Helping Hands—18+
dark fiction
Dark (duh)!Soldierboy x Two Original female characters
Summery: two girls helping Ben to jerk off
Warnings: very dark and unforgiving, soldierboy should be a warning enough ⚠️
The air in the suite smelled like expensive bourbon. Soldierboy sat on the edge of the oversized bed, chest bare, looking violent and alive.
To his left was the blonde and to his right, the brunette. They were beautiful, sure, but to him, they were just props Vought shoved in his ass to keep him smiling.
"Focus," Ben growled, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. He didn't use his hands for his own pleasure. He couldn't even remember the last time he had to jerk himself off. There was always a bitch ready to help. He reached out, his thick, fingers wrapping firmly around each of the girls throats. He wasn't squeezing, not yet.
"Start moving," he commanded. "And don't get lazy."
Their hands gripped his hard cock, their movements synchronized and frantic as they worked to please a man who viewed their effort as his birthright. Ben leaned back slightly, his thumbs pressing just enough against their windpipes to make their breaths hitch.
"Look at you," he sneered, his eyes darting between the blonde and the brunette. "A couple of star-struck little things, desperate for a taste of the real deal. You think this makes you special? You’re just a way to kill twenty minutes before I find a better drink."
As the friction intensified, so did the pressure of his grip. He watched with a predatory satisfaction as their pupils dilated and their faces began to flush a deep pink. The blonde’s eyes started to flutter, her grip faltering as her brain screamed for oxygen.
"Did I tell you to stop, kid?" he barked, tightening his hold. "Keep going. If you pass out before I'm finished, I’m kicking you out into the hall buck-naked. Move those hands."
The brunette let out a weak, wheezing sound, her soft fingers trembling against him, struggling to keep it going. She knew that making him cum was the only way to get through this alive. She was fighting to stay conscious, her focus split between the task at hand and the fading light at the edges of her vision.
"That’s it," Ben whispered, a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fight for it. Show me you’re worth the air I’m letting you have. You’re nothing but pretty little trophies, and right now, you’re failing the audition."
He held them on that razor-thin edge, all while lashing insults out on them. He was not only taking their breath he was also taking their dignity, and in the cold, hard world of Soldier Boy, that was the only way he knew to get off.
The blonde’s head lolled back, her eyes rolling into her head as the world turned to gray static. Her hand slowed, her fingers slipping uselessly against him.
"Wake up, sweetheart," Ben hissed. He didn't let go. He shifted his grip to bring her back to the present. "I didn't give you permission to sleep. You're here to work."
She gasped, a thin, pathetic sound as a bit of air rushed into her lungs. Beside her, the brunette was in no better condition. Her chest was heaving in a desperate, silent rhythm, her face slick with sweat and tears she didn't have the breath to shed.
"Look at you both," Ben chuckled, the sound dark. "Pathetic. You’re disposable. You realize that, right?"
He increased the pace of his own hips, forcing them to keep up with his rising heat. His hands remained like iron collars, anchoring them to his whims. Every time the blonde’s eyelids drooped, he gave a sharp, controlled squeeze, forcing her back into the room, back into this nightmare.
"You like being used like this, don't you?" he mocked, leaning in so close his breath fanned over the brunettes damp skin. "To be reminded that you’re just a couple of nameless bodies in a hero's bed? You’re lucky I’m even looking at you."
The room seemed to shrink as his climax neared. The air was heavy, charged with the scent of their fear and his overwhelming dominance. The brunettes grip was white-knuckled now, her entire body shaking as she fought the darkness, her vision tunneling until all she could see was the cold, blue steel in Soldier Boy's eyes.
"Almost there," he growled, his voice dropping dangerous. "Don’t you dare go dark on me now. Finish it."
With one final, punishing squeeze that sent them both to the very brink of blacking out, Ben let out a sharp, jagged exhale as his hot semen painted their chests white. It was so inhumanly hot it almost burned their skins and left a mark. He watched them, half-conscious, gasping, and utterly broken. He watched with the detached satisfaction of a man who had just finished a drink. As he finally released his hold, they collapsed onto the silk sheets like discarded dolls, their lungs burning as they finally, greedily, sucked in the air.
"Clean yourselves up," he said, already reaching for the bourbon on the nightstand without looking back. "I’m bored of you."
The heavy silence of the room was broken only by the sound of Ben’s glass clinking. On the bed, the blonde and the brunette lay tangled in a mess of limbs and damp sheets. Their lungs burned, every breath feeling like swallowing glass as the oxygen rushed back into their systems.
The blonde’s hand shook as she reached out, her fingers brushing against the brunette’s arm. They had been "assigned" to Ben six months ago. Vought’s way of keeping their most volatile asset "stable." In the corporate brochures, they were elite companies, young, pretty and trained for this kind of work, but in this room, they were punching bags for a man who didn't know how to touch anything without trying to break it.
He actually did it this time, the blonde thought, her throat throbbing with the distinct, terrifying pulse of a bruise forming. He wanted to see the light go out.
She looked at the brunette, whose soft skin was painted by the angry red imprints of Ben’s fingers. The brunette’s eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling, glossed over with a thousand-yard stare that made the blonde’s stomach turn.
"Don't just lay there," Ben muttered from the armchair, drink in hand, not even glancing their way. "The sound of your wheezing is giving me a headache. Get in the shower."
The brunette flinched at the sound of his voice. Her mind was a chaotic loop of the last five minutes, the way the room had turned into a tunnel of black, the way Ben’s face had stayed so terrifyingly calm while he squeezed the life out of her. To him, it was a power trip; to her, it was the realization that she was a meaningless puppet for a company much bigger than her life.
We’re just equipment, the brunette thought, a cold, numb sensation spreading through her chest. Like his shield. Something to be used, scuffed up, and polished back for the next time he's bored.
Slowly, they sat up, supporting each other. The blonde’s legs felt like lead, and the brunette had to catch her by the waist to keep her from slipping off the bed. They didn't speak. They couldn't. Anything they said would be recorded by the bugs in the walls or overheard by the man who treated murder like a foreplay technique.
As they retreated into the bathroom, the click of the door provided the only shred of false safety they had.
The blonde turned on the water, the steam filling the room to mask their whispers.
She looked at the brunette in the mirror. The bruises on their necks were identical, a matching set of Soldier Boy’s fingerprints.
"We’re okay," the blonde whispered, though her voice was a shredded wreck.
The brunette leaned her forehead against the cool tile, her body finally starting to tremble. "He’s going to kill us one of these days. And Vought is just going to send a cleaning crew and two new girls."
"I know," the blonde breathed, pulling her friend into a tight, desperate embrace.
They stood there under the spray, two friends who were supposed to be the envy of every star-chaser in the city, holding onto each other for dear life.
"It could be worse.. ", the blonde whispered.
"How?"
"We could be going through this alone..."
The blonde was right. They were serving a "hero" who was the most dangerous thing they had ever encountered, but they had each other.