== chapter contains graphic non-con ==

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Clint was hauled to his feet and groaned as the pain flared up again. Someone behind him grabbed his cuffed hands and lifted his arms towards the ceiling. The strain on his shoulder joints went from uncomfortable to painful in no time at all, and as his hands went higher he had to lean forward to take some of the pressure off.

"Look at him, so eager to bend over," someone snickered.

The table had been positioned in the middle of the room, and Clint was frog marched to it. A shove in the back sent him stumbling the last few steps, and his sore midsection hit the edge hard. His arms were lifted a little higher, and only when his chest was pressed flat against the table did the pressure ease up some. A kick forced his left foot to the side, and he felt it being secured to the sturdy leg of the table. His right foot got the same treatment. He was now bent over with his legs spread and ass on display, and shit, this couldn't possibly mean anything good. He had a fleeting thought that Cortes probably didn't have a health care policy that offered STD testing.

His hands were finally lowered, and Clint was grateful. It was an effective way to dislocate someone's shoulders, and he really didn't want to experience that right now. But his relief was short-lived, because the next second his hands were forced up painfully between his shoulder blades. A loop of rough rope was draped across his throat and pulled behind him. A second later it tightened, and Clint's chest clenched. He did not like ropes anywhere near his throat. A grunt escaped him as his hands were forced even higher up his back. Dislocation was probably off the table for now, but in his new position he'd instead fracture something if they pushed too far.

Then the hands on his arms disappeared and he tried to lower his hands into a slightly less uncomfortable position, but he aborted it immediately as the rope tightened harshly across his throat. Fuck. He arched his back and lifted his head to get some slack on the rope. They must have tied it to his cuffs, leaving just enough length to force him to work at keeping his hands in a position where he didn't suffocate himself. It was hard, and even when he held his hands as high as he could, the rope was still tight across his throat. He swallowed uncomfortably against the rope. Stress positions with breath play elements. This was going to get real nasty.

Suddenly a stripe of pain burned across his lower back, and his body instinctively surged forward in an attempt at getting away from it. Clint made a choked sound as his air was cut off, and he struggled to get back into position. More pain exploded in the same spot and he jerked forward again. The baton. It had to be the fucking baton. Silver linings, he tried to remind himself. At least it wasn't delivering shocks. Silver linings.

Someone stepped in between his legs and draped himself over his back. The weight pressed Clint painfully against the table, putting pressure on his already aching shoulders. He had to clench his teeth to keep the huff of discomfort inside.

"I'm gonna enjoy making you scream," Whippet hissed next to his ear.

"Made your momma scream last night," Clint said hoarsely.

Clint felt Whippet's hands force their way into the limited space between his body and the table, and the button and zipper of his pants were wrenched open. He didn't fight it, couldn't fight it, he was trussed up like a fucking turkey, ready to be carved. His pants were yanked down, along with his underwear. With his legs spread and ankles tied to the legs of the table, they wouldn't go further than the middle of his thighs.

"Untie his leg," Whippet ordered. To Clint he said, "move and I will cut your balls clean off."

Clint right foot was freed. Then his pants and underwear were pulled all the way down and off, leaving them pooling around his other, still restrained foot. Clint didn't move, just concentrated on breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. This was going to happen, there was no doubt about it any longer, and he just needed to make sure he didn't get more injured than absolutely necessary. If he survived this he needed to be in good enough shape to get them both out of here.

Cold hands grabbed his ankle and zip tied it to the table again. He heard people talking and laughing behind him, and he wondered if more people had entered while he had been busy deep-throating his gun. It sounded like a fucking cocktail party.

Then he heard a snick of a knife opening, and he steeled himself for the sharp, bright pain of a blade. But it didn't come, instead he felt cold metal slide up along the inside of his calf. There was hardly any pressure, just the slow slide of the blade against his skin. The knife reached the thin skin at the back of his knee, and he startled at the sharp pinpoint of pain lit up his nerves. People laughed. He realized Whippet must have pressed the tip of it the knife into his skin. The discomfort was nothing in the grand scheme of things, but there was a blade behind that pinprick, a blade that could cause much more damage, and Clint had no desire to get too acquainted with it.

Whippet continued sliding the blade up slowly, zigzagging a little, and stopping every now and again to dig into Clint's skin. He kept going up. And up. Shit, Clint didn't want that knife anywhere near his balls. He heard Whippet hum under his breath as the knife continued up, and without really meaning to he rose on his toes, trying to get as far away from the blade as his restraints would allow him.

"I wonder," Whippet said, "what would happen if I did… this."

The tip dug cruelly into Clint's balls and he moved without conscious thought. He threw himself forward, but the restraints meant he got nowhere. The only thing he managed was putting more tension on the rope.

"Fuck him with this," someone shouted and a chorus of encouragement was heard.

