Archive of Our Own ^beta

Albert Wesker couldn’t focus. He’d been pacing half the morning back and forth across his laboratory, as the reports of the BSAA’s latest nosing into his experimental sites in Kijuju had left a sour taste in his mouth and an edge of unease to his temperament.

Something about seeing the face of his old foe Jill Valentine, whom he hadn’t seen since that fateful night at the Spencer Estate, had brought about in him a great sense of visceral anger. As if he couldn’t quite believe the gall of Valentine of all people causing him problems even after all that had happened.

His anger too was directed at his puppet – Excella’s plaything he had fashioned for her to utilise in the initial stages of testing his strain of uroboros to unsuspecting locals. Of course it had not been wholly pleasant lending the man he had effectively made to the woman. Given that should Chris be injured during his missions he could not be replaced. But he was unfortunately first and foremost serving TRICELL until Uroboros was finalised and he could enact the final stages of his plans.

Anger was such a vile emotion. One that only served to remind him of his failures, and the failures of those around him too incompetent to meet his demands, and to remind him that he was so greatly disappointed that Chris would be the one to let him down so greatly. Perhaps he should’ve expected it. Redfield and Valentine had been such a notorious partnership once upon a time, perhaps this was Chris’ first successful attempt at rebellion even within the strongest dosage of the P30.

Perhaps that meant it was time to truly test whether or not it was still effective.

The blonde leaned back against his desk and faced the wall – a stretch of bookshelf, lined with his own notes and research amongst others and leatherbound volumes from Spencer’s collection. A button on his desk prompted a click, and he observed the wall as it slid back to reveal what could only be described as a specimen tank glowing a faint blue. Inside was the model of his man, where he had kept him ever since he’d returned from his mission – having failed – and currently enduring his slightly lighter punishment.

Strapped in, naked, Chris Redfield glared down at him with those same old eyes. Face still, expressionless, unmoving as the P30 pulsed within the arachnoid device steeled into the skin of his chest, filling his veins with the potent chemical compound which made the once headstrong and defiant man supple and submissive to Wesker’s demands. Whatever he asked, whatever he commanded, whatever he did. And Chris would stand silent and obey, even as the eyes retained that bitter hatred of a man trapped inside a body that no longer followed his own will.

In the tank his legs were spread apart, and Chris stood, trembling a little, as a machine whirred between them. A thick dildo mounted on a machine whirred and clicked, thrusting in and out of his swollen, dripping asshole. Tugging it out a little with each extraction, and pushing the puffy rim back inside again as it re-entered. It had been one of the few punishments Excella herself had suggested – after Albert had quite sternly refused to have the man raped – and he had admittedly come to enjoy the visual of his best man having his guts slowly loosened and drawn from his body. Supple, soft, unable to cry or beg as he was fucked until his body began to lose its sense of what shape it was supposed to be.

His penis was encased in another device. It pumped it slowly, collecting each drop of his orgasms as they came – far far weaker and dry after almost four hours of continuous stimulation. By now the poor man had to be on the verge of passing out. Cumming, cumming, unable to plead for mercy as his soft and oversensitive cock was pumped until he was in utter agony. And still he couldn’t even sob, forced to endure, to stare forward, as the machine slurped about him and filled a small container with his thin white fluid.

Wesker pressed another button and the tank door slid open, and the restraints loosened from about Chris’ wrists. Not that they were wholly necessary. Wesker just enjoyed seeing him a little tied up.

“Chris,” he said, unable to hide the snap of aggression in his tone. “Come here.”

The machines slowed to a stop, and Chris weakly stumbled out from the tank. He almost crumpled as he stepped down to the floor of the office, skin wet and slick with his sweat, plastering his hair to his head, his limbs visibly trembling now his imposing muscular build had lost some of its impression.

He stood before Wesker. Straight and tall. Staring dead ahead. His brown eyes dark with rage that did not translate to the ambiguous blank of his face, hands neatly tucked behind his back; Chris always had been such a well-trained boy. The army had done him some good in that regard.

Wesker reached out and gripped the man’s flaccid, swollen cock in his leather-gloved hand and gave it a squeeze. He clicked his tongue in disgust, massaging it painfully hard, until he was satisfied it could not even attempt to harden. After so long in the suction machine it had gained an odd puffiness, the glans naturally popping out from the foreskin bright red and swollen, glistening wet.

“What a vile appendage,” he said thinly, “floppy, useless thing. I imagine a person might have more fun playing with a dead animal.”

