Date: Tue, 3 Dec 2002 23:15:47 -0800 (PST)
From: Tobey Teague <t0bey1978@yahoo.com>
Subject: Serving the Troopers in White

He was not their slave.  He could leave whenever he wished
to, he simply had no desire to be anywhere else.  He was not
their servant, there were countless servants, both droid and
organic who performed various menial duties, cooking,
cleaning, laundry, waste disposal, etc.  The men were not
his masters, they were themselves servants, or at least in
training to be servants of a kind - soldiers for the
galaxy's governing body.  He was not a concubine or
prostitute, he did not charge for his services, and he was
not strictly "kept" either.  His contract had long since run
out and he retained most of the earnings from it.  Since his
tall, pale alien hosts did not charge him for room or board
in this, their gleaming construction facility, he had little
need for money and so simply performed his duties for the
love of them.  Rather, he did it for the love of the men.
He was their lover, in that he loved them and he made love
to them.  They did not love him per se, not in the way one
thinks of lovers, but they had come to depend on him, to
value him, to include him as an integral part of their daily
lives and their social fabric.  When he was with them he had
no name.  They did not have names, only ranks and numbers -
he had neither.  They had no concept of truly independent
selves, only knowing themselves as part of the whole, the
unit, the cadre.

At first he could not tell one from the other, they were
clones after all, and so there were no identifiable
individuals involved.  Except for himself of course, they
all knew him, he was unique among them.  They never spoke a
name for him per se, but he had come to realize that they
indeed had a way of referring to him personally.  It was a
kind of bodily cue, a facial expression, a way of moving, a
change of bearing, an emanation of primal energy.  He could
see it on their faces, in the slant of their hips, the
swagger of their walk.  He could hear it in their breath,
and feel it in the center of his being, and it meant:
nurturer, pleasurer, comforter, release, and union-with-the-
other.  It meant lover, in as much as these men were aware
of the concept of love, love not being high on the list of
topics in the clones' combat training.   Since they were
grown, trained and housed in this sea-bound dome of curving,
shining metal, a vacuum of normal context in which to
practice or seek knowledge of that concept, he was terribly,
awesomely, and sublimely flattered by this truth.  He was
the luckiest man alive, for he was desired by almost one
million demi-god warrior men, a fierce and beautiful
brotherhood whose only outlet for such energies was him.  He
could not imagine a heaven any sweeter.

It was only through long study and patience that he began to
be able to tell some of them apart from the others.  Since
they were genetically identical and had all had the same
upbringing, they were effectively impossible to tell apart.
It was only the small ravages of time, circumstance and
environment that made any of them stand out from one
another.  A scar here, a bruise, there, this one more
bronzed from topside maneuvers in the sparse daylight, that
one more pale from deep water exercises in submarine troop
transports.  Initially, he might notice these tiny
differences, though subtle, because they stood out against
the overwhelming sameness of the rest of the troops.   He
might notice that one man was unique in his way, but then he
might never see that man again after the moment had passed,
and so there was no real point in trying to make
distinctions or remember one distinguishing mark from
another.   The vastness of this artificial biosphere made
sure that a single man was quickly lost in the shuffle.

After much time had passed (he wasn't sure how long, he only
very rarely checked the chronometer in his assigned quarters
since he was almost never there, and did not really care
what day or month or year it was) he learned that if he gave
extra special service of some kind  to one of the few
distinguishable men, that man would seek him out more
readily, more often in the days to follow,..of course they
could remember him even though he had little way to do the
same in return.  For a while he managed to keep something of
a small "pack" of familiar men coming back to him, favoring
him, spending more time with him but eventually he realized
that even if he did keep some men more often, more dear than
the others, he would never know them as discreet persons,
only discreet bodies.  They were not available for him as
life mates, but as something more basic, more primal, less
civil, less formal.  They were his army of brothers now, his
thousand, thousand lovers.

So he abandoned trying to tell one from another, and when he
did notice one more than another due to some unmistakable or
more obvious physical difference, he made a point to de-
focus his attention on that man.  Yes, he would perform the
same duties he had always done, and he certainly would not
neglect him, but he would do nothing that might make him
more likely to seek him out, and nothing that would make it
more likely that they would cross paths again..as troops
rotated in and out of training classes, maneuvers and
patrols, any distinct bodies he had seen eventually were
shuffled out of his view and thus effectively were absorbed
back into the whole of the cadre.

It was better this way.  It was better for him that he be
free from attachments and distractions and able to
completely commit himself to the service of these men, the
men he loved as a whole.  His unobtainable goal would not be
the total synergistic love of romantic lore, but rather the
unreachable goal of servicing and loving every one of these
men.  He knew it was not possible for him to actually make
contact with all million men, even in these relatively
contained spaces, not in his lifetime.  The men moved in and
out of stations and deployments too often for him to
possibly keep track of them and he was of course just one
man.  He generally didn't even venture into every part of
the alien facility, so he knew he the lives of all of the
men and his would never touch, but that was alright.  He
would do what he could and let the cosmos decide the rest.

