Stepping into the elevator I was glad I had maintained my gym discipline and I stretched long and hard, feeling my arms against the smooth cotton of my tailored shirt and flexing my ass in the curve of the gabardine. This job could be demanding but the money was worth it, especially when I could combine some work down south with a little pleasure. I adjusted my crotch, feeling my balls and dick get hard just thinking of cruising those southern California beach boys, remembering past trips--the sweat, the longing, the tight feel of a new body in the cool, crisp hotel room. As the elevator door opened the warm moist air of the lobby covered my face like a soothing, insistent hand, sliding over my chin and eyelids, highlighting the moist patches of sweat under my arms and around my now hard nipples. Hearing the click of my heels on the marble of the dimly lit lobby, I realized at the same time both that I had not managed to get my shoes polished for tomorrow--I had intended to do it at lunch--and that the light in the shoe-shine kiosk in the lobby was still, oddly, lit.

Usually Ben closed up at 5:00, but I heard him rattling about in the small enclosure, so I thought he probably was just getting ready to go.

Poking my head around the corner into the smallish space built into the end of the unused hallway to the stairs, I said, "Hey, Ben, got time for one more? I've got a business trip tomorrow and have to look my best."

Perhaps it was my slight fatigue and relaxation, perhaps it was the new summer air and the dark abandoned feel of the building, perhaps it was my own unconscious fantasy, but when Ben looked at me, I realized that his smile and quiet assent, "Sure, Mr. Young, I'll do you up fine," had a new and delightful effect on me. Not that I had never noticed him at all before. He was a young, slim and energetic black man, maybe just 20, with a body no clothes could really conceal very well, a tiny waist built up into a tense and chiseled chest and forearms that he displayed in tight white T-shirts worn thin in places, sloping down into equally tight jeans that pulled on his high round ass and big thighs, an ass and thighs too big for the cut of his jeans so that the bulge of his crotch stood out, shifting as he stood facing me, his black gloved hands holding two big gleaming wooden-mounted brushes. He had been doing my shoes for as long I had worked here, in the same space, hardly bigger than a slightly expanded closet furnished with two straight back chairs mounted high on a platform and footrests of worked metal. Usually, despite that beautiful body, I thought no more of him than I imagined he of me, since during the day he usually had a couple of buddies around and they shot the shit about horses and girls.

Tonight, however, the mood was different, the air was heavier, and, as our eyes met, he let that sly smile creep out of the side of his mouth. "Sure, we'll do you up just fine." He pointed the brush to one of the chairs and tugged on his crotch. "Got to look nice, huh? Don't want you traveling with your shoes all a mess, do we, Mr. Young?"

I mounted the two steps to the platform where I sat down, high up, my crotch at Ben's eye level and the way that the footrests were mounted required that I scoot my hips forward some, my butt resting almost on the edge of the chair while I leaned back, spreading my legs high apart. This hiked my pants up, displaying the black Italian slip-ons I wear and the sheer black silken socks I had been given once for Christmas that went high up over my calves. Ben stood between my legs and looked up into my eyes, as he took his time setting down his buffing brushes and with gentle movements, rolling my cuffs up a couple of times. His fingers grazed my silk stockings as he began to chat in his lazy way, "Working late, Mr. Young." He rubbed the outside edge of my shoes with his fingers, caressing the leather and the top of my foot as well. "Always liked your shoes, Mr. Young, good leather. They take a great shine from Ben here." He continued to rub the shoes from heel to toe and the leather was so supple that it felt more like a foot massage as his fingers ran down my insteps to my toes and back up the top of my foot to the ankle. He didn't take his eyes from me and I saw a small rivulet of perspiration make its way down his chest, as he stood between my legs and began to rub on the polish with a small round brush.