He could see Chris’ forehead tense, but again the man could not speak or even utter much more than a soft exhale of pain as his master tugged his limp cock and crushed the shaft with his inhuman strength. Wesker cupped below, squeezing Chris’ balls. They sagged low, equally swollen and overused. And hopefully quite empty by now.

“Whilst you’ve been squirting your brains out, Chris, your imbecilic Alliance have been sniffing about, causing me a world of headaches once again.”

He continued to squeeze and fondle the man’s balls, hairless and smooth after Wesker had taken his sweet time waxing them after one of Chris’ mistakes earlier in the week. It had been satisfying then to hear his stifled whimpers of absolute white-raw pain as the hot wax melted onto his most delicate skin. Even more so his stifled throaty cries as he’d ripped it off again. Little strips of fuzzy brown hair. Dragging it out as long as he could.

Of all of Chris, he’d found his testicles the most offensive of his body.

Bulbous, so red they almost became purple, and once so hairy it was enough to turn one’s stomach. Chris never had been good at personal grooming but to think he had the audacity to keep producing sperm into such a flabby, repulsive receptacle was enough to make any self-respecting man frown.

Albert Wesker had become rather proficient in the art of asexual reproduction during his building of his tyrants – perfect in their visibly sexless bodies. Smooth and streamlined. And Chris Redfield had thought his repulsive, human form would still somehow overcome a superior race. The balls he was crushing in his palm still continued to swell and fill with seed; perhaps it was why he’d focused so much on punishing them beyond all other aspects of his toy.

“Find the crop, Chris. The small one,” he gave his command, remembering the riding crop of biting sharp leather that never failed to work its charms upon Chris’ unwilling backside. “And get on all fours on my desk. I suspect it’s been far too long since our last session, and your genitals have started to give you unsavoury, unwanted ideas about our dear Miss Valentine. Goodness knows what you’ll do if she comes to rescue you now.”

Chris turned, silent and still shaking as his impressive cock flopped uselessly between his thighs as he walked to the display case on the right side of the room. Below Wesker’s proudly displayed weapons rested the crop in question – amongst several others – and the man picked it out and held it in both hands as he returned to his master, who’d busied himself finding a coil of thin rope from the drawer of his desk.

“Present,” said the man in black, dull as if bored already. And he took the crop and watched beyond the blackout of his glasses as Chris climbed onto the desk and rested on all fours. Head lowered, legs a little spread. His balls hung low, and Wesker gave them a harsh pinch until they began to retract a little upwards again, and beads of sweat began to appear on them. Pain seemed to be the only way he could illicit any kind of reaction from his boy anymore.

“You mean to offend me with this?” He asked sourly, rubbing over the puffy rim of Chris’ hole, and the hint of his red rosebud attempting to flower out from his anal cavity. It was glossy with lubricant, so beaten by the machine it had turned a deep, almost purpling scarlet. Disgusted, the older man fingered it back inside and gave Chris’ hole a sharp slap.

“You’ve greatly disappointed me as of late, Christopher,” he continued coldly as he began to tie the base of Chris’ balls, stretching them down and extending the rope to the man’s thighs, drawing Chris’ balls out from his body and exposing them swollen and purple in the light. In the perfect position for a good busting.

“I come to check on my pet, only to see he’s shamelessly prepared to show me such a foul, sloppy asshole and a manhood so pathetic I ought to castrate you for your own self-respect.”

He'd considered it already, of course. Handing Chris a knife and having him cut his own penis and balls off before having him sit at the table, whilst he lightly panfried them with butter and thyme in a cast iron skillet, and made the man eat them. He wondered if the P30 had the ability to prevent a man from vomiting, even whilst he was choking down his own cooked penis. But for the sake of the moment it was far more fun beating them black and blue.

The day he’d finally castrated his boy was the day Chris was no longer Chris Redfield, and instead would find himself on the receiving end of his own dose of Uroboros. And should he survive initial infection? Well, Wesker would not punish the fruit of his loins.

Wesker stood back to admire his work, feeling the light weight of the whip between his two hands. Whilst he could not claim he felt significant pleasure in the sense most people might at the concept of torturing the man who had once loved him; there was a dull ache in his pelvic region at that sweet anticipation. To hear the crack of the whip on tender flesh, to see Chris’ testes tighten and bruise and sweat, whilst his pathetic cock dripped like an open faucet onto the lacquered wood.

“You understand why I must do this, don’t you, Chris?” He asked. Voice soft, cool, a little empty. He was dragging the cold leather tip of the crop over the man’s balls just to watch them flinch. The P30 couldn’t stop such natural reactions.

