. “STOP!” He heard over a loud blowhorn. He immediately stopped the boat.

“Strip now!”

Slowly, he undressed, sustaining eye contact with the ship. He was close enough to see a dozen pirates with guns pointed directly at him. He started by taking off his helmet and combat boots. Then, his utility uniform, though he wasn’t wearing any body armor to protect against ballistic threats.

He paused before removing the last article of clothing, his white briefs.

“All of it!”

He stepped out of his underwear, one foot at a time, and threw the briefs behind him. He stood in the buff, a specimen of man. His broad shoulders narrowed to his tiny hips. His abs, still pronounced even though they were covered in hair. His butt, curved into a crescent with muscle.

He didn’t hunch or cower in shame. He didn’t attempt to cover his privates. He stood erect, letting his penis hang low—long and meaty—beneath his furry legs. He wasn’t just giving Big Dick Energy, he was giving Actual Big Dick.

“I am nude and unarmed,” Trevor shouted. “May I approach to give you the first briefcase with five million U.S. dollars?”

“Approach!”

Every bone in his body begged him to retreat. To turn the boat around and sail back. But that was the old Trevor speaking. The young Trevor who let men bully him in the locker room. He wasn’t in control anymore.

Trevor sailed the boat right next to the side of the ship. A pirate threw a ladder and started climbing down as five other pirates perched on the boat’s perimeter. Guns still pointed at Trevor.

“Give me the briefcase,” the pirate said, now mere feet away.

“Where are the passengers?” Trevor asked. He hadn’t seen a single one.

“Briefcase first. Then passengers, then the second briefcase,” the pirate said. Trevor felt the cool breeze against his cock, and his length started to shrivel. In no position to negotiate, he handed over the first briefcase. The pirates could easily just kill him and take the second briefcase. Kill all the hostages, too, while they’re at it. But that would mean a full-out war between the Marines and the pirates, and there’s no way they wanted that. Trevor took another deep breath.

The pirate climbed up the ladder and handed the briefcase to the captain. Garad opened the case and confirmed the correct amount was inside. He nodded to his crew, and they brought out the passengers. One by one, they climbed down the ladder into the boat. One by one, he saw each passenger’s face switch from horror to relief, though a few, even once on the ship, still looked like they had seen the ghost of Davy Jones.

Trevor hadn’t realized how long it would take for each passenger to board the motorboat. He was growing antsy but kept counting as each passenger boarded his boat. Only five more, he thought.

“The second briefcase,” Captain Garad said.

“That isn’t all the hostages,” Trevor replied, his voice steady.

“The second briefcase!” Garad replied, raising his voice.

“I’m not authorized to give you the second briefcase until all passengers are safely aboard my boat.” The two men locked eyes in a stalemate—waiting for the other to crack.

“Okay,” Garad eventually said. “Fine.” Five more passengers emerged, including the ship’s original captain, Captain Flint. They were saving him for last. After the four passengers safely boarded, Trevor grabbed the second briefcase.

“As you hand me, Captain Flint, I’ll hand you the second briefcase,” Trevor said.

“Yes,” Garad said, pointing to a nearby pirate to follow after Flint.

Flint was only feet away. Trevor reached out his hand to grab him when the pirated ship shook. It had been hit by something underneath the water. The pirate quickly grabbed Flint, ensuring he couldn’t jump to the boat.

“What are your men doing?” Garad shouted. “Open fire!”

“WAIT!” Trevor shouted. By some miracle, the pirates waited. “This is not us. Please, just look around the ship.”

The men kept their firearms pointed at Trevor and the passengers as Garad called over more men to examine the ship's sides. At first, they saw nothing.

“You lie,” Garad said. “You play so recklessly with the lives of the innocent, you should—”

“There!” Trevor said, pointing to a massive translucent pink blob no more than two dozen feet away.

“Fire!” Garad shouted, and his crew shot at the water just as the blob disappeared into a black substance resembling crude oil.

“It’s ink,” Trevor shouted. “Please, hand over the captain quickly before the squid returns.”

“Squid?” Garad said. “In these waters? It is your men. This is a trap.”

“No trap! Please, I’ll give you the money now. Just give us the captain. We need to leave!”

Garad nodded. A pirate climbed down the ladder first, Captain Flint behind him. As Trevor leaned over to hand over the briefcase, the squid emerged. One of his long tentacles, a sinuous arm adorned with suckers, smacked the side of his boat. Trevor lost balance, falling into the water along with the briefcase and the pirate. Flint leaped, somehow landing safely aboard the motorboat.

Trevor opened his eyes beneath the water, the salt stinging and blurring his vision. What he saw was a beast of nightmares—a fifty-foot squid that looked like it belonged in the Jurassic era. Its large, unblinking eyes stared at Trevor as if examining him. The beast gave no indication of what it intended to do or why it attacked a ship that had done it no harm.

Trevor swam up to the surface and, and after getting air, shouted, “Captain Flint, take them and go.” Before the Captain could protest, Trevor followed up, “Go! Now!”

The captain ran to the helm. Second later, the boat was jetting off into the distance.

Trevor started swimming toward the ladder of the pirated ship. Just as he reached it, he felt the tip of a tentacle brush his ankle, then slowly drift up his calf to his inner thigh. The squid then wrapped his tentacle around his leg, his suckers suctioned to his skin, and yanked Trevor into the water.