I was riveted to this sight, feeling vulnerable and hot as he bent over me and worked on my feet, his brown muscles shifting and moving. My cock was getting hard, my armpits wet, my mind raced. Could he know what I wanted? Could he know how all this was turning me on? Did he think I would go through with this? My expression must have tipped him off, for I felt hypnotized by his gentle persistent rubbing and the long, slow drawl of his conversation, for he rested his hand on my foot for a moment and with a deft flick of the wrist, shut a sliding door behind him, enclosing us in the kiosk.

"You know, Ben, this feels very good" I managed to tell him, my lips dry and hot.

"Sure it do, Mr. Young. You a man who likes nice things, likes to feel good, doncha? Like these pretty socks that go way up." He slid his finger up to my calf, and with a shock, I suddenly felt a tremor run through my entire body, from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head and back. I let out an involuntary moan.

"You a little ticklish, Mr. Young, hmm?" He did it again, this time using his nail, a hard little edge up both my calves from the soft tender spot right behind my ankle. I almost lifted up out of the chair, but Ben grabbed my feet and held them down.

"Wooeey! Mr. Young, you been working just way too hard, Ben can see that, just by how jumpy you are. I don't know if you should be wearing these little slipper shoes where you can feel everything I touch, if you all are that tense." He circled the stiff brush over my toes, which I started to flex and wiggle, at the same time trying to get away from the touch of his brushes while finding myself craving it. I wanted it, I didn't want it, and I found myself breathing hard all of a sudden, squirming in the seat, listening to Ben go on in his smooth deep voice. "And I'm not even touching your feet, Mr. Young, just shining your shoes. Tell you what, why don't you sit there and let Ben work on you. Get you ready for tomorrow. Close your eyes Mr. Young, let me do my work. Know what I'm saying?" He moved the bristles close to the edge of the tongue of the shoe, leaning against the front of my legs with his one arm, holding me still as I bucked reflexively, relentlessly swiping the tops of my feet with big strokes, back and forth. My toes were curled up tight and hard in a vain attempt to protect myself.

"Oh Ben, man. Come on. I can't. . . .. I can't stand it. . . .."

He laughed, throaty and full. "You standing it just fine, Mr. Young. You even liking it, I think." He took his fingers and started exploring the soft flesh around my ankle bones, and every time I twisted my feet from side to side, I was met with a probe, a squeeze, some light little touch that made me start to giggle.

"See, told you. You like it, Mr. Young. You a man who needs some good laughs after a hard day of work." He increased the speed of the tickling, alternatingly sides then suddenly switching rhythms, keeping me off guard, and I was afraid I was going to end up kicking him, all the muscles in both my legs flexing and squeezing right up to my crotch and back again. I started laughing really hard, my sweaty palms slipping against the arms of the chair, as I slid lower and lower into Ben's clutches.

"Give it up to Ben, baby. That's right. Don't resist. Give it up to me, man." The heat building up in the compartment and the thick smell of his sweat made me follow his order, lean my head back and close my eyes as he backed off and just continued his rubbing. I was breathing hard when he came around from behind me, slipped off my sport coat, and ran his slim hand down my shoulders and arms out to the fingertips, down my thighs, over my knees and then back to home base where he dipped the brush into the polish another time and continued apply it to my shoes, its waxy aroma mixed with our own sexual scent. My feet were tingling right through the leather, and I felt a big wet patch growing in my shorts.

"Ben here, he know what you men like, how uncomfortable it be sitting still when you feel so good." I felt a flurry of deft movements around my ankles, not really tickling, though by now just breathing on my feet would have driven me crazy, and when I squirimed to protect myself, I found that Ben had tied my ankles to the footrest with a couple of belts.

He stared me right in the eyes, devious smile playing across his lips, and reaching around behind me, he took a pair of velcro straps off the wall where they usually held a pair of big shoe brushes, and with similar speed, looped these around my wrists to lash them down. I couldn't resist, not with those seductive eyes keeping me in my place, not with the smell and feel of him all over me, not with all my muscles straining and quivering, wanting more, wanting him to drive me insane. That's how it happened, that's how I gave myself over to this masterful young man and his beautiful hands. Turned on, I let myself be vulnerable, let him render me unable to move, while I watched him through my half-closed eyelids, watched him savor me with his black eyes lustfully from below.

