His Ebony Queen And His Ivory Knight.
A mature discourse by THE SUPREME ASHEN-WHITE W-O-U-N-D
"ROAR! ME AM SHEVA ALLOMAR!" the dusky woman shrieked, hurling an ancient ceremonial mask she had bought at Pier 1 at the fleeing Chris. The combination of being a mere woman and being from the darkest uncivilized regions of the world, far from the light of humanity's loving lover's glow, had been too much. She was an animal of pure rage now, as fierce and erratic as her cousin the wood ape. Her strength was borne of unevolved fury and muscles that strained like leashed zombie dobermans underneath their pall of ink-black skin. Chris had worried about this. One half of her had been cultured, civilized, ready for a tea party at a moment's notice. The other... it was a hellbeast, a thing that even the awesome power of the T-virus could never hope to unleash. She shrieked in Chris's face, a shrill, piercing, inhuman noise. Her eyes were fixed on his, black with fury, as she reached up from her crotch and daubed her menstrual warpaint upon her face. She unleashed a fierce set of Miami Claps, buttocks striking together like Thor's own hammerblows.
Jill Valentine sat sullenly in the corner, a lank lock of T-virus-bleached blonde hair falling across her vacant face. She had changed back into her old S.T.A.R.S. uniform from four games before, and she was dismayed to find that she had grown a little too big to pull it off any more. Her hips bubbled over the side like the top of a muffin puffs out over the svelte pastry case that it was baked in. She knew she could never tempt Chris away from his obsidian monolith of ancestral beauty. She had such good hair too. Not like Jill's, who had found clumps of it in the shower drain. It seemed that the T-virus mutagen that had rendered her brown curls into blonde tresses was now to complete its transformation into Jade Goody-esque chemo baldness. She heaved a sigh, and wished that she still had a chest implant nestling within her cleavage - a perfect excuse to ram her knee into Sheva's pearly white teeth.
Chris heard the sigh and turned to his ex-lover. He had agreed for her to stay here out of guilt for allowing her to be captured by Wesker and fed beer and cake until she would do his bidding, but it was becoming too much. Far too much. Between the two women in his life, he was finding himself
"SHEVA," said Sheva, her eyes flashing with pure rage. She arched backward, voluptuous bosoms tugging free of what little held them, and began to gag loudly. Suddenly she jerked forward and a stream of acid-yellow bile spat from her gaping maw, and onto the carpet at Chris's feet. The stench hit him like a fist and he turned sharply, tears pricking his eyes -- but were they tears of effort as he tried to stop himself vomiting, or tears of sadness that his beloved she-wife had become so feral?
"ME NAME'Z SHEVA ALLOMARRRRR," she said, trilling the final consonant with an inhuman shriek. "I BE YOUR PARDNAH CHRIS-A REDDFIEYALD."
She started gagging again, tears mingling with the dried menstrual fluid as she collapsed into further paroxysms. Chris checked his watch. It was almost ten in the morning. In three hours she would collapse into her midday nap and he would have some time to himself. Some time to breathe. Some time to wipe the stinking lumps of sick from his boots.
Some time to slip away from the ravages of the missing link that kept him chained to this flat. The Aryan princess that glowered from the corner, the caricature of a human being that vomited on his shoes and flung feces at his head when he left the toilet seat up. Their vaginas smelled like the grim reek of death, dragging him down into the abyss. He needed comfort. He needed skewering. He needed ...
"WESKER!"
Jill sprang to her feet and launched herself at him, a rocket of pure fury propelled by Jaffa Cakes and jealousy. Chris pushed her away easily and she fell to her knees, clawing at his leg. "YOU JUST WANT YOUR PRECIOUS WESKER, DON'T YOU?" she wailed, her voice piercing his eardrums like a spear chucked from Sheva's malformed hand. The skin on her grasping arms jiggled like a tetonic plate. "WELL WHY DON'T YOU GO AND FIND HIM?!"
