Oh, shit. He held up a trembling hand.
“Let me introduce you to the slip suit,” Phil continued. “Step in and pull it up to your waist. This inner garment is the first line of defense. It works to maintain your stable temperature and blood pressure, as well as enact emergency repairs to your outer shell or body, if necessary. It also handles the reclamation process of your— What is it, Mr. Sinclair?”
Liam was startled to be addressed as “Mister” since he was nothing but a Private First Class, but he worked through it in mere seconds. It was correct, yes, but inappropriate in this context. A common Urilqii-style mistake.
“Um…” He should have felt embarrassed, but he didn’t.
Another need pressed upon him. “I need to use the bathroom.”
Hopefully before he puked on, pissed or shit himself.
Phil nodded. “It’s inevitable this topic comes up. Waste reclamation is a necessary element of the slip suit, since in the middle of a fire fight we can’t ask for a time out.”
Apparently oblivious to Liam’s condition, Sergeant Phil headed for him while still speaking.
“Take a look at the tubing at the right side of your leg holes. Make sure the equipment goes between your legs when you pull on the suit. Don’t push it aside. That’s the actual reclamation unit. I’ll demonstrate how you secure it onto your body with the help of Mr. Sinclair. Everyone? Watch.”
Phil stopped and reached for Liam’s crotch. Astonishment froze Liam in place. His eyes felt somewhat bugged out of his head. Good Christ! What if he pissed on the sergeant’s hand?
Worse! What if he puked on him?
A hair-lifting snarl cut into the moment, stopping Phil before he made contact with Liam’s body. Mike closed in on them both as another animal sound rumbled from his chest and throat.
Phil stepped away from him, or maybe he jumped backward. It was hard to tell since Mike’s body was suddenly between them.
“Ah, of course…” Phil spent a moment clearing his throat.
“Mr. Sinclair and First Sergeant Mike already know each other. It makes perfect sense that they conduct the demonstration.”
The guy looked like he was hiding a smile. Perfect. More strange, Liam’s oncoming emergency bathroom visit need vanished the moment Mike entered his personal bubble. What the hell was going on?
Mike pushed close. Very close.
“Step into the slip suit and pull it up,” he clipped.
Things weren’t logical anymore. He didn’t know what was happening or what he was supposed to do. So he just did what he was told. He bent over, grabbed the suit where it pooled around his boots, and tugged it with him as he straightened. It slid up his legs with a soft whisper of fabric.
“Now, turn around so everyone can see,” Mike ordered.
Liam did and found himself the subject of his fellow volunteers’ interest. He almost swallowed his tongue when Mike’s arms closed around him and his hands took hold of his US Army duty trousers at the belt buckle.
What the—
Mike worked the buckle and buttons. Liam flinched in surprise and came up against the solid wall of Mike’s chest. The contact and the subtle spice that wafted through his senses quieted any feeling of fear, shyness, or discomfort he might have experienced.
The gentle breeze tickled the hair on his upper thighs.
His olive drab underwear were (thank God!) clean. His momma had always said never to leave the house with dirty underwear and, by God’s grace, it seemed he hadn’t—
“Trust me,” Mike rasped near his ear.
Liam had time to swallow and nod, but without any real expectation of what was to happen next. Mike slipped his thumbs between his skin and the waistband of both pants and briefs and pushed.
Fabric went downward. His junk popped free.
The observers gave a simultaneous wince. Faces and gazes shifted away. A chorus of protests rose.
“Knock it off,” Phil grumbled. “It’s a dick. Everyone here’s got one.”
The sound cut through his horrified stupor. Galvanized, he grabbed for his pants, but Mike caught his hands with his. Their arm muscles strained in opposite directions.
Of course, Mike won.
“Hey! What the fuck?” Liam sputtered.
“Trust me, Liam,” Mike urged.
“Eyes front,” Phil snapped. “This equipment will keep you alive. You need to know how to put it on.”
Johnson hanging between his balls, his pants around his knees, and someone grabbing his hands like some shocked Sunday school teacher…Liam couldn’t envision a more humiliating situation.
“Now, pay attention. I’ll talk you through it, while Mike sets things up for Mr. Sinclair.”
Heads and eyes turned to face him. He was sure his junk shrank with every moment spent in the sun’s warm caress. Shame crawled through him.
“You’re doing fine,” Mike murmured, as if he somehow sensed Liam’s humiliation.
Liam shivered, grateful for the quiet comfort and yet still… still… Jesus Christ…
Phil was speaking, but all Liam could see was his shadow out of the corner of his left eye. It painted the barren ground like a tragic, lonely soul. He could understand.
“What we have is a critical tool for the reclamation of your body’s fluids,” Phil was saying, “which is sweated out during combat and, course, excreted other ways.” He waited for a wave of nervous titters to end. “The wearing of the equipment is painless. It moves with the body. Yet, proper setup is critical. Mike will demonstrate as I describe.”
Phil assumed a lecture tone.
“The inner gusset is drawn between the legs from ass to dick base…like so. Ensure it’s tight against the personal flesh to keep from any distracting twists or binding of fabric by making a firm tug or two to ensure a good bond…like so. Next is the collection tube, which looks, at this moment, like a plastic condom. A snap of the wrist pops it open…like that…and you tuck your dick into the tube. It tightens with a firm but painless seal…so!”
Liam fought to breathe. Mike’s hands were on his dick. They’d twitched his balls! A light brush of cinnamon and musk wafted