Clint had no idea what 'this' was, but he was sure it wasn't something he would enjoy.

He was right. Whippet stepped away, and with the knife no longer at his balls Clint felt like he could breathe again. Then Whippet came around to the front and fisted his fingers in Clint's hair. He held up a sturdy, black nightstick.

"How about I shove this up your ass? Hmm?"

"I'm a little old for you, ain't I?" Clint looked at him from the very corner of his eye. He couldn't twist his head enough to look him straight in the face. "Elementary school seems more your deal. Hairless little bo—"

Whippet slammed Clint's face into the table, and the rope dealt its dual pain again.

"Watch your mouth, faggot."

Clint spat the fresh blood from his mouth. "I'm not the one playing with another man's balls."

Shrieks of laughter were heard from the rest of the gang, and Whippet slammed Clint's head down again with a sound of rage. Warm blood from Clint's busted nose started running down his chin.

Whippet dropped Clint's head and rounded the table, disappearing behind him. A moment later Clint felt the nightstick stab painfully at his asshole as Whippet tried to force it in. Shit. Getting that thing shoved up his ass dry would make him rip like paper. People were moving closer. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them. On the third attempt Whippet found the mark, and Clint couldn't contain a sharp sound as the nightstick pushed inside. The small crowd jeered and applauded, and Clint felt someone's hands on his ass, holding him open. Whippet shoved the nightstick deeper, and fuckfuckfuck, it hurt like a bitch. It caught on the sensitive skin as Whippet pulled it out again, and the cruel catching and pulling of skin made Clint cry out again. He remembered the advice Shield doled out in various classes. If it can't be avoided, stand down. Don't fight it. Don't tense up if you can help it, it will only make it hurt worse. Well, whoever thought you could relax when being fucked dry with a nightstick obviously hadn't had first-hand experience. He clenched his fingers into fists behind his back

Then something else pressed against his ass, and pain flared brighter when it forced its way inside along the nightstick. It was like sandpaper, low-grit, desert dry sandpaper, and he was sure he bleeding now. It was getting hard to remember to keep his head up when all his body wanted to do was to move away from the pain. Whippet forced the nightstick in another two cruel inches and another burst of clapping and cheering was heard when Clint cried out again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to contain the trembles throughout his body that were growing into shaking.

"Fuck, you're tight," a new voice said from behind, and Clint suddenly realized the thing in him was a finger.

"Good thing we have time to stretch you a little," Whippet said and pulled the nightstick out almost all the way, then shoved it back in. He twisted it painfully. "I mean, we don't want to hurt you. We're not animals, after all."

"Go fuck a ferret," Clint ground out. The finger did something that made him sure he was being gutted from the inside.

"Oh, I like that sound," Finger man said, and did it again.

"You'll hear more of it," Whippet promised. "I'm gonna fuck him up real good. For Freddy and Castor." Clint heard the sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothes.

Okay, so the main show was coming up.

"Hey, there's a hose here," someone said, and water started to run somewhere. "Wanna clean 'im out? Fill 'im up so full he looks fucking pregnant?" Clint twitched as a splash of cold water landed on his back. A few in the posse cursed at whoever was holding the hose.

"You wanna play those kinds of fucked up games, you're doing it after I'm gone."

Clint heard the crinkle of foil and spared a fleeting thought of gratitude that Whippet wasn't going to fuck him bareback. Not counting the upside of avoiding STDs, the small amount of slick on the condom would probably help at least a little tiny bit, because his cock would be so much worse than the nightstick.

The finger withdrew from Clint's body. It was just as painful going out as it had been going in and he sucked in a sharp breath. Jesus. This was just the beginning and he already hurt so fucking bad. Whippet pumped the nightstick a few more vicious times, then pulled it out, and Clint heard it clatter to the ground across the room.

Before the burn had subsided, Whippet's cock pressed against his ass and he filled his lungs in a deep and very deliberate inhalation. Breathe. Breathe through it. The cock felt huge and hot against his asshole, and fuck, this was going to hurt like a motherfucker. Whippet lined himself up and pressed forward. As his cock overcame the initial resistance, Clint forgot all about breathing deeply and evenly and he cried out.

"Told you I was gonna make you scream."

Whippet grabbed his cuffed wrists and pulled them towards himself, forcing Clint to arch his back to try to keep the rope from tensing up too much. He drew a thick, raspy breath, struggling for air as Whippet continued to fuck into him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the bite of metal against his wrists, on the gritty concrete floor under his feet, on the dank smell of motor oil and old, rusty machinery. He cast around for anything to concentrate on, other than the burn in his lungs and the pain that gripped at his insides with razor claws.

Whippet pushed in deep, then pulled out completely, only to shove back in. Again and again and again, and Clint rocked forward with every thrust, his breath wheezing and his hips digging painfully into the rough edge of the table. Whippet finally let go of his cuffs, thank god, and Clint almost choked on the huge gulps of air his lungs demanded.

