The Emissary smiled to see the prisoner was already strung up naked and waiting for him when he entered the room. He was good at what he did, and Hydra knew it. They always accommodated him in whatever he asked. They might not like him, or his methods, but they couldn’t argue with his results.
This prisoner only had one intact arm. It was held aloft by a chain dangling from the ceiling secured to a cuff on his wrist. A contraption made from thick leather was fastened around his chest, slung beneath his armpits and secured by another chain from the ceiling that connected behind the stump of his left arm. The chains kept the prisoner’s body uncomfortably stretched out, forcing him up onto the balls of his feet. There were also heavy weights attached to both of his ankles, to keep his legs slightly spread and to prevent him from kicking. The Emissary let his attention rest where he most wanted; where the prisoner’s soft, vulnerable genitals dangled in a nest of dark hair. His penis was uncircumcised and nothing special in size, but his ample balls hung low in their sac between his thighs, encouraged by how warm the room was, per the Emissary’s specifications.
The Emissary licked his lips, feeling his cock stirring in his pants, but he didn’t dwell on the objects of his interest. His eyes moved up the prisoner’s muscular body, noting how hairy the man was all over. He did take a moment to linger on where the prisoner’s stump ended a few inches above where his elbow should be. It didn’t look as if it had been surgically removed, more like it had been torn off somehow. It was an ugly, twisted mess, but the Emissary didn’t let his curiosity remain. He had a job to do.
He smiled wider, his cock stirring more insistently when the prisoner’s eyes opened and registered his presence. The Emissary ordered the two guards who had accompanied him through the facility to leave. The prisoner failed to suppress his flinch when the door banged loudly closed behind them. The Emissary smiled even wider, slowly reaching down to adjust his erection behind his black fatigues.
He was good at what he did because he liked what he did.
The prisoner’s eyes widened slightly as he thought he understood what the Emissary wanted. Then, they narrowed into slits as his jaw set. The Emissary was pleased. There was nothing better than breaking down a fighter. He moved closer to his victim until he was standing directly in front of him looking up into his face. The prisoner would be a centimeter or two taller than the Emissary, even without being forced up on tiptoe.
“You’re American, yes?”
The Emissary spoke perfect English without a trace of any accent. He already knew the answers to his questions. He wanted the prisoner to think about his home. Nostalgia was its own special kind of pain. Nostalgia for a place he’d never see again and for the people he’d left there.
“From New York City?”
He studied the prisoner’s face. He had requested that the prisoner be cleaned, inside and out, before his arrival. The prisoner’s dark hair was shaggy and unkempt, but his face had been recently shaved. Only a shadow of stubble remained on his cheeks and chin.
“Brooklyn?”
He was haggard, but the Emissary couldn’t think of another word but pretty for the prisoner’s face. His erection pulsed, and the Emissary felt a rush of hatred for the prisoner. He hated his blue eyes, his round cheeks, and how full his lips were. He hated the effect the prisoner had on him, when he was the one who should be in control.
The Emissary knew how to change that.
“Don’t feel like talking,” He sneered up at the prisoner. “Or did you lose your tongue as well as your arm?”
The prisoner’s lips opened.
“James Barnes,” he croaked out his name. “Sergeant. 325- ”
The Emissary brought his knee up swiftly between the prisoner’s legs. His aim was long practiced and perfected. The first strike he made to land up and behind his victim’s balls, swinging them violently forward rather than crushing them against the body. The rest of the prisoner’s serial number was lost in a shuddering intake of breath. His eyes bulged comically and his lips made a little “o” of surprise.
“Aaagh, fuck!”
The prisoner bellowed, breath and voice returning as he tried to curl in on himself. His legs strained to close, and both his good arm and his stump twitched to cradle and protect his balls. The Emissary laughed once, pressing down on his insistent cock and shivering from the pleasure. The prisoner’s eyes found his. They were clouded with involuntary tears. He swore one more time in a trembling whimper before he forcefully clenched his lips together. He breathed heavily through his nose.
“You have no name,” the Emissary told him calmly. “You have no rank. You have no number. You are an asset of Hydra now, and we will tell you who and what you are.”
He saw the prisoner’s internal struggle in his face. There was fear in his eyes and his nostrils flared. Pain was still radiating from between his legs into his belly and his brain. He didn’t want any more of that pain.
“J-James Barnes- ”
The prisoner’s voice cracked and shook. He was at war with himself as much as with the Emissary or with Hydra, and this was the Emissary’s favorite part of the whole thing. How a man’s stubbornness and pride could betray his instincts for self-preservation. How his very manhood could jeopardize itself. The Emissary didn’t know why he found that so arousing, but he did.
The Emissary brought his knee up and struck his targets three times in quick succession, putting more power into the blows as they progressed. The final blow pushed the prisoner’s balls against his body, cutting off the man’s tortured scream as it forced the meager contents of his stomach to expel from his mouth. The Emissary had already stepped away so none of the vomit would splash on him.