“Punishment… pain… it brings one closer to their god, does it not?” He gave them a light tap with the crop, and heard a soft grunt from the chest of his stilled man. “Each time I must beat it into you, do you not feel satisfied afterward, knowing you have been brought ever closer to me?”

Chris was silent. But Wesker could almost hear the screams of his hatred, almost drink in that air of a man who wanted nothing more than to turn about and tear him to shreds with his bare hands. He wanted to hear Chris spit his slew of abuse, but with the P30 dialled up to full intensity it would be impossible to draw such intelligible words from his tongue. And yet he did so miss that imbecilic, classic aggression; that edge of bitter betrayal Chris hadn’t been able to shift since he was still Wesker’s pet piggy back in 1998.

How that twenty-five-year-old starry-eyed fool might’ve reacted to discover in ten years’ time he would be waiting for his master and beloved Captain to beat his balls to pulp as he could do nothing but take it and take it, and go back to work with them so bruised and swollen between his legs each step would be crippling agony.

It delighted Wesker beyond words.

He had never thought himself a considerable sadist before. He had never thought of himself as much of an individual before Chris in general.

With the tip of the crop, he gave the bound balls a gentle, tender stroke, all the way down to his thick and useless penis.

“You have endured so well so far, Christopher. Don’t disappoint me now, and take it like a man.”

He raised the crop and brought it down almost lightly upon the man’s balls. The resultant shudder up Chris’ entire body, and his muffled ‘mmph!’ of shock ignited that tender flame in Albert Wesker’s gut, and he raised the crop again to lay down the wrath of god upon his thrall.

Snap! the whip smacked Chris’ balls hard, and again, and again; snap, snap, snap. And Wesker raised the whip and brought it down with increasing power, as with each harder snap of biting leather on tender balls, more grunts and gasps of pain were realised from the mouth of his slave. Chris’ gritted grunts, and intermingled pathetic ‘nhh!’s that resonated in the back of his throat. He knew he could not make those sounds, but the pain was so dire it seeped through the chains of his imprisonment and forced the agony up and out of him.

Wesker whipped them hard twenty times, before relenting briefly and tenderly stroking the swollen, almost purple balls hanging painfully between Chris’ thighs – some of the skin here and on his ass also bruised and marked from where the stick of the crop had cut into them. Pretty red lines in his smooth flesh.

In his waxy leather-gloved hand he fondled the testes, feeling how they pulsed achingly in his palm. Fat and heavy and so tender that when he squeezed them, Chris would make a soft whimpery ‘mmph…’ of pain through his nose, entire body trembling as he retained his position on the desk like a good little dog.

He tugged them hard, and Chris shuddered, silent enough that he could hear the tears of pain splash down onto the desktop. But he kept pulling, wondering if he may as well tear the offending items off now whilst he was angry enough to do so. But then his grip lapsed again, and he traced his thumb gently into each ball, admiring the silky soft skin there, and how beautifully purple suited Chris Redfield.

Then he raised his whip again, and brought it down hard on them. They jiggled and pulsed and tried to retract – but they were far too heavy to try and hide from Wesker’s brutal force. And again and again he continued the assault. Beating them hard enough that sweat began to bead on Chris’ ass, and it dripped down over his puckered, glossy asshole, innards again squeezing itself out from its sphincter in a gruesome red-rosebud as his body began to lose control of itself again.

“Vile boy,” he spat, cracking the whip down hard on the pink-fleshy innards and forcing Chris to almost collapse at the pain again. “You dare show me that whilst I discipline you?” He whispered, furious and cold, rubbing the flat of the crop over the delicate, soft folds of his rectum, “you think I might take pity on you and fuck your filthy, sloppy cunt?”

Chris of course could say nothing, his asshole flexing and winking, his balls throbbing and wet with sweat between his thighs.

“Can’t stand a minute away from the machine, hm?” He tossed the crop down onto the desk in disgust, and opened the bottom drawer, filled with other implements of carefully curated torture. But it was the little bottle with the words ‘Icy-Hot’ branded on it that he selected for his civic duty.

“If you want your asshole shoved back where it belongs so bad, Christopher, I suppose it must be done.”

He peeled off his leather gloves, and snapped on a temporary blue-latex ones, before filling his palm with the gel. It was a common rub for respiratory relief, when applied to the chest. But the simultaneous burning hot-cold sensation was enough to put tender, sensitive flesh through continuous itchy agony for hours until it fully absorbed. And Wesker had discovered it tended to make Christopher a little more pliant even when the P30 dosage was lowered.

