Mike woke up to find himself unable to move his cock to a more comfortable position. Right in front of him, the first thing he saw was the tin of boot polish with the ripped remains of his denim shorts next to it. The mountain of boots he'd started cleaning were next to it, waiting to be polished off. That was his punishment for being caught cottaging by the soldiers, they'd knocked him out with a whiff of an aerosol of stun gas and taken him back to the barracks immobile in the scout car, and transferred him here to the drying room, held him spread-eagled on the floor whilst one of them controlled Mike by keeping his boot on Mike's balls between his outstretched legs. Mike gradually came to from a combination of the pain on his balls and the heat.
The soldiers searched him, removed his wallet and the handcuffs he kept with him "just in case his luck changed" - usually he had to play the boss man, but he always hoped. They'd strung him up stretched spreadeagled against the drying room wall between rows of half dry combat jackets and the grubby whitewashed wall, arms and high-booted feet tied to the huge warm pipes that circled the room. They'd undone his chaps and removed the vestigial denim shorts that he wore to both protect his decency and to exaggerate, both to him and to his public, his basket. The cockring he always wore cruising glinted in the harsh light of the single bulb hanging on a flex in the middle of the drying room. Mike's T-shirt had not been removed with the same care, indeed the frayed collar of it was still ringing his neck, albeit now rather dirty. He had planned to use the rest of it to polish off the boots as ordered.
He had, in fact, enjoyed the way the soldiers had used him, releasing him from the wall, but not allowing him to escape the unique atmosphere of the drying room, forcing him to kneel between the cammo gear sagging on lines of hangers and the soldiers who'd wear the uniforms again shortly. Mike applied the polish to the mud encrusted, dull boots at his feet. One of the soldiers had crouched next to Mike, forced his finger up Mike's arse and wanked Mike's cock with boot polish while Mike polished boot after boot, the soldier's finger insistently jabbing the pace on Mike's prostrate.
They'd put his leather jacket back on him loosly and tied him stretched between the pipes on the wall again and asked him if he liked boots, "Yes, Sir" he'd replied, and a series of boots were tossed at him, mostly failing at the the cammo jackets between Mike and his captors, but quickly the soldiers pulled the jackets apart, asked Mike's permission, then attached a pair of boots to his balls, pulling the balls downwards as they'd been stretched many times before. Pelting him with boots was now more fun, Mike was unprotected save for the thick atmosphere and insistent smell of sweaty muddy combat uniform. Boots aimed at his body caused him to sway a little and try to duck his waist, to no avail and increasing pain as the bootlaces on his balls cut into his scrotum. To stop Mike anticipating they pulled a drab wool hat over his eyes. Now they aimed true and clapped the hisses of breath as boots winded him hitting him full toss in the stomach, jeering the stifled swearwords as a boot hit his hard cock and fell via the pair of boots dangling from Mike's balls.
Mike was asked again "Do you like boots civvie?" "Yes, Sir!" came the reply smartly. He couldn't see, but felt the nearness of the muscled soldier in thin greens and T-shirt barely covering a well tattooed arm. Mike anticipated perfectly the boot placed at his mouth, he licked it expertly, chasing the boot polish around the welt and between the laces. The soldier standing astride Mike's immobile leg rutting his cock free inside his greens against the tender leather of Mike's chaps, the soldier's greens riding high up the crack of his arse and then helped further by one of the many hands urgently seeking to give and reward the sensual pleasures of comradeship.
Another soldier ground the sole of a boot greased black with polish into Mike's chest leaving concentric crescents around his pectorals and abdominals. The soldiers got out their cocks, now bursting from being rigid for so long, spat on their hands and wanked off in Mike's direction, tattooed forearms straining, then white cum flowing over clenched fists containing now spent cock, the soldiers wiped this too on Mike's chest and in his short cropped hair, secret eyes darted around the room: confidences confirmed, pleasures compared.
Mike still unclimaxed, still making no attempt to resist the fulfillment of what would have been a very good dream and many times better in the flesh, whatever the embarrassment after, allowed himself to be secured hand and foot, face down on the wide wooden slats of the drying racks a polishing on brush loosely in his arse, boots re-hung from his balls but through the gaps between the slats, another pair slung round his neck and similarly through the slats, dragging, not irrevocably but draining of resistance, his head to the small pile of boots he had for a pillow. The soldiers tossed a few more boots onto the back and legs of their captive leaving the majority on the floor directly in front of him.
He felt another whiff of the stun gas and did not feel the hat removed from his head. When he came to, the room was empty and he was left staring at the boots he would have to finish cleaning when the soldiers came back to untie him.
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