Clint struggled to get comfortable in his bindings. The bench he was strapped to was padded with leather as were the rests for his head and other limbs but that was not enough to mitigate the discomfort of the tight straps keeping him in place. He had been left alone for a time but that was of little comfort when his rest could end at any second with no warning. He took the opportunity to try and catch up on some sleep, not knowing when he would next get any. He had been unable to get much since he had first woken up from the drugs they had given him.
He didn’t need to close his eyes as he was blindfolded and the headphones they had on him blocked out all sound. For all he knew he was in the middle of a party with revellers all around him, the Hydra agents he had once thought were friends celebrating what might be their victory. He didn’t think that was the case though, if it were then most likely he would be poked and prodded at the least for their entertainment. He was pretty sure he had been written on for their amusement and if they were that petty then surely they would do some more writing, keeping a tally of how many cocks he had taken maybe along with other slurs.
Held firmly in place in an all-fours position he would be unable to stop them from using him even more in whatever way they pleased. His head was on a rest that kept it facing forward and the ring gag kept it open and prevented biting—he knew better than to provoke them like that but they were taking no chances until he was ‘housebroken’. His jaw was killing him as was his abused hole, on a level with his mouth for ease of use. One was dry while the other was moist. Wherever he was it was a decent temperature and although he was covered in sweat, cum, spit and piss, he wasn’t shivering. He had learned in training to tune out being uncomfortable but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. Not that he had much choice, that was the whole point of this.
Clint wondered if he was there to be a trophy or if they planned on using him as an agent, brainwashing him once he had been broken by the never ending supply of cock Hydra could call on. He had never heard of them using prisoners like this in the old days but he wasn’t surprised, they weren’t the first or the last to celebrate their victory with a conquest. He also wondered how many men there were in the base or complex where he was being held, enough for long sessions that felt never ending. Maybe they had a rotor. It was a wonder any of them got anything done with how much time they spent using him.
There was a slight disturbance in the air, like a door opening, he felt it on his touch starved skin. It seemed his rest was over.
Clint had been in New York when the battle of the Triskelion had begun. He had been in a Shield compound preparing for a mission with the men who would be his team. Looking back he was being kept busy and under a watchful eye. All the men on his team had turned out to be Hydra. He had still chatted with them as he geared up, blissfully unaware of what they had planned for him. It was hard to think they had joked together about how Harrison had gotten a tattoo of his lover only to break up with them before he could reveal it as a present. Maybe it had been Harrison who had pissed on him—the first time.
A young agent Clint was sure was true Shield stuck his head in in a panic and broke the news, saying it was on TV and Clint had run after him with his team—his guards—following and no doubt getting ready to jump him. There was a break room with maybe two dozen men in it all watching the TV as the Helicarriers rose and there was a clear battle breaking out. There was speculation on some blurry footage that Captain America was there and Clint had no trouble believing it.
Then the news anchor broke the real news, the leaked files, and the truth about Shield. Clint spent several moments in shock that would cost him dearly but he wasn’t the only one. The news was followed by a stunned silence that some in the room weren’t faking.
Then someone shouted “HAIL HYDRA!” and all hell broke loose. The Shield agents didn’t know who to trust while the Hydra agents had planned for this moment. Guns and knives and stun batons were out and being used as needed. They seemed to want to take as many alive as they could but none were making it easy.
Clint had been taken unawares and even in tactical gear hadn’t been able to put up too much of a fight. They had piled on him and taken him down along with all the others in less than a minute. He had been armed but he had also been surrounded and outnumbered. The image that lingered as he was professionally knocked out was that of the room of agents, some dead and others being beaten into submission. Some Avenger he was when he couldn’t help them, later he would realise just how little chance he stood of avenging them.
Clint wasn’t sure how long had passed since then. He had woken up from whatever they had done to find he had been roughly gagged and had a bag over his head blocking out all the light. He had been trained for this, but never had that training covered what to do if his captors were his own side—or whatever double agents they were. After what he had seen on the news about the Triskelion and the realisation that not all of his trusted allies were allies at all he wasn’t sure who he could count on to help him. He had no idea how the Helicarriers incident had ended. Maybe Steve was alive and okay along with the other Avengers, or maybe they had been taken unawares like he had and had been taken captive or straight out killed. He forced himself not to think about that too much, best not get caught up in negative thinking. He could only focus on his own predicament.
Clint wasn’t an idiot, not by any measure. He knew that if he was alive it was either for interrogation, conversion or celebrating. Hydra knew everything Shield knew and he had no confidential information they couldn’t get easily enough so he wasn’t there for interrogation. He had no plans on defecting to Hydra but he knew torture could be very persuasive. And celebrating with him… well that made sense.
