“My pleasure,” Blackwell leered, and let go of the spreader bar to unbuckle his belt.
“Fuck's sake, just blow him,” panted Stern, who was still slamming into Rogers so hard that Rumlow could see blood all over his dick whenever he withdrew. “I don't wanna look at your hairy ass.”
“Fine. But only if you slow down and give the rest of us a shot at opening him up before he's gaping like a ten-dollar--”
Thunk. With Blackwell off duty, Harris was the only one left holding the restraints in place, and that was all Rogers needed to fling his legs forward hard enough to break one guy's grip. The middle of the bar smashed right into Stern's forehead, and Stern went down like a sack of potatoes. There wasn't a whole lot Rogers could accomplish with his hands cuffed between his feet, but he was fast and vicious enough to be a pain in the ass for anyone who got close enough to try and subdue him. And when he wasn't smashing shins or trying to gouge Anderson's eyes out with his thumbs, he took every chance he got to try and break the shackles open by whacking them against any available hard surface, whether it was the floor or the bones of the guys attacking him. Rollins got a kick to the balls and howled; Blackwell managed to get in a few good kicks to the abdomen before his foot got tangled up in Rogers' limbs and he tumbled facefirst to the floor. Harris shouldered his way back in with his stun baton drawn, but shocks to the thighs and sides just seemed to make Rogers madder.
It was Rumlow who got the situation back under control with a sharp kick to Rogers' temple and the muzzle of a pistol wedged between his spread-open lips. “Just try it, big guy,” he breathed. “Make my day.”
Rogers froze by instinct. Rumlow stared him down, honestly curious about what he would do. It wasn't that complicated a calculation. Quick, certain death versus hours of gang-rape followed by painful, almost-certain death. Rumlow had seen Rogers do enough crazy shit to know he wasn't afraid to die, and backing down wasn't in his nature. It wouldn't be surprising if he lashed out and brought on the mercy kill. But it was the 'almost' that was the kicker. With Barnes alive and Insight about to go up, if Rogers was still holding out any hope of escape or rescue, there was always a chance that he'd decide suicide-by-Rumlow was the coward's way out, swallow his pride, and resign himself to finding out how much punishment he could take.
It took Rogers a long, tense minute to make up his mind, but in the end he narrowed his eyes, visibly steeling himself, and let go of Anderson's hair.
Rumlow stood back up, but kept his gun trained on Rogers' forehead. “One wrong move,” he warned him.
“Rumlow, you selfish asshole,” said Higgins, who was already grabbing the spreader bar to haul Rogers' knees back up to his shoulders. “You've had your turn, don't shoot him before the rest of us get ours.”
“It worked, didn't it?” Rumlow shrugged. “And now you guys get to put him in a whole new world of hurt.”
“Yeah, boys, what are we gonna do to him?” Higgins aimed a vicious kick at Rogers' side.
“Besides beat the living shit out of him?”
“Get out a knife, let's mark him up some more.”
“Invite the rest of the lab nerds in on the fun, that's another five dicks for him to take.”
“Hell with that, chain him up and leave him out for anyone to use as a fuckhole.”
“You guys talk too much,” snarled Blackwell, whose face was a mess of blood. He grabbed the stun baton out of Harris's hand, rammed it up Rogers' ass, and thumbed the switch.
For the first time since he'd been dragged in, Rogers screamed.
It was only a two-second burst, but he came out of it shaking and twitching in the aftershocks. The second one went on for a good five seconds, and afterwards the scream didn't stop, just subsided into staccato shouts of pain with every panting breath. Just for variety, Blackwell pulled the taser out and gave him a shock to the balls, and he came again—just a dribble of semen this time, because apparently even super-soldier potency had its limits, but his abs rippled with the convulsions and his hips jerked a few times before his body went limp. It didn't get to stay that way for long before Blackwell plunged the baton back into his ass and made him writhe in agony.
