The first moan was an sharp, silvery, utterly unexpected. It knifed through the concrete floors of the apartment like a beacon, and every beastman on the top floor froze where he stood.
Sarge's cock had gone rock solid the second the noises began, straining against his canvas fatigues with a will of its own.
Marx started to make a joke, but Sarge snatched the canteen from his hand and strode for the corridor, face like granite. First left, past the ruined living room, into the bathroom. The mirror was cracked and grimy, the sink had never run, but Sarge locked the door and stared at himself in the glass and what looked back with barely contained hunger.
He didn't wait. The zipper was down, the briefs shoved aside, and his cock huge, thick, and ridged with the subtle shift of beastman muscle sprang out, dark and leaky. Sarge braced one hand against the wall and gripped himself with the other, his mind already flooding with images of Felicity.