With precision, he smeared a good palmful of it all over Chris’ trembling balls, massaging it into the skin and then groping further to stroke it over his sore and soft penis. If Chris was already in pain he was no longer making a sound, but the way his toes had clenched and the soft sound of tears continued to hit the wood told Wesker all he needed to know. He took another squirt of the gel onto his fingers, before stroking it around the poor man’s beaten and swollen anus, before gently pushing the ‘rosebud’ back into place inside, along with his fingers smeared in icy-hot.

Chris tensed as Wesker lazily finger fucked him, applying more gel every now and then until he was satisfied the man was doused inside with enough to keep him itching without the ability to scratch for the next few hours at least. Deep inside, burning, freezing, aching on his bruised rectum. Much like his balls which must’ve felt as if they were on fire, so plump and red and shiny after the application of the gel.

“Face me,” Wesker said at last. Chris gingerly turned his body and knelt facing him. Wesker admired the soft cock proud and large and flabby between Chris’ thighs. But it was his beautiful face that had Wesker’s pelvic region ache for him. Stained red and wet and sore. A blank expression of a man who had to pretend he felt nothing, whilst his red-rimmed wet brown eyes screamed and begged for it to end, for Wesker to have mercy. Inside his head where all he knew was pain and humiliation whilst his body allowed for more, more, more.

“Does it hurt, Christopher?” He mused, looking up into those sore, leaking eyes, as he fondled the man’s balls again, squeezing and tugging them until he felt quite satisfied they were well on their way to dire suffering. “I imagine it must feel like I filled you with alcohol and a lit match,” he almost smiled, vague and wonderous. “It’s a punishment, it must hurt. Now stay there and let’s see what offering you have for me today.”

He shucked his messy latex gloves and turned to approach the containment tank.

From the inside of the machine which had been milking the cock of his thrall ever since he’d put him away for the night, Wesker retrieved the tube filled with his watery semen. The first few loads were thicker near the bottom, but the last few were so thin they may as well have been water, maybe even a little piss. There was a good 300ml of it after hours of continuous, agonising pumping. And he shook it as he walked back to his silently crying boy, mixing up the viscous fluid into one cloudy seminal consistency.

“No wonder you’re looking so deflated today,” he whispered, holding it up for Chris to inspect. He could see the fear glimmer in Chris’ eyes, and he smirked. “But no, I won’t be making you drink it today, Christopher.” His eyes dropped, to the man’s soft penis. “I think I’ll put it back where it belongs, since you seem so aggrieved to have been milked of it in the first place.”

He snapped on a new pair of latex gloves and set the vial down as he prepared the catheter and syringe. Sterilising everything including the slit of Chris’ penis, just to make the big man wince in pain from the sting. Infection, again, was to be avoided in his play.

“Come now,” he spoke almost soothingly as he slipped the thin tube of the catheter into the slit of Chris’ penis, “it’s not as if I haven’t catheterised you before, my dear. And I must assure you the bladder can hold far more than what you have offered me here. The bladder of the average man holds around 700ml; but of course… I have not accounted for how full you might be already.”

He threaded the catheter in deep, until the tip of it poked into the man’s bladder and piss began to eagerly leak out from the other end. Wesker quickly lifted his cock up, gravity forcing it back into place, before he picked up the syringe and dipped it into the vial to fill up the first 100ml. He brought it to the end of the catheter, and injected it.

He watched as the thick white slowly seeped through the tube of the catheter and into his thrall’s cock. The first load, then the second, keeping a firm grip on the large member, until at last the third came and Chris gave a soft whimper of agony as his bladder was filled to bursting.

“One more, Christopher,” he murmured, “I’m quite certain you can take it.” He watched Chris’ face as he plunged the final load through the tube and into Chris, and then raked his eyes down to see the little bump in his abdomen where his bladder was so full it was hard.

“Good boy,” he soothed, sliding out the catheter and giving Chris’ sensitive cock a few firm pumps. A little glossy cum pissed itself out weakly from the slit, and he squeezed the base tight to prevent the spillage. “Ah ah, not yet,” he warned him, his other hand stroking Chris now. He couldn’t get hard, not in so much pain, and being stuck still in a refractory queue. But he enjoyed the imitation of offering pleasure whilst Chris trembled and sweated and had to kneel there begging to be allowed to empty his bladder with his hateful eyes.

“Going to burst, Redfield?” He whispered, mockingly, jerking him off with idle, knowledgeable rotations of his wrist. “I can’t imagine where you just keep getting all that cum from. It’s as if your vile body exists only to spread and spew its filth. No matter how often I drain you, you just keep on offering more.” He gave Chris’ cock a hard squeeze, before letting it go and aiming a harsh slap up against his balls.

