In a main corridor there’s a fuck bench bolted to the concrete floor right in the middle of an intersection. Brock had a dubious pleasure of spending a whole day in it a handful of times. He definitely prefers the casual gangbangs, because those at least don’t last more than a couple of hours; often much less.

Westfahl pushes him forward with the butt of his rifle. Brock grits his teeth and, breathing hard through his aching nose, lets himself be strapped down. He bites down on a whimper when Foster and Rosenberg roughly grab his hands. Agents passing by cheer loudly, happy to have an opportunity for a quick fuck on their break.

Once Brock’s body is fully secured, King wastes no more time. He shoves his pants and underwear down, freeing his full erection. He grabs Brock by the hair and guides his cock to his mouth. Brock can feel somebody remove the butt plug and push their fingers dry into his ass. Some passing agents and lab coats pause to look, some line up behind King. Brock closes his eyes to stop himself from calculating how long he’ll spend here. He’d rather be surprised when it’s over.

He slips in and out of awareness. It’s hard to stay in the dreamland when he’s so uncomfortable; sure, the bench is padded, but he can’t rest his head, and the straps are digging into his skin, leaving burns whenever someone shoves or pulls him too hard.

The taste of cum mixes in with Brock’s pissy saliva, and King pulls out. He zips himself up and walks away. Another agent takes his place. Brock doesn’t open his eyes, but he remembers it was Guldbrandsen who lined up right behind King. Sharp, musky scent hits his nostrils when a damp tip gathers spit from around his mouth and pushes in. Someone in the background is still fucking him dry. The sound of the man’s grunting tells him it’s Rosenberg.

After a while of being pushed and pulled, other agents get impatient. Guldbrandsen hasn’t yet pulled out when two more cocks start rubbing against Brock’s face. The skin under the pleather straps becomes wetter and wetter, stinging bad enough to fight for his focus against the still throbbing hands, the thick cock tearing his ass, and the long one clogging his throat.

Instead, he imagines being comfortable. The image of the table in Cap’s cell briefly flashes in front of his eyes, but that was far from comfortable, even if slightly better than the fuck bench. No, he thinks of a bed. The king-sized bed he would have had if he wasn’t captured. The bed he will have once he gets the fuck out of here.

He’s lying on a memory foam mattress, wrapped in soft, fresh sheets. Warm sunlight seeps through the big window. He can smell the wind, blooming apple trees and freshly mowed grass. It’s quiet, and he can rest his head, and his knees don’t hurt, and his skin doesn’t sting. Fingers slip through his hair, and when he opens his eyes, it’s Rollins—

His eyes shot open just when someone cums on his face. A dribble hits his eye, and he blinks it out quickly, but it’s too late; it stings and waters, adding to the mess on his face. It’s the same eye that got irritated in Cap’s cell; one day, something will blind him.

He opens his mouth for yet another hard, red dick, but with his good eye, he can see the line has gotten shorter. These people aren’t here for fun; they have work, and some of them have resigned. Brock knows they’ll come back later, but for now, he feels a bit relieved. Another person comes on his abused ass, someone else jerks off and shoots all over his back. He can feel it drip down his sides, his thighs, his neck. His hands have become numb, though they’re still warm.

He slumps after the last agent hides his dick and walks away. He’s itchy from all the drying cum and he can’t even scratch himself. It makes him want to howl. Pain he knows. Pain he can handle. Itching is so much more rare and therefore, so much worse.

He jerks when he hears footsteps, but he can’t bring himself to raise his head, even if his back hurts when it’s hanging down. But when it isn’t, it’s his neck—really, neither option is good.

A hand winds into his hair and pulls. Brock’s eye is still leaking, but his vision’s not as blurry. He doesn’t recognize the man in front of him. He thinks he might’ve fucked him before, but he’s not sure. He’s young—so young—so Brock supposes he’s a recruit. New people must have joined Hydra now that they’re publicly known and controlling the world. Or at least America, frankly, Brock isn’t sure.

Far to the left, another stranger circles Brock, also young. Another youngster joins the first one. A rookie team, Brock realizes.

“I’m not sure about this,” says a voice behind him. Four men then. The words bring Brock hope that maybe they’ll leave him alone, but he’s learned not so long ago hope is useless in this place.

“Too filthy for you? You want a tissue?” The second one on Brock’s left mocks.

“You have any?” The fourth one asks, either not catching the sarcasm, or simply not caring.