He kept it up until Rogers had screamed himself hoarse, alternating between his ass, his cock, his balls, the creases of his thighs, but never letting up long enough for him to catch his breath. When Rogers' throat was working but no sound was coming out anymore, Blackwell finally stepped back and handed the stun baton back to its owner.
“There,” he spat, “no need to worry about him getting loose now, I think he'll be clenched up for a long damn time.”
The kid in the lab coat was still hovering on the edges of the group. He'd retreated to the door when the scuffle broke out but hadn't actually been able to bring himself to leave, and when Rogers started screaming he drifted closer, unable to look away. Rumlow grinned and beckoned him in. “You still want his mouth? I don't think he'll be putting up much of a fight for a while.”
The kid gulped but stepped forward, looking wide-eyed down at Rogers. Rumlow thought he could peg the type. Child prodigy, didn't look a day over twenty, probably smacked around a lot by the jocks at school, probably nursing elaborate revenge fantasies he'd never have the guts to carry out. Except there was Rogers on the floor, looking like Norman Rockwell's wet dream of a star quarterback, and Rumlow—who'd smacked around his share of geeks in his time—holding out a hand and inviting him to join the fun. Rogers' eyes were clouded with pain, but they eventually focused on the two guys standing above him. Even with the gag still in, he raised his eyebrows and managed a good approximation of his usual guilt-trip face. The kid flushed and took a half-step back. “Um,” he said. “I mean. That's Captain America.”
Rumlow's grin turned shark-like. “I know, right? It's great.” And since the idiot was still hesitating, he added, “Perks of picking the right side, man.”
“Yeah.” He let out a bark of laughter and returned the grin, plastering gung-ho confidence over his earlier indecision. “For serious. Talk about Hail Hydra.” And he fumbled his dick out of his pants and sank down on Rogers' face, with a haste that he probably hoped looked like eagerness, not anxiousness to get on with it before he lost his nerve. Rumlow couldn't help but notice that he was facing south, the way Pierce had done it. It offered a good view of the various tortures the STRIKE team were inflicting on Rogers' naked body, but also meant not having to look him in the eye.
FILL: Hydra/Steve sex pollen gangbang 7/?
“Fuck's sake, just blow him,” panted Stern, who was still slamming into Rogers so hard that Rumlow could see blood all over his dick whenever he withdrew. “I don't wanna look at your hairy ass.”
“Fine. But only if you slow down and give the rest of us a shot at opening him up before he's gaping like a ten-dollar--”
Thunk. With Blackwell off duty, Harris was the only one left holding the restraints in place, and that was all Rogers needed to fling his legs forward hard enough to break one guy's grip. The middle of the bar smashed right into Stern's forehead, and Stern went down like a sack of potatoes. There wasn't a whole lot Rogers could accomplish with his hands cuffed between his feet, but he was fast and vicious enough to be a pain in the ass for anyone who got close enough to try and subdue him. And when he wasn't smashing shins or trying to gouge Anderson's eyes out with his thumbs, he took every chance he got to try and break the shackles open by whacking them against any available hard surface, whether it was the floor or the bones of the guys attacking him. Rollins got a kick to the balls and howled; Blackwell managed to get in a few good kicks to the abdomen before his foot got tangled up in Rogers' limbs and he tumbled facefirst to the floor. Harris shouldered his way back in with his stun baton drawn, but shocks to the thighs and sides just seemed to make Rogers madder.
It was Rumlow who got the situation back under control with a sharp kick to Rogers' temple and the muzzle of a pistol wedged between his spread-open lips. “Just try it, big guy,” he breathed. “Make my day.”
Rogers froze by instinct. Rumlow stared him down, honestly curious about what he would do. It wasn't that complicated a calculation. Quick, certain death versus hours of gang-rape followed by painful, almost-certain death. Rumlow had seen Rogers do enough crazy shit to know he wasn't afraid to die, and backing down wasn't in his nature. It wouldn't be surprising if he lashed out and brought on the mercy kill. But it was the 'almost' that was the kicker. With Barnes alive and Insight about to go up, if Rogers was still holding out any hope of escape or rescue, there was always a chance that he'd decide suicide-by-Rumlow was the coward's way out, swallow his pride, and resign himself to finding out how much punishment he could take.