Chris jerked, but didn’t move or speak. Brow furrowed, his cock dripping weakly. But when Wesker slapped his balls again with the full brunt of his palm, he stepped back as Chris emitted a pathetic, unhappy moan of painful relief. And his cock squirted out his entire bladderful of watery cum and piss onto the desk and spilled down to form a puddle of sloppy nastiness on Wesker’s office floor.

Wesker waited until Chris had finished relieving himself, before shaking his head in absolute revulsion. “Did that feel good, Christopher?” He asked, sounding sour and disgusted, and watching the furious blush creep up Chris’ stoic face and down to his chest. “The hero of the BSAA, pissing out his own cum all over my carpet,” he murmured, stepping into the puddle and stroking Chris’ soft cock again as the man made a soft grunt in his throat. “I ought to have you on your knees licking it up until you vomit.”

He met Chris’ gaze.

That beaten, shamed, miserable man he’d come to spite less and less as they played together, as he led Chris by the cock to his inescapable truth. That he was the abhorrence that put the human race to their shame. Controlled so wholly by his genitals, and yet he had followed their demands all throughout his miserable little life. Pain was the first thing no doubt applied to them that even began to show the man just what a liability they were. How grotesque, and deserving of punishment.

“My poor, poor, foul little man,” he whispered, watching fresh tears trickle from Chris’ eyes as he played with his pathetic cock and stroked out the final few droplets of piss-cum to the tip. It beaded there, pearly and white in the light of the office. “For too long you have lived without the balance that keeps you above your human inclinations. Pleasure without pain, it spoils a boy rotten. Ah… but you must think me such a cruel master, to force pleasure upon you only until it hurts, hm?”

Chris glared at him, twitching a little from the burning itch in his asshole and around his sore cock and balls.

“You want pleasure, Christopher? Yes… even after all I’ve taught you…” he gave a mock sigh of disappointment, before dipping his head and sucking the dew from the tip of Chris’ penis. Salty, warm, bitter, glossy. He swirled his tongue around the head and took the fat length into his mouth. Soft and flabby, entirely boneless, just how he liked it. And as he suckled on it and crushed Chris’ balls in his palm, he gave a sharp little moan of his own phantom pleasure just at the consideration that toying with his oversensitive boy would only serve to make Chris hurt more.

He could feel the icy-hot burning on his tongue as he suckled and kissed the soft flesh of his penis. Too big, no subtlety, stinking of ‘man’. Slurping up semen and saliva and piss as he gave him sloppy, unsatisfactory head. If Chris even tried to harden it was to no avail, squirting out little flecks of piss-cum into Wesker’s mouth which he drank without even a thought to it. It was his duty, as Chris’ master, to control his fluids and his mating implements. To own and devour everything, so nothing else might feed from him.

Wesker pulled his head away from Chris’ cock, glossy now with saliva, and thumbed affectionately at the stretched slit and the winking little hole of his urethra.

In all honesty he could sit here and suck it all day long, forcing Chris to shed more gorgeous tears as he was offered pleasure but felt only crippling pain. Wanting to push his master away, wanting so desperately to die rather than have another orgasm wrenched from his body. How sweet temptation was to make Chris his primary concern – as perhaps he may always have been. Excella would not allow it, however. She turned a blind eye where she could to Wesker’s blatant sexual sadism with what was effectively her servant, but she would not allow Wesker to keep him from performing his daytime duties.

Wesker just could not bear to fully part with his Christopher – not now he finally had him in his clutches. And could right his wrongs, and start him down the path of enlightenment. A smooth pelvis of nothing, and Wesker could finally make him beautiful.

“You always did have such an uncanny ability to make my work so messy, Christopher,” he chuckled, wiping his chin from the various bodily fluids. “I think I may allow you to wake up for a little bit, I’m in the mood to hear you scream a little, now you’ve got me feeling hot and bothered.”

But before he lowered the P30 dosage, he walked back to the shelves, and slid open the cupboard below to the selection of brutal appendages. Some for the fucking machine, some just for Wesker’s pleasure, and a few with a useful suction cup on the base. He selected one, spiny and large, and brought it back to present it to his slave.

“Yes, you have come to love this one best,” he smiled as he read the terror in Chris’ eyes at the sight of it. The soft, rubbery spikes effective at tugging his rectum back out just a little with each bump of his hips as he rode. A most wonderful selection indeed. He stuck it on the desk and admired how the tip almost reached Chris’ navel as the man knelt before it. “Take it inside,” he commanded, softly, “it’ll scratch that divine itch that’s driving you insane, my poor Christopher. A man has gone mad for far less.”

