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.

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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.

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