It took Rogers a long, tense minute to make up his mind, but in the end he narrowed his eyes, visibly steeling himself, and let go of Anderson's hair.
Rumlow stood back up, but kept his gun trained on Rogers' forehead. “One wrong move,” he warned him.
“Rumlow, you selfish asshole,” said Higgins, who was already grabbing the spreader bar to haul Rogers' knees back up to his shoulders. “You've had your turn, don't shoot him before the rest of us get ours.”
“It worked, didn't it?” Rumlow shrugged. “And now you guys get to put him in a whole new world of hurt.”
“Yeah, boys, what are we gonna do to him?” Higgins aimed a vicious kick at Rogers' side.
“Besides beat the living shit out of him?”
“Get out a knife, let's mark him up some more.”
“Invite the rest of the lab nerds in on the fun, that's another five dicks for him to take.”
“Hell with that, chain him up and leave him out for anyone to use as a fuckhole.”
“You guys talk too much,” snarled Blackwell, whose face was a mess of blood. He grabbed the stun baton out of Harris's hand, rammed it up Rogers' ass, and thumbed the switch.
For the first time since he'd been dragged in, Rogers screamed.
It was only a two-second burst, but he came out of it shaking and twitching in the aftershocks. The second one went on for a good five seconds, and afterwards the scream didn't stop, just subsided into staccato shouts of pain with every panting breath. Just for variety, Blackwell pulled the taser out and gave him a shock to the balls, and he came again—just a dribble of semen this time, because apparently even super-soldier potency had its limits, but his abs rippled with the convulsions and his hips jerked a few times before his body went limp. It didn't get to stay that way for long before Blackwell plunged the baton back into his ass and made him writhe in agony.
He kept it up until Rogers had screamed himself hoarse, alternating between his ass, his cock, his balls, the creases of his thighs, but never letting up long enough for him to catch his breath. When Rogers' throat was working but no sound was coming out anymore, Blackwell finally stepped back and handed the stun baton back to its owner.
“There,” he spat, “no need to worry about him getting loose now, I think he'll be clenched up for a long damn time.”
The kid in the lab coat was still hovering on the edges of the group. He'd retreated to the door when the scuffle broke out but hadn't actually been able to bring himself to leave, and when Rogers started screaming he drifted closer, unable to look away. Rumlow grinned and beckoned him in. “You still want his mouth? I don't think he'll be putting up much of a fight for a while.”
The kid gulped but stepped forward, looking wide-eyed down at Rogers. Rumlow thought he could peg the type. Child prodigy, didn't look a day over twenty, probably smacked around a lot by the jocks at school, probably nursing elaborate revenge fantasies he'd never have the guts to carry out. Except there was Rogers on the floor, looking like Norman Rockwell's wet dream of a star quarterback, and Rumlow—who'd smacked around his share of geeks in his time—holding out a hand and inviting him to join the fun. Rogers' eyes were clouded with pain, but they eventually focused on the two guys standing above him. Even with the gag still in, he raised his eyebrows and managed a good approximation of his usual guilt-trip face. The kid flushed and took a half-step back. “Um,” he said. “I mean. That's Captain America.”
Rumlow's grin turned shark-like. “I know, right? It's great.” And since the idiot was still hesitating, he added, “Perks of picking the right side, man.”
“Yeah.” He let out a bark of laughter and returned the grin, plastering gung-ho confidence over his earlier indecision. “For serious. Talk about Hail Hydra.” And he fumbled his dick out of his pants and sank down on Rogers' face, with a haste that he probably hoped looked like eagerness, not anxiousness to get on with it before he lost his nerve. Rumlow couldn't help but notice that he was facing south, the way Pierce had done it. It offered a good view of the various tortures the STRIKE team were inflicting on Rogers' naked body, but also meant not having to look him in the eye.