It was Shield’s worst kept secret that Clint Barton, the Avenger known as Hawkeye, was s slut for any man with a cock to suck and balls to drain. He had no shame about it though he tried to be discreet. While on missions, when in showers and changing rooms, stake outs, hangouts, workplaces and at homes, Clint had been bending over and kneeling down for almost every agent who had given him a look. He just liked sex and enjoyed living to the fullest. If a guy wanted to get off he was happy to help out.
And now it turned out he had been Hydra’s whore just as much as he had been Shield’s. They must have had a great time, fucking him over and high-fiving each other as they fucked their enemy. How many had been planning to catch him like this when the time came to come out into the open? He wondered if it was a rouge fraction or if higher Hydra authorities had given the okay or even requested it. It would be a morale boost after victory to fuck him, even if he had taken them all before.
Clint resigned himself to the gang-rape, it was difficult to think it could be any worse than what he did for fun. How could you rape a slut?
They did their best to humiliate him. The hood had been removed and the gag pulled up into a blindfold too quickly for him to see much other than blank walls. His arms were bound behind him with some no doubt hi-tech cuffs (damn it, Stark) and his legs were also shackled just enough to walk but not well. They shoved him about a lot, watching him stumble and fall as he was shoved around. They were trying to get a rise out of him, seeing what he would do while blinded and mostly restrained.
It seemed quite tame to him. He did not rise to the bait. Maybe later, but not now. For the time being he said nothing, making no sound but for the occasional grunt.
Eventually they got tired of this and held him still to get his clothes off. He let them, not ashamed of his body and knowing most of them must have seen it already. They cut and ripped most of them off, a tactic to make him feel vulnerable. Soon enough he was naked and being groped by more hands than he could count. Pinching his nipples, slapping his ass, squeezing his balls. Nothing he hadn’t done in the last week. He grunted and gasped at the pain though, he gave them that much but they would have to do better than that.
Unfortunately they were a large group of men and he was just one man. He would tire of the teasing long before they did.
After a while they started using the stun batons. A zap in a random place had him yelling and trying to get away. Sometimes they let him go to see him instinctively try to get away and watch him trip over his shackles into the crowd of men who pushed him back or stunned him again like some game of pinball. They zapped his ass a few times but didn’t go for the crotch, they were satisfied with the yells he made just from the shocks to his ass and nipples.
As he feared he tired far sooner than they had, all the torment added up and he was getting weaker and fell to his knees more and more often. They called it his natural position, kneeling before superior men. He said nothing, not wanting to give them any more satisfaction. Slaps to the face followed by spitting and jeers. He knew what was coming next. As tempting as it was to try and bite their cocks off if they tried he knew it would only get him more pain. And they didn’t want to risk it either. As if they had a whole box of sex toys they fastened a spider-gag onto him with a disturbingly practised move. Then there were the sounds of flies being unzipped and more slaps to the face but not from hands any more.
The whole scene was so familiar he could easily forget he was not here by choice. He had spent many enjoyable nights like this before; on his knees with a blindfold on a cocks in his face. The smell and sounds were drawing him in. But he refused to be an active participant like he had on those other nights, he would not give his enemy the pleasure. They must know this wasn’t torture of torment to him, they saw this as his natural function and putting him in his place.
The first cock went in but Clint resisted the instinct to lap at it or put any effort into using his tongue. He was just a warm hole to them so that was all they would get. He did his best to zone out but knew, even without the jeering, that his own rock hard cock gave him away. For the first time in his life Clint Barton felt fucked up and ashamed of his sex life—and that was only the first step to breaking him.
Clint couldn’t help but put names and faces to the voices he recognised as he was passed around and each one brought back a memory of when they had had their cocks in him under better circumstances—if they could be called better as it seemed he had been bending over and kneeling before Hydra for years. He recognised many of the voices even if he couldn’t put a name to them and, more disturbingly, he recognised many cocks. Size and shape and the occasional piercing could be distinctive. Even the taste and smell.
He heard mention of the Strike team being at the Triskelion and he just knew they had been Hydra and sent to tackle the Cap. Brock Rumlow led the team with Jack Rollins as his second. Clint had had both of them, separately and together. Rumlow had been brutal and like to facefuck him and try to make him choke (joke was on him, Clint had no gag reflex (or if he had it had long since been forgotten about)) but Rumlow had been well endowed and actually succeeded in making Clint scream as he was impaled on it. Rumlow had watched and fucked his face at the same time, the two spit-roasting him and clearly having the time of their lives.