It was all too much. With a roar, he hurdled over Jill and shouldered past Sheva, gnawing on an old bone she had located somewhere in the dank dark doominess of the flat. He ran down the stairs and into the night, not daring to look back as the harpies began to scream, a unified cacophony of anguish and impotent cunt-rage -- an impotent rage only those with dirty lady-hampers could know.
---
The alleyway behind the Umbrella Corporation's Sunglasses Hut Emporium was filled with broken things. Broken boxes. Broken pairs of sunglasses, by the hundreds upon thousands, each imperfect and unfit for the stubbly kiss of the sun.
Broken hearts and broken dreams. Broken, soaking in cloaking darkness. And sewage. This was where Albert Wesker dwelled. When he wasn't getting his beautiful Aryan dick sucked for a quarter, he bolted together cheap sunglasses on the factory floor. His days belonged to Umbrella. But his nights ... ahh. Those (and his ass) belonged to a much higher power. A much beefier power. Yes, he had his eyes set on something much bigger.
The power of love. A force from above. It thrust him forward, like a lance tearing through the sky and piercing his own heart. It was this vulgar dichotomy that made Wesker grit his teeth in anger, that drove him to destroy the humanity in himself and all others.
It speared him and spurred him, and hurled him into despair, and then joy, and then bloody rage. A rage that kept him alive, even when certain death was imminent. A rage that opened doorways into dimensions of madness that no other could enter and return from sane and able still.
He clicked another pair of shades into place, and added them to the production line.
I WILL WINNOW THESE SUNGLASSES DOWN TO NOTHING, he said, FOR IT IS MY RIGHT AND MINE ALONE.
There was a crunch of broken plastic underfoot behind him, and he turned to see none other than Chris Redfield standing there, panting, giant arms heaving like sacks of pig.
"Wesker, I... I--"
Wesker turned with a flourish, casting his jacket darker than his soul behind him, which swirled majestically in this practiced move.
They looked at each other, Wesker's glowing eyes boring through the ebony darkness of his shades. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.
Not until they pulled their weapons out.
Coarsing with putrid viral blood, Wesker work'd his member like a true warrior.
SEVEN MINUTES, he said. SEVEN MINUTES IS ALL I CAN SPARE TO PLAY WITH YOU.
Chris knew from experience that this was more than enough. The two mortal enemies lunged at each other, cocks crashing together like angry red fireworks. Their pink tongues intertwined in a lusty ballet. Wesker's hands tore at the back of Chris's tight, bulging slacks, eager to cup the two globes of hairy, forbidden flesh secreted within.
YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVAH, CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS, Wesker cried with passion.
Chris suddenly pulled back, his twelve inches of boomstick pulsing, thudding with blood and ready to burst a heavy load of ivory-perfect man-sputum. But Chris didn't want to. Not so soon. Not when they had just begun.
"Wesker, no, I... we have to slow down," Chris gasped, heady with sheer horny agony.
YOU'RE JUST DELAYING THE INEVITABLE! Wesker roared, and kicked Chris in the dick. OH HOW YOU LOVE YOUR SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS.
Chris rolled into the fetal position, weeping huge tears openly. Wesker walked away, slowly, deliberately, each step oozing more menace than a pedofile convention in a convent filled with sexy babies. He walked slowly to the canister of Ouroboros Virus that he had kept in the middle of the production floor for safekeeping, and with a tug, jerked off the lid. It came with a squirt.
"Wesker," Chris mumbled, weakly. "What... what are you doing...?"
But Wesker would not acknowledge Chris. Chris, his ultimate enemy and perfect lover. Oh, how Wesker had a surprise for him. He clambered atop the canister, legs splayed across the opening... and bent his knees.
Until his twenty-inch Aryan manprick was submerged in the writhing blackness.
OUROBOROS WILL BE RELEASED INTO YOUR RECTUM, ENSURING COMPLETE... ANAL... SATURATION.
Wesker's lips tightened into a satisfied grimace, exposing his perfect teeth.