Whippet leaned over his back as he pounded into Clint's body. "You like this, don't you?"

Clint flipped him off behind his back with both hands, but even that little movement was agony. His shoulders were on fire, stretched to their very limit. His neck and arms and core muscles were already hurting from the prolonged strain of holding his hands as far up his back as he could and keeping his head tilted back. There would come a point in the not too distant future when he wouldn't be able to maintain the position, and then he'd choke himself out. Maybe that was Whippet's plan. Fucking Clint while he choked himself to death. Snuff movie in the making, he thought, unreasonably and illogically giggly for a moment.

Whippet kept moving inside him. There was no getting used to it, no adjustment to make it easier, it just hurt, deep and horrible as his insides protested the violent intrusion. Cold sweat alternated with waves of sickly heat across his skin, and with every thrust, Clint's breath was forced out of him. Then the pain went from bad to fucking blinding as Whippet's fingers closed like a vise around his balls. The crowd cheered as he screamed and struggled against the bonds. The few brain cells that weren't busy howling with pain whispered that maybe choking himself out would be preferable to this. Whippet gave one last, cruel squeeze, before letting go and Clint sobbed with relief, even as the man kept fucking him.

By now his muscles were trembling with the effort of keeping the rope from tightening. It didn't take many minutes before he could only hold the difficult position for a few seconds at a time. From outside his narrow little circle of pain, he could hear what sounded like bottles clinking and a betting pool being set up, but the voices were quickly becoming irrelevant, because he was strangling himself slowly.

He tried desperately to lessen the pressure over his throat, but he couldn't. His lungs started burning and true panic was just starting to build inside when the rope suddenly fell away. Clint collapsed forward, coughing and panting hoarsely, finally able to rest his cheek against the table and let his hands slide down his back.

"What the fuck?" he heard Whippet ask. He sounded pissed off.

"Didn't want him passing out and missing all the fun that's lined up," Finger guy said. "He was starting to look a little blue."

The sound of the door opening and closing was heard.

"This him?" someone asked.

"Yep. Pretty enough for you, Babbit?"

A hand fisted in Clint's hair and lifted his head again, tilting it sharply up, and another man looked down at him. Older, dirtier, and with a beer belly spilling over his belt. The guy grinned down at him, showing a black gap where a front tooth should be.

"He's got a real pretty mouth. I think I'm gonna fuck it." He spoke with a thick Virginia twang that Clint suspected came from generations of inbreeding and militia isolation.

"Shocker," someone snorted.

"Babbit, you'd fuck a pencil sharpener if you could get your dick in."

A mix of laughter and wincing was heard.

Two of Babbit's fingers pressed against Clint's lips, and fuck that, he wasn't taking anything in his mouth. He tried to bite, but Babbit was too quick and golden sparks flared before Clint's eyes as Babbit punched him hard. The man grabbed Clint's chin tightly and forced his head back up. As he smiled down, all dark and mean as a junk yard dog, Clint realized that as bad as things had been this far, his trouble had probably just multiplied by ten.

"Let's try this again, Purdy," Babbit said. "You gonna open yer mouth. I even feel teeth, your friend will regret it. Lots of ways to hurt someone and not kill 'em, you know."

Clint glared up at him. Yes, there sure were, and he was intimately familiar with a whole lot of them. So would these guys be if Clint got his hands on them.

"Gonna bite?"

Clint glowered and shook his head.

"Good boy," Babbit grinned. "Now, open up."

For the second time that day, Clint found himself with shit stuffed into his mouth. But at least it wasn't the asshole's cock, like he had promised. The two fingers that pressed into his mouth were dirty, streaked with what looked like oil and rust. There were black crescents under the nails, and Clint tried to not think too much about where those hands might have been as Babbit rubbed the pads of his fingers against Clint's tongue.

Babbit kept them there for a few seconds, moved them back and forth, then he pushed deeper. Clint winced as the nails scraped painfully against the tender back of his throat, but Babbit didn't stop until his knuckles were pressed against Clint's lips. For a moment Clint managed to suppress the urge to retch and pull away, because Tony would be the one to pay for any disobedience, not him. But then Babbit curled his fingers, and suddenly it was too much, too deep, and he gagged violently, his body seizing up as it attempted to expel the foreign object. The tightening of his muscles sent another jolt of pain down his spine and ass, and Clint's muffled cry mixed with a groan from Whippet. He coughed and pulled away from the fingers, blinking against the tears that the retching had triggered. A hand in his hair prevented him from getting very far.

"Don't you pull back, boy. Keep 'em in there."

"Do that again," Whippet demanded hoarsely. "Made him tighten up real nice."