Fill: Busted
This prisoner only had one intact arm. It was held aloft by a chain dangling from the ceiling secured to a cuff on his wrist. A contraption made from thick leather was fastened around his chest, slung beneath his armpits and secured by another chain from the ceiling that connected behind the stump of his left arm. The chains kept the prisoner’s body uncomfortably stretched out, forcing him up onto the balls of his feet. There were also heavy weights attached to both of his ankles, to keep his legs slightly spread and to prevent him from kicking. The Emissary let his attention rest where he most wanted; where the prisoner’s soft, vulnerable genitals dangled in a nest of dark hair. His penis was uncircumcised and nothing special in size, but his ample balls hung low in their sac between his thighs, encouraged by how warm the room was, per the Emissary’s specifications.
The Emissary licked his lips, feeling his cock stirring in his pants, but he didn’t dwell on the objects of his interest. His eyes moved up the prisoner’s muscular body, noting how hairy the man was all over. He did take a moment to linger on where the prisoner’s stump ended a few inches above where his elbow should be. It didn’t look as if it had been surgically removed, more like it had been torn off somehow. It was an ugly, twisted mess, but the Emissary didn’t let his curiosity remain. He had a job to do.
He smiled wider, his cock stirring more insistently when the prisoner’s eyes opened and registered his presence. The Emissary ordered the two guards who had accompanied him through the facility to leave. The prisoner failed to suppress his flinch when the door banged loudly closed behind them. The Emissary smiled even wider, slowly reaching down to adjust his erection behind his black fatigues.
He was good at what he did because he liked what he did.
The prisoner’s eyes widened slightly as he thought he understood what the Emissary wanted. Then, they narrowed into slits as his jaw set. The Emissary was pleased. There was nothing better than breaking down a fighter. He moved closer to his victim until he was standing directly in front of him looking up into his face. The prisoner would be a centimeter or two taller than the Emissary, even without being forced up on tiptoe.
“You’re American, yes?”
The Emissary spoke perfect English without a trace of any accent. He already knew the answers to his questions. He wanted the prisoner to think about his home. Nostalgia was its own special kind of pain. Nostalgia for a place he’d never see again and for the people he’d left there.
“From New York City?”
He studied the prisoner’s face. He had requested that the prisoner be cleaned, inside and out, before his arrival. The prisoner’s dark hair was shaggy and unkempt, but his face had been recently shaved. Only a shadow of stubble remained on his cheeks and chin.
“Brooklyn?”
He was haggard, but the Emissary couldn’t think of another word but pretty for the prisoner’s face. His erection pulsed, and the Emissary felt a rush of hatred for the prisoner. He hated his blue eyes, his round cheeks, and how full his lips were. He hated the effect the prisoner had on him, when he was the one who should be in control.
The Emissary knew how to change that.
“Don’t feel like talking,” He sneered up at the prisoner. “Or did you lose your tongue as well as your arm?”
The prisoner’s lips opened.
“James Barnes,” he croaked out his name. “Sergeant. 325- ”
The Emissary brought his knee up swiftly between the prisoner’s legs. His aim was long practiced and perfected. The first strike he made to land up and behind his victim’s balls, swinging them violently forward rather than crushing them against the body. The rest of the prisoner’s serial number was lost in a shuddering intake of breath. His eyes bulged comically and his lips made a little “o” of surprise.
“Aaagh, fuck!”
The prisoner bellowed, breath and voice returning as he tried to curl in on himself. His legs strained to close, and both his good arm and his stump twitched to cradle and protect his balls. The Emissary laughed once, pressing down on his insistent cock and shivering from the pleasure. The prisoner’s eyes found his. They were clouded with involuntary tears. He swore one more time in a trembling whimper before he forcefully clenched his lips together. He breathed heavily through his nose.
“You have no name,” the Emissary told him calmly. “You have no rank. You have no number. You are an asset of Hydra now, and we will tell you who and what you are.”
He saw the prisoner’s internal struggle in his face. There was fear in his eyes and his nostrils flared. Pain was still radiating from between his legs into his belly and his brain. He didn’t want any more of that pain.
“J-James Barnes- ”
The prisoner’s voice cracked and shook. He was at war with himself as much as with the Emissary or with Hydra, and this was the Emissary’s favorite part of the whole thing. How a man’s stubbornness and pride could betray his instincts for self-preservation. How his very manhood could jeopardize itself. The Emissary didn’t know why he found that so arousing, but he did.
The Emissary brought his knee up and struck his targets three times in quick succession, putting more power into the blows as they progressed. The final blow pushed the prisoner’s balls against his body, cutting off the man’s tortured scream as it forced the meager contents of his stomach to expel from his mouth. The Emissary had already stepped away so none of the vomit would splash on him.
“Aaagh, fuck, oh God!”