Clint had enjoyed the rough play though the aggression they showed, as fun as it was during sex, seemed to be their default attitude to him during working hours too. To them it was as if when he wasn’t taking cock it was only a matter of time until he did, rather than being a person who simply liked sex. That behaviour had him disliking them but he had not tried to stop it or resisted them when they took command of him, serving him right for being an enabler, he had just really liked Rollins’ cock.
He had even fantasised on the Strike team passing him round, maybe even Steve Rogers walking in on them and being persuaded to join in. He didn’t know what the Captain was into but a guy could dream, right? The guy was a muscle bound god and needed a good fucking to loosen up and Clint would gladly serve America. He could only imagine what the serum had done to Steve’s cock and sex drive.
Apparently there had been no word from said Strike team and Clint hoped they had had their asses handed to them by Captain America.
The list of names he was putting together as he was abused was getting long and the suggestions of what to do with him were clearly the result of years of daydreaming. Even some of the guys he knew worked desk jobs were there and, both surprising and unsurprising, their minds were the filthiest. Yep, he had been servicing Hydra for years.
From bits of dirty talk and casual banter among the Hydra soldiers Clint got a pretty fair idea what was happening to the other agents of shield he had been captured along with him. They had been assessed and those who could be of use to Hydra were being ‘re-educated’ and the others were being treated just like he was—though none were as popular he was told. It was a backhanded complement to say he was the best at being raped.
When they grew too rowdy for his mouth alone to be enough for all of them he was thrown onto a table and his ass exposed. They didn’t bother with lube and tried to go in dry but Clint could work magic with his ass muscles and clenched up tight. It took several more shocks with a baton to get him to loosen up and even then he didn’t get mucked straight away. That damned sex toy box had a paddle in it and they used that on him first.
One of the things about being a submissive is that Clint could still be in control, setting limits and having a say for when people had gone too far. He had learned from torture however that the worst element was the lack of control and how some men got off on hurting another man—literally. There was no telling them to stop paddling him like he was a whole bunch of pledges for a frat and his ass must have been as red as the Hydra logo by the time they thought he was ready and by then tightening his ass to hinder them was a long forgotten memory.
They didn’t stop using his mouth as they paddled him, in fact they liked how he yelled and eventually screamed around their cocks. He did scream, and he knew he would eventually beg for them to stop, going as far as to offer to do as they wanted. He wasn’t under any delusions about torture, given enough time and pain anyone could be made to break, even Captain America, he was sure. That was of small comfort when he cried and tried to speak around the ring and cock in his mouth. They got the message and were spurred on by it.
He could now take two cocks at once and his whole front even his cock and balls were open to be played with. He was surprised when the first load of the night he knew of was on his chest, it seemed someone couldn’t wait. A rope was tied tight around his balls, maybe to stop him coming, and it was yanked on now and then. His cock was slapped and squeezed roughly but not so much that he could get off. And of course his nipples were clamped with what might have been crocodile clips. Weights must have been on them and hanging off whatever table he was on, he could feel them swinging and pulling them back and forth as he was jerked from the fuckings.
Then the first guy, he thought the one who had been fucking either his mouth or ass, pissed on him and that was the start of a whole new level of shame. Soon enough he was drenched in his own sweat, and his abusers’ cum and piss with many loads of spit for good measure. The pen was then brought out and the tally kept on his ass, and upper body for the respective holes. It would become a ritual that at the end of every session he would be told how many loads he had in him.
At best his sessions ended with him being in shackles and led by a rope around his neck, on all fours like a dog, to a cage that was barely big enough for him. As cramped as it was it would be the most comfortable position he was allowed to rest in. It was easier to rest in such a small cage than he might have thought as he was so tired from the tormenting. However long he slept his wake up call was always unwelcome even if it wasn’t by being pissed on again and his muscles were always painfully stiff when he was dragged out of the cage by that rope still around his neck.
This was his life now, until a way out presented itself. One had to eventually, he just had to be patient.
There were a few time he was compared to another guy who was ‘Hydra’s fuck toy’ but this guy was clearly not one of the agents who had been taken with him. This guy was spoken of as if he had been there for years and after a few days, maybe a week of this Clint could only dread suffering the same fate. This guy, who’s name he never quite caught but was called the Soldier (he could hear the capital letter in the name from the way they said it), was a great fuck, apparently, not needing any restraints and obeying every command no matter how degrading. Maybe that was why they called him Soldier.