"You are a beautiful man, so strong and so smooth, Mr. Young" His blunt fingers undid my cotton shirt, and he purposely ran his fingers across my ribs. Unable to move, I found all I could do is cry out and laugh, arching my back which just made him laugh and poke a little harder.

"Can't even take your shirt off, can I, without you wiggling around crazy?" He punctuated his taunting with more pokes. "Can I?"

"No!" I gasped and wiggled. It was useless. "No! No!" Every poke pumped a cry, a moan and a chuckle out of me.

"Can I?"

"No!" The chair squealed along with me as I thrashed around uselessly.

"No! No!"

My damp chest was exposed, and he pulled the shirt up and over the chair, stretching it tight with my arms still in the sleeves in such a way as to batten my arms down firmly, as if in a straitjacket. "Look at you tempting me with those big man pecs," he said, hanging his tongue out of his mouth and taking little licks at each of my nipples while continuing to stare straight into my eyes. I was so electrified by the tickling and bondage, I realized then that I had my back permnantly arched, my swollen nipples high and open.

"Not there, please, Ben." Even without all this foreplay, my nipples were always incredibly sensitive, and trying madly to protect them by hunching my shoulders, I bucked from side to side, as I heard Ben begin to laugh.

"They blooming, Mr. Young." He grazed his soft lips across the tops and I began to whine loud and high, like a siren, each one of my cries ending in convulsive laughter. "Blooming like little buds."

"Oh God," I gasped when I could, "Oh God," but it seemed that any time I could form a word, Ben took that as a cue to tickle my nipples some more, this time switching between nearly intangible caresses with his lips and plucks with all five of his fingertips, each time making me shriek incoherently.

"Now that's what I want to hear, Mr. Young. Guys like you, you important guys, you all talk way too much."

I went to say something, to beg, to scream, flailing madly against the restraints, but he never let me catch my breath, playing his fingers down my side until my head started to swim from lack of air and my chest felt like it was going to burst. The whole world had turned into this small hot dark cubicle and the touch of his cruel fingers.

I must have passed out for a moment or two, because I came to with the comforting feeling of Ben stroking my navel with the back of his hand, my belly slick with what I could smell was the mineral oil he used to put a final sheen on the shoes he shined.

"See, you needed a little rest, didn't you? Working WAY too hard, way too hard." He had unbuckeld my pants and the crotch was flipped wide open. He moved the back of his hand down some and began to rub the long shaft of my cock through my black silk boxers. "Like I said, WAY too hard," and as exhausted as I was, I felt my hips buck up to meet his touch. Still he was playing me like a doll, like a toy, like a helpless plaything.

He saw that, though, and laughed at me. "You limp and hard at the same time. Sure sign you be liking this."

I couldn't answer, which put him off a bit, it seemed, because he took the edge of his thumbnail and dragged it up the silk matted around my cock. I sat up straight and gave out a whoop. "Oh, no, not again."

"Say you like it. Tell Ben you be liking this."

He grabbed little pinches of flesh around my navel with one hand and scraped my cockhead with the other, forcing it out of me, tickling me till I did what he wanted.

"I do, Ben. I do."

"Want what?"

Every touch sent jolts straight into my pelvis, my asshole clenched, my hips fucking the air while I howled with laughter.

"You! You, man. Oh, stop it, please, please."

"Who?" He kept up the dissonant pinching and stroking, my knees forced wide with his chest between them, all of him on top of me, holding me down and tormenting me.

"You, tickling me. I want it! I want it!"

"Say, don't stop."

"Don't stop! Ben, don't stop, don't stop," I was drooling by now, each word coming out with a boom of hilarity and ending in a long painful moan.

He was calm and amused. "Okay, then. How about Ben's speciality?"

Pulling my boxers down, he took his time tucking the waistband tight under my balls, which made my huge wet prick stand up straight in front of his hungry face.