Trembling, sweat running down his entire body, the enthralled Chris Redfield lifted himself and moved forward until the beaten pucker of his asshole was aligned with the thick tip of the toy. He lowered himself, taking it inside without much resistance after being so fucked open that evening already his body had forgotten cock wasn’t naturally meant to exist there. There was a distinct twitch in his controlled features as the spiked dildo rubbed into his sore walls – satisfaction, relief, pain. But he didn’t utter a noise of complaint, sinking down until his balls were resting on the desk again. And he awaited further instruction.

“Good boy,” Wesker murmured, thumbing the bulge the large toy made in his slave’s stomach. “The BSAA still think you’re dead, Christopher, but if you truly wanted me to change that I doubt they’d be much happier to see you like this.” He gave the man a mechanical smile, sliding his fingertips down to the man’s soft cock, staring intensively into his brown eyes as he stroked the floppy thing. Still leaking a little, from the cocktail that had been forced into his bladder. “Well then, shall we continue?”

Wesker located the remote for the P30, and stepped back from Chris as he lowered the dosage. Not a significant degree, but to the point where his boy would ‘wake up’ just enough to find his tongue again.

A soft, cracked sob from Chris’ lips was the first thing to emerge. Thick tears dripping from his exhausted eyes. A shiver of delight ran back down Wesker’s spine and in a flash he was stood before his boy again, bearing down on him as his hand found that soft, pathetic cock to toy with.

“P-please,” Chris wept, weakly trying to shove Wesker’s hand from his cock, “I c-can’t cum anymore. H-hurts—”

“I know darling,” Wesker purred, always oddly affectionate whenever the real Chris came out to play, “that’s the point. I’ve given you all you need to relieve yourself, Chris, don’t let my gifts go to waste.”

Chris shuddered and snivelled miserably. He was trying to lift himself up from the dildo, gasping and grasping onto Wesker’s arm as the spiny toy gently tugged at his loose innards. Hours of having been softened and stretched threatened a prolapse, and clearly the poor thing realised it, as he stopped midway trying to pull himself off and sank back down with a wet whimper.

“H-hurts—” he sobbed, no longer a man but some poor creature at the mercy of his body. “P-please Wesker, m-make it stop—”

“Is it itchy, Chris?”

Chris shot him a watery glare, and cried out softly in pain as he rocked his hips. A bitter nod, and a look away in shame.

“You’ll have to scratch it then, Christopher,” he murmured, hand cupping Chris’ swollen and beaten balls and fondling them affectionately until the poor thing was trembling again. Muscular frame damp and shiny with his sweat. Another tear ran down his nose and his lips peeled into an unhappy grimace at the contact with his tender scrotum again. But he seemed to get the message – the longer he delayed, the more reason his master had to crush the things flat.

Slow at first, silent angry tears streaming down his raw cheeks, Chris lifted himself a little before dropping his hips again with a miserable whine. Weakly, slowly, riding his punishment with gasps and shudders and unhappy little sobs. Clutching onto Wesker’s arm as if it were his final lifeline.

Normally, Wesker would’ve pushed him off, but there was something electric in Chris’ anxious grip. The poor man was so far beyond his boundaries he needed something familiar to cling to – even if that familiarity was the same one hurting him for pleasure. The younger man’s grip was bruising. Palms sweaty and slick, shoulders bent a little forward as he scratched the tender innards burning alive with icy-hot.

“Is that helping, Chris?” He couldn’t help but keep the drip of cruel pleasure from his tone. And he smirked as the man choked and drooled down onto the desk, trying to bounce quicker, shuddering as his guts were stirred up by the intrusive device. “Poor thing,” he said, softly, giving Chris’ balls a nice, tight squeeze, just to make him flinch and whine and waver. Dropping down fully onto the dildo and leaking a little more semeny-piss from his flaccid cock at the shock of impact.

He sat gasping, leaking from his orifices, barely able to lift his head up he was in such dire pain.

“What a sight for sore eyes,” Wesker purred, gripping Chris’ sweaty hair and yanking his head up just to gaze down into his wrecked face. Those eyes that burned with such fiery hatred, unable to find the willpower to truly fight off the minimised effects of the P30 after so long under its influence. Having been trained now to crave this torture, to need Wesker, for the grounding. “Why did you stop, Christopher? Are you finished scratching that itch? Should I put you back in your tank?”