YOUR BEAUTIFUL ASS HAS ESCAPED THIS WINNOWING FAR TOO LONG, CHRIS REDFIELD.
He pulled his pooling coalescing writhing virulent forty inch beastcock from the barrel, and it hit the floor with a metallic thunk. Chris gasped, eyes wide with terror and arousal and began to kick his feet, to get up, to get away, to... to run to his lover? He didn't know. He couldn't think. He just continued kicking futiley at the ground in front of him.
POOR PERFORMANCE INDEED, said Wesker, slowly closing the distance between them. I WOULD EXPECT YOU TO TAKE IT LIKE A MAN, CHRIS REDFIELD.
"You're no longer a man!" cried Chris, with feeling. "You're just a... a MONSTER! One of Umbrella's experiments gone wrong!"
DON'T YOU LIKE IT CHRIS
CHRIS
I'VE HAD AN EXTREME MAKEOVER CHRIS
Chris screamed hoarsely, a cry of despair echoing around the sunglasses emporium. Wesker's cock trailed thousands of writhing black tentacles as it scraped across the metal floor, leaving a burning acid trail in its wake. Chris slowly turned over, to reveal Wesker's jewel-encrusted prize: Chris's hairy ass. Each thick black grizzled hair that peppered those forbidden orbs was like finery to Wesker's hungry gaze.
And then Wesker was upon him. Hot breath on Chris's neck. Fifty-nine inches of viral manmeat forced all the way in, ball-deep so that the two blackening coal orbs clattered against those perfect buttocks, a Newton's Cradle of the erotically damned.
THE RIGHT TO BE A SEXGOD...
The pain and the pleasure was beyond elysium. Chris did not know if he made a single sound as he was rent asunder. He felt as if he was truly taken to heaven. White gates opened around him as his brown gate opened wide for Wesker. He saw angels, and heard their chorus. Pure whiteness surrounded him.
THAT RIGHT... IS NOW MINE...
Pure whiteness spurted from him, a full tablespoonful of semen pebbledashing the floor beneath his cock.
"Wesker... stop."
REMARKABLE... RESISTING AT SUCH AN ADVANCED STAGE. COMMENDABLE, YET FUTILE. NO MORE TIMES FOR GAMES, CHRIIIIIIS. I'VE GOT WORK TO DO.
Wesker pulled himself up, but with his ubermensch strength that filled even his eighty inches, Chris was hoisted up as well, impaled upon Wesker's blackening cock. Wesker barely noticed the hefty weight of his beefy lover as he strode back to the sunglasses, and continued to clip the pieces together, placing them neatly on the production line. Chris hung there, well hung, unconscious and delirious.
Chris was fighting within. Clinging to life, and clinging to love. He knew he had to save himself... and self this beautiful Aryan love machine from himself. In a flash, he knew what he must do.
With a sudden wrench, Chris began to clench his sphinctre tightly, with expert precision. His ass muscles were as powerful as his arm muscles, and he was expelled across the conveyor belt with a loud pop. He turned in mid-air, catching a second wind, and landed on his feet. Wesker stared at him with awe... had he underestimated his gay lover and mortal frienemy?
"Sorry Wesker," sneered Chris, rejuvenated. "But not on my watch!"
But Wesker just smiled, serene and without worry.
SOON EVEN YOU WILL UNDERSTAND, CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSS. ONE TASTE OF MY NEW COCK AND IT WILL ALL MAKE PERFECT SENSE. SIX BILLION SPERMS WILL BIRTH A NEW BALANCE... INSIDE YOUR MOUTH AND ASS
Goddammit Wesker, thought Chris. He's really serious about destroying my entire ass!
WINNOWING! shouted Wesker, as if he had just remembered the word. YOU HAVE ESCAPED MY WINNOWING FAR TOO LONG. WINNOWING!
Chris and Wesker assumed their positions, and got ready for this ultimate battle...
TO BE CONTINUED