Sweat-soaked leather. Antiseptic. Faint copper-charcoal undertone of seared skin. He shivers: memory of being pushed back, strapped down. His spine twinges, skin prickling. The rest of him remains unerringly still.
Counterpoint to the animalistic thrashing of the body in the chair. Mess of flesh, blood, fear. Weakness. Barnes’ lip curls, nostrils flaring. The acrid scent of terror spills, overwhelming, into the small room.
“Please,” quavers the meatsack.
A grin splits Barnes’ face, mouth bowing as if tugged by strings. Independently animated.
“Let’s have some fun,” he says, straddling the begging bag of bones. Voice like sparking current. A live wire running right up out of the center of him, grounded in the sweat of his target’s clammy skin.
The khaki at Rumlow’s crotch darkens before Barnes rips it aside. The chair’s whole frame rattles but holds fast. Barnes wonders if he ever spit and cursed as Rumlow does now. He only remembers silence, submission. Knowing the futility of resistance.
Rumlow’s cock is soft, a fragile flaccid smudge inside the reticulated metal of his fist. “You’re going to come for me,” he states. A thin whine parts Rumlow’s cracked lips. “Once for every time I was wiped.”
Minifill: Sex in the mindwipe chair
Sweat-soaked leather. Antiseptic. Faint copper-charcoal undertone of seared skin. He shivers: memory of being pushed back, strapped down. His spine twinges, skin prickling. The rest of him remains unerringly still.
Counterpoint to the animalistic thrashing of the body in the chair. Mess of flesh, blood, fear. Weakness. Barnes’ lip curls, nostrils flaring. The acrid scent of terror spills, overwhelming, into the small room.
“Please,” quavers the meatsack.
A grin splits Barnes’ face, mouth bowing as if tugged by strings. Independently animated.
“Let’s have some fun,” he says, straddling the begging bag of bones. Voice like sparking current. A live wire running right up out of the center of him, grounded in the sweat of his target’s clammy skin.
The khaki at Rumlow’s crotch darkens before Barnes rips it aside. The chair’s whole frame rattles but holds fast. Barnes wonders if he ever spit and cursed as Rumlow does now. He only remembers silence, submission. Knowing the futility of resistance.
Rumlow’s cock is soft, a fragile flaccid smudge inside the reticulated metal of his fist. “You’re going to come for me,” he states. A thin whine parts Rumlow’s cracked lips. “Once for every time I was wiped.”
Barnes squeezes. Rumlow screams.