“B-bastard,” the man croaked. But his hips were moving again, anxious to dispel the painful fire driving him mad inside, a little quicker now, tugging out his rosebud a little more every time he drew himself up with fluttering gasps of agony, and sweet moans of relief when he took it back inside and ground himself onto the soft spines. There was a sheen that came over his eyes when he allowed himself to slip again into chasing his relief. At one point Wesker had wondered if his boy had been developing cataracts – but it rather seemed instead to be a side effect of his submission. Glassy like a mirror, fixated unhappily on his master.

“Better, Christopher?” He whispered, reaching between Chris’ legs to finger at his puffy rim, trembling and sweaty stretched around such a cruel implement.

And when Chris sniffled and cried in a most unmanly fashion, unlike anything Wesker had ever seen him do, even as a young man, his master chuckled with almost affection. This was supposed to be his punishment, and still, Wesker couldn’t help but sometimes feel that lost little innocent affection he’d harboured for his man. It felt sweeter to know he was the only one to have ever broken him so much. Albert Wesker had always been fondest of broken toys. The chance to repair, and fill the cracks with himself. Until Chris knew no other salve but Wesker’s love and hand.

He cupped his balls again, and leaned in to press a kiss to Chris’ parted, wet lips. Chris didn’t kiss him back, trying to turn his head away as his master kissed him and chased him with his tongue. A whine of discomfort, of disgust, a wordless ‘why are you doing this to me?’

But when Wesker began to squeeze his balls again the young man sobbed and kissed him back. Clinging to anything but the sensation of visceral agony scorching up through his body. Wet and messy he bit and sucked and whimpered, trembling lips gasping and cracked against Wesker’s. The taste of his salt tears and blood. He cried out when Wesker crushed his balls again, and his master groaned softly as he devoured his scream, sucking it from his tongue as Chris Redfield sobbed and leaned in closer – not knowing what else to do.

When Wesker pulled away, it was with a little sigh. He gripped Chris’ wrist hard and dragged it down, forcing the younger to touch the shape of his cock in his suit pants.

“This is what you do to me, Chris,” he murmured. An edge of disgust in his voice now. “You always did desire to taint me with your pathetic humanity.” Chris – still fucking himself – could barely keep his head up as Wesker spoke, fingers weakly clasping around the shape of Wesker’s cock. “All my life I evaded the use of such a vile implement, so why is it somebody so weak and unimportant has such an undesired effect upon it?” The older man mused. “It has never bothered me so much before I met you, Christopher, and yet how is it you possess this power to force even I, one who is so detached from what it means to be a man, to be reminded of my unfortunate human nature?”

“A-are you gonna fuck me?” Chris rasped, afraid and uncertain, although he kept groping blindly through the suit pants. It only made sense that the poor man would’ve expected to have been raped stupid by his captor by this point – no doubt more confused that it hadn’t happened quite like that after all.

Wesker let Chris retract his hand. “No. I can’t do that, Christopher.” Tenderly, almost, he brushed his hand across Chris’ stubbled jaw and admired not for the last time, his beautiful suffering. Red-rimmed, raw and pathetic. His cock strained painfully down below. “If I admit to my manhood, I would be no better than you, hm?” He chuckled, “one day I promise I shall make you my beautiful toy – without such a thing. What are you, Christopher, when you are no longer a man?”

Chris stared up at him glassily, snot running from his nose, tears from his swollen eyes.

“You ought to have some inkling by now,” Wesker smiled, coolly, “you haven’t been a real man for quite a while now.”

The poor man had the audacity to flush in his shame at that. As if it were somehow more humiliating than fucking himself on a toy large enough to move his guts around his stomach, and force his body to flower in puffy desperation to be brutally fucked. The sloppy sound of his guts shifting as he continued to bounce on the dildo, crying into Wesker’s hand all the while. The fight had been finished long, long ago.

“P-please,” he whimpered, “just kill me, Wesker. I c-can’t—please… just let me die…”

He sounded so raw, so sincere, that for a moment Albert Wesker truly considered snapping his neck then and there. But the fantasy was short lived. Christopher was simply unaware of his gift – to be broken, to be remade – he did not know it yet. Death was far too easy an escape for the man who had put Albert Wesker to shame.

A gentle thumbing away of his tears, and Wesker hazarded a gaunt and gentlemanly smile at his suffering pet.

“I’m sorry, Christopher, I can’t do that.”

Chris dry sobbed, arching forward and shivering.

Wesker relocated the remote, and did the kindest thing he could for his old, broken toy, and raised the intensity of the P30 back to its maximum.

Chris’ sobs ebbed away. And Wesker stood in contemplative silence with his hand clasping his miserable man’s jaw to watch the emotion and anguish melt from his face. Anger that had downturned the corners of his lips, the desperate tilt of his thick brow. How his brown eyes’ intensity retreated back to mere glints of his true existence.