"Now, Ben's got some toys here, tools of the trade, you know." He chuckled as he open a drawer of brushes with long luxurious bristles, some like paint brushes with long stiff handles, other like shoe-shining brushes only thin and cushioned. He took one of the long handled paint brushes and dipped it into a can of clear shoe wax, working the paste soft and then with long, exquisite motions began to stroke my free-standing prick, using the bristles to get under the head, poking into my piss-slit and using his other hand to milk the shaft until precum dripped down. Every part of me was wrenching with spasms by now, he had gotten me so sensitized and excited, but I had never had someone take a brush to my slit. The effect of it made me to dig my ass deep into the chair, as if I could retract my cock from the strokes, but of course, all of it was in vain. I couldn't move, I didn't want to, and at a certain point, after the brush got good and slimy from the oil, the sweat and the pre-cum, the tip of it reaching deep inside my now gaping cockhead, it was like a switch had been turned on in my hips and with a lurch, my whole body went stiff as a board, my cock thrust out for him, as if I had no other use in the world except to give him all of the most tender parts of me to titillate and torture.

"That's right. Now you're learning, Mr. Young. Ben gotta teach what you are good for. Don't pull back. Ask for it. You love it."

My teeth were clenched and my eyes rolled up into my head, as he kept at my hot wet cock with his collection of brushes, going down the line systematically, jerking me off leisurely as he retired one brush and dipped the bristles of another in the oil or the clear paste. "Some of these harder than others, Mr. Young," he explained with cool but wicked grin, as he waxed up another brush, this one with stiffer bristles, and ran it in short, hard strokes right over the blood-engorged crown of my cock.

Could something hurt and feel so good at the same time? "You hard as a rock, baby. I bet I could take needles to this head. Look at you, Mr. Young."

He reached up and forced my head down. "Look at how hard you are. You loving this, aincha?" At which point he began to tap my corona with the brush, batting it from side to side, catching the ridge of my penis and making me squeal.

"Too much! That's too much!" I began to cry and laugh. "Oh noooooooo."

Gasping, I felt him stop, massaging the whole length of my prick with his soft hands, comforting me, letting me breathe. "Too much, huh, Mr. Young. So maybe you like this some, " he said, eagerly, removing a fleecy chamois cloth wet with oil from the back of the drawer. Holding it in both hands, he looped it over the slippery head of my dick and began to draw it with hard, quick pressure toward him, hitting the shaft as if buffing it, the edge of the cloth occasionally hitting beneath the ridge of my crown and creating a kind of wild, painful friction that both hurt and made me hungrier to cum. My dick bounced up and down and my thighs twitched. It was intolerable, made me ache to put my huge wet cock somewhere, in his velvet mouth, up his hard ass, somewhere, thrusting into the air.

"Oh ho! Oh ho!" I was screaming as he ran the cloth over my cock like a saw, but of course, he had more tricks up his sleeve, and to get more for his money, he stuck out his index fingers and ended every stroke with a good solid poke in my sides, making me almost want to jump out of my skin between the buffing and tickling. He kept it up in a quick rhythm until I was really doing nothing but just yelling at the top of my lungs, at which point, he took the cloth, wrapped it tight around my cock, and let me collapse into the chair.

Here he stopped for a while, and while I lay there, trying to come to my senses, panting, waiting for more, my chest running with sweat. I had to cum, I remember thinking, somehow. I wanted to touch my dick and bring myself off but I couldn't, and in this state of aching, he just let me sit there, half-naked, aroused, teased, and bound until I opened my eyes.

"You like that, Mr. Young? You like Ben's brushes."

I licked my lips and gazed at him wordlessly, nodding my head, entranced and greedy for the pleasure he gave me. Here, seeing my need, he decided to play with me some more, cruelly leaving me stranded even longer at the edge of orgasm.