Babbit laughed. "I know. Makes the loosest whore feel like a fourteen year-old virgin."

"Until they lose the puke reflex," someone chuckled.

Babbit pressed his fingers against Clint's lips again, and Clint wanted with all his heart to turn away and refuse, wanted to bite his goddamn fingers off, but he needed to keep Tony safe, so he swallowed thickly and reluctantly opened his mouth after a few seconds of silent defiance. He made a sound of protest as the fingers went deep again, and Babbit's knuckles wedged his mouth open so wide Clint thought for a moment his jaw was going to break. This time, his gag reflex was already awake and on alert, and forcing it into submission, even for a few second, was impossible. Whippet groaned, long and loud as Clint's stomach twisted sharply and he gagged on Babbit's fingers again. God, the sick fuck was going to make him to puke.

But Babbit pulled out a little again and let Clint cough wetly around the fingers for a moment. Saliva ran down his chin. Clint only got a few seconds of respite the fingers went deep again, and this time Babbit didn't let up. For the next stretch of eternity he pulled string after string of ugly, choking sounds out of Clint, his body clenching involuntarily, painfully around Whippet's cock. Then his body decided that enough was enough, and Clint squeezed his eyes shut. A few disgusted groans and leering cat calls rose from the on-lookers as vomit forced its way past the fingers lodged in his aching throat and dribbled down his chin onto the table, mixing with the blood there. He coughed and shuddered, and viciously hoped they were sympathetic pukers, the whole fucking lot of them.

"Yeah, that's it," he heard Whippet rasp as the man increased the force behind his thrusts, driving Clint forward onto the punishing fingers. "Again."

Any hope he had that Babbit would be put off by the puke that coated his hand and wrist died when he started fucking Clint's throat with his fingers again. The front of his dirty pants was tented. Sick fucking fuck. Clint was going to gut this guy, was going to make him eat his own entrails. Another rush of vomit rushed up his throat and splattered down onto the table. More this time. Babbits fist connected painfully with his ear.

"Watch the teeth."

Babbit kept finger-fucking Clint's increasingly raw throat, and eventually Whippet's breath started getting harsh. Babbit's other hand was moving inside his pants. Whippet's nails dug deep into Clint's skin as he grunted and finally gave a few vicious, deep thrusts and stopped moving, buried balls-deep in Clint's ass.

Cheers and the sound of bottles knocked against each other were heard. "One down, four to go," someone said.

"Fuck," Whippet gasped behind Clint.

Babbit stopped moving his fingers, but didn't remove them until Whippet pulled out of Clint.

"Good boy." Babbit said and wiped the mess that coated them across Clint's cheek before he rounded the table, disappearing out of view behind Clint.

Someone gripped the back of Clint's neck and pushed his face down. Ugh. Fuck. Clint closed his eyes and turned his head away from the mess below him, but there wasn't much he could do to stop the guy from pressing the side of his face into the still warm vomit. He was held there for a few seconds, then the man let go. Clint twisted his head and tried to wipe his cheek against his shoulder, tried to get the foul-tasting stuff from his lips, but he couldn't reach.

The room went quiet, and nasty anticipation was thick in the air. There was no sound of foil ripping, just a chink-clink of a belt being undone and the rustle of clothes. Clint looked over his shoulder just in time to see Babbit step into the spot between his legs that Whippet had just left, cock in hand. From behind, the hiss of a beer bottle being opened was heard.

"Shit, you're hung like a fucking horse," someone called out with awe in his voice.

Babbit started pushing inside, and Clint gritted his teeth against the pressure that grew and grew with every second. Fuck. His fingers curled into fists behind his back. Whippet had been bad, but this bastard was bigger, a lot bigger, and even though the condom hadn't felt like it eased the way much, it had helped, he realized. His breath hitched on a cry as he felt skin tearing around the cock that Babbit was pressing into his reluctant body. A deep tremble was starting up in his legs, spreading through his body. Then Babbit suddenly pushed deep, and Clint screamed as the pain escalated sharply into something larger and deeper and much more terrible. He twisted against the cuffs.

"Tight little whore, this one," Babbit growled and started moving in earnest.

A warm trickle ran down Clint's leg. He was bleeding. How badly? Was he bleeding inside, too? He reached desperately behind him to push Babbit away (get off get off get off) but he couldn't reach, his fingertips skimmed uselessly against the front of the man's shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut as Babbit fucked into him. This was agony, this was what Whippet had felt like times infinity, and there was no way he could keep the near continuous sounds of pain inside.

He hoped Tony didn't have to listen.

"He got even tighter when you finger fucked his throat," Whippet laughed, still a little breathless.

Babbit leaned over Clint's back, trapping his arms painfully between their bodies. "Come on, darlin'," he drawled. His filthy fingers came around from behind, pressing into Clint's mouth again. "Show Daddy what you can do."