#hunksmut

There are no safe words in Umbrella’s black sites—only protocols. You learned that the hard way.

One mistake. That’s all it took. A single botched line of code during the extraction sequence. The delay cost the team a man—maybe two—and compromised the integrity of the mission. But H.U.N.K. doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t show anger. He doesn’t need to. You see it in the precision of his stride, in the way he locks eyes with you beneath the blackened visor. There’s no forgiveness in that mask. No expression. Just mission parameters—data, discipline... and you. The outlier. The anomaly he’s been assigned to correct.

Instead of logging the error in your personnel file, he gestures. Silent. Orders without words. You follow, heart pounding, every step echoing off sterile tile and steel. Down through reinforced corridors, deeper into Umbrella’s restricted sectors, past labs and holding rooms until the air turns cold and dry.

You’ve never been to the training cell below Sublevel Six. It hums with sterility, the kind of space never meant for observation—only execution. It’s nearly soundproofed. Sealed. Lit only by strips of flickering white above the chamber’s center—where the pillory waits like an altar of correction.

Steel stocks. Electro-locks. Bolted to a concrete platform like an execution stage.

H.U.N.K. moves behind you. The click of his gloves is almost soothing in its regularity. He presses a palm to your back, pushes you toward the frame, and without a word, binds you in. Chin down. Arms through. Legs parted and secured at the base. The cold bites instantly at your skin.

You can’t see him. You can only feel the weight of his presence behind you.

“You know the protocol for disobedience,” his modulated voice murmurs, low and unfeeling. “This is not personal. This is correction.”

The click of a latch. The drag of reinforced leather against your skin. Then—

CRACK.

You flinch forward. Not from pain, but the sheer sound—like a whip against glass. Your knees buckle within the brace.

“One. Thank you, sir.”

Again. This time it bites. Across the lower curve of your ass. Fire blooms in your spine.

“Two. Thank you, sir.”

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t check in. Just strikes.

Three. Four. Five. Each one harder, placed with exact precision—beneath the swell of your ass, the top of your thighs, across the base of your spine. You count, voice trembling, tears already burning the corners of your eyes. He never speaks. Doesn’t need to. Every command is implied.

By ten, your thighs are slick, trembling. By fifteen, your cunt clenches around nothing, raw with need. The air stinks of sweat and restraint. Still, he does not stop.

At twenty, he tosses the strap aside.

Gloved fingers drag over your abused skin, testing. You flinch at every brush. Your body is trembling so hard the steel shakes around you. Then—cool gel, clinical, dispensed from a tube. He spreads it without warning, slick between your cheeks, across your hole.

Then a second hand joins the first—between your thighs. Two fingers inside you, curled and unforgiving. You writhe, trying not to cry out, but the gag he affixes next makes it moot. Leather. Strapped in tight. A ball to silence you.

“Too loud,” he says. “Protocol requires silence.”

Then the plug. Huge. Unrelenting. Cold.

He doesn’t stretch you. Doesn’t prepare you. Just pushes until your body gives. The plug seats deep, wide enough to burn, heavy enough that you feel it settle behind your cunt like a second heartbeat, thudding in time with your pulse.

And then he fucks you. Without warning, his cock—hard, hot, brutal—presses into your dripping cunt. The stretch is overwhelming. Too full. Plugged. Gagged. Pinned.

He fucks you like a drill. No praise. No name. Just breath and thrust and grip. His hands clamp your hips like restraints. His rhythm is relentless—brutal, deep, calibrated for devastation.

You scream around the gag. Muffled. Useless.

Tears stream freely now. Every nerve alight. His cock slams into you again and again, slapping your ass, shaking the entire pillory. Your body is drenched in sweat. Your pussy flutters, overstimulated and helpless. Your ass burns from the plug, from the strikes, from the weight of him.

You come without permission—ripped from you in spasms, helpless and raw. The climax tears through you, violent, consuming.

Then again. And again. Your vision whites out. Your body convulses. The gag catches your cries. Your breath turns ragged, shallow. Your mind teeters.

He fucks you through it. Until your limbs stop responding. Until you can no longer sob—only shake.

Then he comes. No grunt. No shout. Just the hard, final press of his body as he spills deep inside you.

He pulls out slow. Deliberate. Letting you feel every inch slide from your ruined hole.

Then silence. He removes the gag. The straps. The plug. One by one. His gloves are stained. Your thighs are soaked. He crouches. Lifts your chin with a finger.

“Good soldier,” he says.

Then he’s gone. His footsteps fade, swallowed by the cold. You’re left in silence—raw, open, trembling in the dark. The echo of the pillory creaks faintly in your ears. Your pulse pounds in your throat.