There was talk that he and Clint would be made into a matching pair and Barton broke a little more inside at the thought. Others continued the idea, trying out different code names for names for him, all some derogatory pun, of course.
Then one who had used this Soldier many times told the others about the Soldier’s tattoo. He regaled them all with a graphic story of how his team had worked with the Soldier and been rewarded with a night using its ass (Clint noticed they called the Soldier an it, never a he) and he had seen a tramp-stamp of the Hydra insignia marking him as their bitch as well as their assassin.
It didn’t take much persuasion for the others to go along with the idea. If Hydra’s new bitch was to be the man formerly known as Clint Barton, the Hawkeye then they might as well mark him as such. They spoke as if his life was over, maybe it was.
He was bound too tight to do anything. He had a few other tattoos but this one would be the worst, he might as well have a swastika tattoo. He put up a struggle to try and fuck it up for the tattoo artist but rather than stun him again this time they injected him with a paralytic which was way worse. He even managed to forget about the tattoo when it was done the way they were using him now. Fully conscious but unable to move at all. For the first time he was without any restraints, but more a prisoner than ever.
He was on the St Andrew’s cross when he was violated in a new way. He was weak enough to be moved from one position to another easily enough though they still took no chances with him, doing so one limb at a time and never single handed or without a stun baton jabbed into him a few times to make sure he knew it was there. The strain was only getting worse and no amount of daydreaming could take his mind off the restraints starting to dig into him as they supported his weight. The damned thing was tilted forwards slightly so he hung down across his entire body rather than sagging.
The clamps on his nipples, because of course they had put on another pair while they left him, were linked with a chain and had weights on them, his balls also had a similar weight on them but those aches had faded into the background as they were unchanging and not straining his muscles.
The final touch had been a penis gag, ‘something to keep him busy.’ Sucking on it was a mild distraction, a cock he didn’t hate at the moment.
Someone entered the room, it seemed this base had a whole room devoted to sex play and Clint—in a moment of madness—regretted that Shield had never had such a facility, and Clint was instantly as alert as he could be in his state. He had been fed just enough but had struggled to find any chances to sleep properly. He was focusing on every single sound and movement he could sense. The person approached but there was no sign as to who he was. A Hydra agent to play with him no doubt, the heavy breathing and way he got close enough for Clint to feel that breath was enough to know that. Clint held still, doing his best not to recoil.
The rope around his balls was undone and he moaned at the feeling of blood circulating properly there. He had been starting to worry his balls might have to go if they were kept tied like that for too long. A hand took hold of them and massaged them gently. Clint’s cock stiffened against his will like it always did, might as well have a mind of its own.
Then the man’s other hand took hold of his length and he gasped around the rubber penis in his mouth. They had touched his cock before but not with a grip like this, like they wanted him to—
Clint screwed his eyes shut under the blindfold and wished it wasn’t so. But it was. The man stroked his cock, not quite expertly but it was enough. Just the right speed, pressure, and attention to the head. After all the sex he had been having without cumming it wasn’t long before he was panting. The hand let go at the crucial moment, knowing that he had passed the point of no return and letting him finish unsatisfied. Clint came at the hands of a Hydra agent whether he liked it or not and forced himself to take at least some pleasure in the orgasm. It was the first good thing he had felt in this hellhole.
The man must have caught it because he felt the warm load being smeared all over his chest along with countless others from other men.
“Just a little something to enjoy for good behaviour, and to look forward to again for more good behaviour,” said the man. Clint had never heard this voice but it sent chills through him. “We trained the Soldier in similar ways. I learned the methodology very well. I think I can replicate it with you, given enough time.”
It took all his willpower not to shy away from the man but he was leaving anyway. Clint was alone and grateful for it and able to slip into a light doze now he had orgasmed. It was bittersweet, and he knew it was just the first step in his training to being a devoted sex toy. The words had chilled him to the bone in a way nothing ever had before because he knew not only could they follow through on the threat but that they would and planned to and he had no way out of this hell.
He had spent his life having sex and killing, now it looked like that was going to be his future too. But unlike his past he would be looking forward to the killing and not the sex because it would be the lesser of the two evils. How bad did things have to be for him to kill someone to get out of fucking?
Something was wrong, Clint could tell. The last time they had used him they had put the headphones on wrong and he could still hear faint sounds. He kept still, not wanting to give himself away, focussing on everything he heard however faint. There was yelling and shouting. Gunfire. There was definitely a fight going on! Was this a rescue? Who knew he was here? Maybe the Avengers had won and were going from base to base to route out Hydra.