So, each day as the men were processed in and out of their
barracks, to and from training, or dressing out in their
armor, attending classes, taking their meals or showers or
heading back to their bunks for sleep, he would station
himself at a new point along the process lines, a different
spot in which to interact with the most of them that he
could.  He might sit along side the people-mover that the
men sat on as they began to check their armor in for the
night, or station himself in the showers or the common areas
of the barracks, some times allowing the men to come to him
as they desired, sometimes simply interposing himself in one
of the myriad mechanical moving streams of men as they went
along.  The men almost never spoke, unless he asked them
too, and so he eventually gave up the practice himself,
except when necessary for some reason or another.  What was
there to chat about?  He was here to serve and they were
here to be served and that was all anyone needed to say.

He might kneel by a central shower stall and let the men
come one after another to have their cocks sucked, or to
simply stroked, or to let them stroke themselves until they
ejaculated on his face and chest, or in his mouth.  He had
long ago given up taking regular meals, and now ingested
only water, the nutrient solution the lanky aliens who lived
on this ocean-covered world imbibed, or the semen of his men
-- mostly the latter.  He might stand by the loading
platform as they went out for the day, and plant a simple
but heartfelt kiss on each man's boots as the cadre was
slowly moved along by the people-mover.  He might lie down
in the center of a common sleeping pallet in the barracks
and allow the men to swarm over him, rubbing their cocks
against his naked flesh until they shot their loads and slid
off of him, immediately replaced by scores of other
identical men, all leaving their cum on his body, as he
turned himself over to more evenly cover himself in semen
and warm flesh.  Eventually the pod he had entered would
clear of walking men and the light would be turned out as
they slept.  He would sit for a while, listening to them
breath as they drifted to sleep, inhaling the bracing scent
of their cum drying all over him, and then he would go to
the shower.  After wards he would find a bunk to lie down in
with a random higher-ranked man, to sleep resting against
his warm, muscular, hair-covered frame, to feel the man's
hot breath blow across his face or into his ear, and
exhausted, he would lapse into slumber.

Often, at the end of exercises, as the men came in for
evening meal, he might kneel by the people-mover and remove
the men's boots for them, or the silk-like stockings they
wore inside them, still warm and soaked with sweat.  The
materials they wore kept their feet healthy, so they didn't
often offend the nose, or get any sort of skin problems, but
they were still fragrant in a way that made the butterflies
in his stomach dance.  He might amass a huge mound of wet
socks and then roll bodily in them, covering himself with
the men's moisture and scent, or he might move further down
the line where the droids had collected the boots and
stockings and simply let his face be brushed by the hundreds
of beefy, sweaty outstretched feet moving by, wiping hot
sweat and buttery oils over his face and chest.  He need
only put his tongue out to effortlessly lick across scores
of delicious salty soles.  He might spend an hour this way
and then select one unit of 20 men to give more intensive
service to, licking the bottoms of their feet in hungry
eager stokes of his flattened tongue, trying to taste every
inch of these men, and failing joyously.  He would then
massage their feet and let them use him as a footrest,
rubbing their feet all over his body, stepping on his face,
eventually pressing him down onto the floor under dozens of
identical hot soles, until he was covered in their sweat and
oil, until his ego had been trodden into nothingness and he
simply existed as that which serviced their feet.   When
they finished and had to move on to turn in other pieces of
their white armored suits, he would move on to another
barracks pod, and eventually to clean himself up while the
men took their meal in the common mess hall.

He kept himself as fresh and clean as he could while still
providing the most service possible to the men, not wanting
to offend or disappoint them.  He doubted they would have
much cared, they certainly would not have had anyone else's
hygiene to compare his to, nor was there any competition for
him in this place, the aliens who ran the facility did not
procreate in the same fashion as men, but he felt better
about himself doing this, and he figured it was probably
healthier for all of them as well.  Still, it was so
liberating to have no need of dressing up, or at all if he
wished not to.   No grooming himself in special ways, or
performing for a potential mate, no need to seek approval
from new strangers..he was already approved of, accepted, he
belonged here.  The men had freed him from the nervous jig
that most people danced for the benefit of their significant
other, the "one' who might be watching them, judging them to
see if they were worthy of being loved.  He knew he was
worthy, because he had already been taken in, he was being
used at all times he was willing to be used.  If he was not,
there was no one else he would be replaced with and so there
was no threat to his position, nor was there any need for
any.   He worshipped them, and they counted on him to bring
them succor.  It was a perfect arrangement.  For a time.