Stoic, still sheened in sweat and tears, Chris looked almost grateful that his humiliation had come to a close. The madness of his position – still fucking himself, glad that he was allowed to do so, Christopher Redfield’s mind was seeping away with their every session. What he was, what he stood for, resolve and strength and power. And beneath it all he was just a human. So weak and malleable. Tender and desperate.

“I am sorry, Christopher,” Wesker murmured again into the cool air of his office. Clutching his man’s jaw and watching his face with sick pity as the poor thing was forced to continue fucking his guts out. “I am not doing this because I hate you. It is far more complex than that. Than what your simple mind could’ve ever pretended to understand – but then again, I always found it charming how desperately you tried to see eye-to-eye with me, once.”

The blonde mulled over the sentiment for a little while longer, before releasing Chris’ face with a disgusted sigh. “Get up, and show me what a mess you’ve made.”

Enthralled entirely, Chris slowly raised himself up from the dildo without so much as a grimace. He lay upon his back, and spread his legs – lifting them up high for his master to inspect his backside the way he had been trained.

Wesker admired the plush, puffy gape of his asshole. Dripping with lubricant and icy-hot and whatever else had been unwillingly milked from his prostate. He spread it a little wider with his two hands, coaxing Redfield’s rosebud to flower out a little more (with a stifled grunt from the man). Ghastly, and yet somehow beautiful. How metaphorical the flower of his destruction would be something so virginal as the rose.

While he did not necessarily want to force the man into continual prolapse, there was something tantalising about forcing the muscular man to quite literally present his guts.

With businesslike deftness the blonde opened the icy-hot again and fingered a decent amount back inside of Chris, sternly watching the vague strain and sweat on his face as he did so. Then smoothing some out onto his beaten and bruised balls, so floppy and deflated after a well deserved busting (he had to resist the urge to give them a good punch for old-times sake). Sweating here, and on his thighs, trembling in the efforts of keeping up his legs. And at last for good measure, he thumbed some of the stimulating gel onto his toy’s puffy nipples. A little something extra, to keep him occupied.

“I think you ought to return to your container, Christopher. I feel sick at the sight of you.”

He stripped his dirty latex gloves as the machine of a man clambered back into the tank and stood in regular position, allowing the cuffs to lock his ankles and wrists to their respective places. Wesker didn’t have the door close quite yet however, and stepped up one final time to brush his pet’s face and look into his eyes. And feel that shiver of excited pleasure at realising there was truly somebody in this world who hated him so dearly it might’ve even been love.

Chris couldn’t respond when Wesker kissed him chastely on the lips. Blank and unmoving. And Wesker closed his eyes and exhaled a little against Chris’ firmly closed lips, the throb continuous and dire now in his pelvic region. Chris’ suffering had been plentiful and yet leaving that dissatisfaction for them both seemed so much more intimate than any human inclination. To leave Chris wanting, was to keep him reliant. And to keep Wesker in constant, nauseating reminder he was still a man, no matter how he tried to ignore it. Chris had been his punishment in so many more ways than the poor thing truly knew.

“Sleep well,” he whispered, and extracted himself from his pet.

The tank sighed shut, and as the bookshelf slid back into place to keep his trophy concealed from prospective clients, Albert Wesker sat on his desk and pictured his project standing in that thick darkness as his body ached and stung for the sadism to return. Unable to cry or even beg to be raped. Living in that constant fear that the next time his master came to see him, he may very well be castrated.

He would starve him of course, before then. A fast, before the ritual. So Chris might consume his own manhood regardless of what it would symbolise – regardless that the image of his desperation and broken-ness necessitated his extraction from his identity. So he might be reborn as something less human – maybe – more beautiful. And then Albert Wesker might be able to love him.

And if he didn’t? What then?

The blonde put his tired head in his hands and dipped the tip of his shoe into the mess of piss and cum left on the floor beneath his desk. Ammonia and semen, the stink of Chris’ sweat and fear.

It would be necessary to clean it before Excella swung by later that night no doubt with further news of Valentine’s exploits – eager for the mirage of Albert Wesker’s manhood.

Sweet ache, sweet pain. How he wished to tear it from his body, this oppressor that erected itself as if to flagellate him for his attempts to pretend he was so different from Chris Redfield. And yet he sat in the darkening office for longer still after their affair, until his pain softened, and the memory of Chris Redfield wracked in passionate fury seeped into the darkness with the rest of Albert Wesker’s pitiful, stinging starvation for what he knew to be true love.