He gave his head a shake as best he could to dislodge the headphones and they fell off with a clatter. He could hear it all now, the panicked shouts and gunfire. It sounded like Hydra had a whole war on their hands—and he was buck naked, dripping cum, and completely powerless to defend himself or escape. He tested all his bindings, straining fully against them and trying to find a weak spot to take advantage of. His hands were useless in leather mitts and even if he was skilled with his feet he could not hope to bend them that way. He could do nothing but wait.
It was all generic noises: gunfire, the sound of hand-to-hand combat, screaming and the sound of dying. Clint was getting good at focussing on noise to make use of anything he heard but this was just the worst thing to be stuck listening to. When it did stop it was almost worse. Clint had no idea who the enemy of his enemy was but he was sure they weren’t too friendly. There had been far too much violence and panic for that. The Hydra agents had sounded terrified, Clint wasn’t sure even Captain America could elicit that reaction.
Clint held perfectly still. He still didn’t know if he was in a cell or the middle of a rec room or gym. He might go unnoticed by the newcomers. If he did then who knew how long it might be before someone else found the place—if ever! He might die here.
That alone was enough for him to risk it. He grunted once, there wasn’t much sound he could make with his gag. His throat was dry and he tried again, going for a full on scream this time.
At first there was silence. Then there were footsteps. Just a single set, moving steadily and cautiously towards him. Clint was confused. There must be more than one person here. He did his best to wet his mouth and tried again, managing to make the same sound only a little louder.
There was a clanging as a cell door opened. The person must be in the doorway and was no doubt taking in the sight of him. Clint didn’t want to imagine that sight, he didn’t want anyone who he respected to see him like this. Fuck, what if the Captain saw him like this, he didn’t think he could live with Steve looking at him every day with those eyes having seen him as a well used sex toy. He wondered what the tally was up to now, he had never bothered keeping up.
The person was silent. Clint waited for something, anything.
More footsteps, coming towards him directly this time. If they wanted to kill him then no one would ever have a better chance. Clint didn’t want to die like this but it would be better than slowly starving to death.
He sensed the hand a moment before it made contact with his cheek. It was a gentle touch but not from a normal hand. It was cold, as cold as metal, like metal fingers. He flinched, having quickly become accustomed to being hurt and unconvinced this newcomer would be any different. The hand stilled at his movement, almost as if it didn’t want to cause him pain.
Clint swallowed. Then he swallowed again, this time his pride and did the only thing he could. He spoke as best as he could through the ring gag. “Pweease… eelf eee…” He waited for them to say something. Maybe they would just use him like the Hydra agents had. He would gladly let them in exchange for saving him, if they didn’t mind him being so soiled and used. Some guys like that, as Clint knew well.
After far too long there was the faint rustling of movement and the metal-cold hand left his face. He felt it on his right hand. The buckles were undone and the tight mitten containing his fist taken off. His hand was so stiff it sent stabs of pain up his whole arm to move it but it was free. The person left but they had done enough. From here Cling could save himself.
“Ank ooo…” was all he could manage in gratitude.
It still took a while for him to get completely free, by then his rescuer would be long since gone. Clint didn’t care about that, if they wanted to be anonymous then he would let them be. They had killed his enemies and set him free and that was enough. He was weak and stiff but those would fade in time. He was also filthy and had been right, his abusers had been writing on him as well as keeping count. Nothing was nice and was probably in permanent marker. The Hydra logo had been drawn very large on his chest, that might have been the worst, like he had been marked as their property.
Exploring the base nearly made him retch in involuntary attempts to empty his dry stomach. His rescuer had killed every single Hydra agent in the complex—with extreme prejudice! He barely recognised a few faces that had once been his team before they had turned on him. It had been a massacre like nothing he had seen. It looked like they had gone straight for whatever passed for a file room and taken some files, probably looking for top secret Hydra secrets.
He looked for other ‘playrooms’ where the other Shield agents might be but found nothing to say he wasn’t the only stress relief toy in that base.
There were showers, clothes in the locker room and food in the kitchen. Once these needs had been met he resisted the temptation to leave the place in favour of one of the bunks. He was surrounded by dead bodies but he would be no good without rest. After that he would see where he was and what state the world was in. If the Avengers were still around, even as an underground resistance in a world ruled by Hydra, he would be there.
The bed was impossibly soft and he felt all his troubles fade away and a semblance of his humanity return. The last thing he thought before drifting off was that he would have to choose his sexual partners more carefully in future. And he hoped the permanent marker would fade before he met the Cap again.