"How about this, Mr. Young? You like this." He stripped off his wet T-shirt and flexed his muscles for me, cupping his brown tits and pulling on his nipples glossy as chocolate chips, running his hands over the ripples in his belly and down into his jeans which had now tented out with an enormous, hidden erection. "Or maybe you like this more?" He turned around and wiggled his solid buttcheeks out of the confines of his jeans, letting the waistband push his ass up hard and high as he stroked it for me, looking over his shoulder at me, gauging my expression.

"Ben, please, please, let me cum, I'm going to pass out, please this is so good." I could barely speak, my lungs and chest so sore from the laughter.

Naked before me, seeming bigger as he pushed apart my thighs, he teased me some more, blowing on the head of dick, making it twitch and strain some more, precum oozing steadily out of the hole and down into the silk pouch of underwear beneath my balls.

"Say `please' again Mr. Young and we'll finish you off. Say, 'Please, Ben baby, do me.' " His breath was warm on my dick, with his wet lips so close by it. "Say it."

I only hesitated a second, "Please, Ben baby, do me. Do me now." My body writhed with orgasmic tension as I imagined those full lips on my dick, drinking my cum.

"Ben want to hear it again, Mr.Young. Say it again."

How could he revel in this so much, this muscle-stud shoe shine? How could he mindfuck me so thoroughly? I felt tears well up. "Please Ben baby, do me. Please, Ben, Please."

My cock was engorged to its limit, swaying and pushing up into the air, and I was afraid he might start in again with the tickling, jamming his fingers into my ribs, poking my thighs, or worse maybe my neck or my balls, all the places he hadn't gotten to yet. I was afraid of him at this point, afraid he might not ever let me go, that I might be kept here all weekend in the deserted office building, tortured out of my mind at the mercy of his fingertips and tools.

Beneath my chair I felt Ben switch something on that gave the whole platform a gentle vibration. "See here, Mr. Young, we have Ben's special little helper." From underneath, he pulled out a small instrument which resembled an electric drill but in place of the pointed drill was a huge soft white brush with bristles nearly two inches long, and as it spun around, the brush flared into a wide, tantalizing circle. Ben's fingers gripped the base of my cock, firmly holding my testicles against the chair to keep me still, and licking his lips, he lowered the rotating head of the brush straight on my dick, enveloping the wet sticky head of my pulsating cock into the soft, swirling bristles. The brush was exquisitely soft, lubricated with God knows what, and the insistent vibration and rotation made me uncontrollable, his hot tight body wedged between my bucking thighs.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I repeated senselessly, idiotically, my eyes shut tight.

"Let it come, Mr. Young, fill Ben's brush, let Ben baby see his man shoot."

Grunting animalistically, my body one huge ticklish spasm, I thought I might just tear the chair off the platform as I shot straight into the unending swirl of the brush, pumping my cum out with rhythmic, breathless moans so that it flew in small drops everywhere, against Ben's sweat-soaked face, against my gabardine slacks, against my shirt, against the wall. Still, the brush bore down on my fat purple knob and gave it no rest, and with the wicked ends of his finger, Ben added a small tickling to my ballsac drawn tight as an egg against the base of my spewing dick.

Ben let out a loud, whoop of laughter. "Big man, big white man with his beautiful clothes need Ben to show him, make him take it. Ain't that right, baby?" I was spent, unable to move, every inch of me wary that I might be touched, prodded or made to scream with laughter some more. I couldn't speak, I couldn't swallow, I couldn't even groan. All I could is watch Ben, listening to the sweet soft drone of his baritone voice. "That's the way I like to see `em, nice and relaxed. Do almost anything to see that, like that so much, I do."

And with one more look at me laying there, helpless, my fat cock drooping, all my muscles still twitching from the tickling he had given me, he laughed again, long, loud and deep. "It's a lot of work, I know, Mr. Young, but Ben's found that this is the best way to shine those pretty shoes like you wearing. You'll see." And as he lowered the spinning brush full of my cum directly on to the leather, he flashing me his huge white, wicked smile. "This'll shine 'em up good now, Mr. Young. Real good now. You'll see."