There’s rustling, and then Brock feels soft fabric prod at his hole. The fourth one wipes his ass and thighs. It helps with the itching. He makes a sound of disgust, and a moment later, Brock’s hole twitches around his cock head. All the cum inside Brock helps it slide in, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Brock doesn’t need to be told to open his mouth for the one with his fingers still in his hair; he does it automatically. The stranger shoves his half-hard cock in and begins fucking Brock’s face right away, grunting. The abuse Brock’s throat has gone through becomes more noticeable and harder to ignore as the tip prods at it. The other two just stand there, watching. Brock doesn’t like the third’s analyzing gaze; it makes him shift nervously, which earns him a smack upside the head from the first one when his cock slips out of his mouth.

“He doesn’t have enough holes,” the third one says, scrunching up his nose.

“Why I prefer women,” the second one says. Brock can hear him open his zipper and stroke his cock. “That and the boobies.”

“Me, too, I’m not a fucking fag,” the third one snaps.

“Hey, no one here is a fag,” the first one pants as he fucks Brock’s mouth.

“There’s lotsa place to make new holes though,” the second one notices and pulls out a knife. The third one cackles.

Brock’s blood runs cold, and he tries to pull away, but the bindings hold him in place. The first one slaps his face with his cock with an unhappy grunt after it slips out of his mouth again. The hands of the fourth one clench around his hips, stilling them. Brock wants to tell them Rollins would never allow this, but he doesn’t manage; the moment he opens his mouth again, the first one’s cock fills it.

The third one joins the second one by Brock’s side, and he loses the sight of him. He can hear them mutter things like, ‘here’, ‘a little to the left’, ‘but not too deep, I don’t wanna fuck his guts’. He can feel the tip of the knife travel up and down his side, making his heart race and his body shake. Finally, it digs in.

He doesn’t feel it at first, and thinks they resigned; that they just wanted to scare him. Then it registers; the sharp pain in his side, and the wetness flowing down his side and pooling between his stomach and the bench. He tries to yell, but it’s muffled. The first one moans as he does. He shakes and jerks as the knife is turned, pushing and cutting his flesh to form a hole.

The first thrust of a dick feels even worse.

Brock has been through a lot of different pain in his life, but this one is comparable to nothing. It’s worse than being stabbed or shot. Worse than a surgery. Fuck, worse than his bones being crushed. It feels like somebody’s fucking the life out of him. It’s so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He loses all the control he still had over his body and—without even realizing it at first—bites down.

He takes a moment to realize why the first one is screaming like a little girl. When he does, he relaxes his jaw. The first one retracts, moaning and crying, and Brock notices blood around his shaft.

He should be scared. Biting means losing a limb. But he’s oddly apathetic about it. As he slumps forward, his head swimming and the pain fading, he realizes that ‘fucking the life out of him’ is quite accurate. He blacks out for a moment, and when he comes to, there’s another dick fucking his face. Its owner squeezes his jaw joints to keep his mouth open. His vision is swimming, but when he finally focuses his gaze on the man in front of him, he notices it’s an entirely different team. He feels throbbing pain in his side, but at least no one is fucking his new hole anymore.

Swallowing another cum shot makes him sick. He can’t tell how many are filling his stomach; he supposes he has been unconscious for a part of it. A new erection replaces the last one. The next thing Brock knows, he’s choking on vomit.

For the next while he’s conscious, no one’s touching him. A few agents that pass by hoot and whistle at him, but don’t stop on their way. The reek of the vomit right below his face makes him sick again, and he throws up more. He feels a little better afterwards, and the vomit—and the cum dripping off him, Brock supposes—is soon dealt with by a janitor. He doesn’t look at Brock as he mops the floor, and Brock lets himself rest.
The next time he’s awake, he’s being unstrapped from the bench. He whines when he moves his numb limbs that were stuck in the same position for hours. His hands flame up again after the blood reaches them. He can’t walk, but the team that’s unstrapped him take it under consideration. They carry him, one guy for each limb. Brock’s too weak to even try to recognize them.

They fold him and push inside the crate. Brock rests his face against the bars and lets himself breathe.

He’s dizzy, but he looks himself over. He’s covered in cum and blood. The wound is still leaking. Brock finds it a little surprising that no one thought to do anything about it. Maybe it isn’t that deep, and he’s so weak for another reason.

He jolts when he hears a bang. When he looks through the bars, he realizes someone just dropped a bowl in front of his crate.

“Dinner,” Woods says happily. He crouches down. Brock would see his face if he looked up, but it feels like too much work right now.

He hears a can open, and something brown falls into the bowl with a wet thump. Dog food. One of the better things he eats here. Normally, he’d squeeze his hand through the bars, grab a bite and eat. But now, he can’t even move his pinky.

Woods stands up. “You don’t wanna eat? Fine. Suit yourself.”

He kicks the bowl away. Brock watches the dog food spray around on the floor.

Woods leaves. The blood is still flowing. Brock thinks there’s a good chance he will die here.

Better here than strapped to the fuck bench.