[Warnings for nonconsent/dubious consent, rough sex, Master/slave dynamics, physical and mental abuse, and otherwise triggering material]
Chapter One: Existence
Passion (Greek πασχω "to suffer, to be acted on" and Late Latin (chiefly Christian) passio "passion; suffering" (from Latin pati "to suffer")
June 2009.
Chris Redfield stares at her through the bulletproof glass.
They tell him she has refused to eat. They threaded her nose with a feeding tube. Forced it down her throat and pumped liquid calories into her stomach until it was distended.
They tell him she has lost control of her bodily functions. They placed a catheter in her to prevent messes. To prevent sepsis. To make their lives easier.
She has a urinary tract infection now. They would not have known, if there hadn't been bright red blood in her urine. It is probably from the catheter they inserted to make their lives easier, they say.
They say that she doesn't speak. She doesn't respond to stimuli. She doesn't move.
Her brain activity indicates she is not in a coma. One doctor says, quite casually, It is almost as if she doesn't exist. But it is curious; her body is still there, day after day. Her body takes up space. It breathes. It runs its various courses.
This is odd for a person who doesn't exist, they say.
Chris stares at her face. She doesn't even blink.
He asks the doctors and the scientists and the nurses and the surgeons and the neurologists what has happened to her, why why whywhywhy, because she was speaking in the helicopter, she was moving, she was alive, he saw her and he touched her and she smelled like sweat and dirt and sharp-sweet chemicals. She existed.
Did everyone die in Africa? he asks Claire Redfield, who has also come to see the unliving woman behind the bulletproof glass.
He tells his baby sister that he thinks constantly of killing himself, so he won't have to visit the Jill Valentine who doesn't exist.
January 2007.
Your insides are full of me.
Her chains rattled against the against the stately headboard of Wesker's great bed with every thrust. Her fingers tightened around the metal links that held her in place for him.
He moaned in her ear and one of his hands came up to her throat, wrapping around her slender neck. He squeezed until she could feel her heartbeat in her face, until she was short of breath.
I've got myself so deep in your poor slit.
Her eyelids fluttered closed at his lurid description. He always had such a way with words. And he was only ever so verbose with her. She tried to swallow past his grasp. She failed and nearly choked, sputtering, her lips suddenly wet with her own saliva.
I need to be deeper.
He reached down between them, where her ass met his hips. He lifted her thigh higher, still thrusting, while his little finger parted her cheeks to touch her darker hole, and feel the way her pussy wept for him.
Open up… open yourself up… You know I'll just take it if you don't… It hurts us both when I have to take it from you...
She obeyed and pushed back against him, felt her sore walls contract weakly around him, massaging him. He thrust hard and held himself still for several seconds. She inhaled sharply - both of them did - a dizzying pain in her lower belly forcing her to arch her back. He was as deep as he could go. The cruel head of his cock battered up against the mouth of her uterus, bruising it.
I need more. One day…I'll dilate your cervix… It will open for me like a wet little mouth… suck me off like a wet little mouth...
The hand around her throat released her and drifted down, lower, until it tentatively, reverently caressed her glowing chest plate.
I'll fuck your womb, Jill.
His hips resumed thrusting, with shorter strokes than before; he pushed so deeply into her, it felt as though he was rubbing her stomach from the inside. She mewled softly, pathetically. He was practicing, she knew. He was imagining his leaking glans trapped inside of her, the flare of his angry red corona catching on the ring of muscle he would have to force himself through.
I'm going to flood your womb with come… You'll feel every drop of me in you. I'll open you up, again and again, until you give me a child.
The length of his body pressed to hers - his chest and thighs, slick with sweat, slid against her back, her thighs, her ass as his pace quickened. Their legs tangled together, ankle bones cracking against one another painfully, knees pushing knees wide apart. The short, shallow strokes of his thick cock jarred her, forced the air from her burning lungs. He fucked her like an animal - one purpose, one goal in mind. He abused her breasts - pawing and groping her soft flesh, twisting and pulling on her nipples until she cried out from the sting of it. Her skin, eerily translucent in the moonlight, pinched where the metal of her chest plate dug in as he had his way with her.
He found her throat again, this time with both hands, and choked her from behind. She gasped and gagged as he squeezed. Tighter. Tighter. She struggled futilely in her chains, fighting to free herself from his brutal grip.
You clench so hard around me when you're afraid. Harder… yes… yes.
His own breath seemed to stop as he neared his climax, caught and held. The handcuffs bit into her wrists as she clawed at his hands, tearing his knuckles, the blood smearing up his arms as she fought.
Oh god, I'm so close. Suck me with your cunt…Suck me... That's it… I'm going to fill you up… I'm going to hurt you with my cock… That's it...
Her vision began to fade black at the edges. Her head felt loose, airy, and the world blurred around her.
He buried his face between her shoulder blades and cried out his release, shivering violently. He shook her, throttled her by her throat, and as the room grew darker, she felt his teeth biting whatever flesh he could reach, sinking into her spine, the nape of her neck. His mouth was like fire lapping at her sweat-soaked skin. Inside of her, his cock throbbed and pulsed, a separate furious animal. It was something autonomous, alive, pouring its viscous, milky poison deep into her cervix.
Oh… I can feel my come… It's so warm inside of you… Your cunt is so greedy, so hungry… Drink it all… Take me… take my seed...
His grip loosened, his hands finally falling away. She gasped for air, coughing and dry heaving, her fingers curling, her legs straightening as the numbness in her limbs receded.
He hunched his hips once more as a final thin stream of semen pumped against her womb. They both groaned at the dull, thrumming pain in her pussy. Seconds ticked by - ten, then thirty, then sixty - but she didn't dare try to free herself from his embrace. He remained inside of her, still painfully hard.
Breathing heavily, he pressed a kiss to the spot on the back of her neck where his sharp teeth had nearly broken the skin in his frenzy. She trembled and blinked, trying desperately to control her pounding heart, terrified that the slightest movement would arouse his volatile lust again.
Softly, he swept her hair away from her face and nuzzled her delicate ear. His hand trailed down her body, the tips of his fingers brushing over a hardened, sensitive nipple, and then her soft belly. Her exhausted muscles tightened once more under his careful ministrations. She squeezed her eyes shut.
He sighed, his breath flushing over her heated skin like the brush of a feather. His fingers drew small, lazy circles on her stomach and drifted lower still. She flinched at his every caress.
There was once a girl…who was beloved by a god...
He slipped his fingers between her legs and touched the base of his own cock, the rest of him still buried and twitching inside of her. He felt her sore hole gently, exploring her stretched and tender labia.
She was willful...she was prideful...and she betrayed him.
His come mixed with her own lubrication and seeped out around his shaft. Slowly, he trailed some of syrupy discharge up, spreading it over her small, swollen clit. She held her breath, her chest grabbing.
But he forgave her many transgressions…and when they met again in a castle by the sea, he saved her life...
His other hand snaked down under her hip, around to her front. He pulled her puffy mons tight, retracting the hood of her clitoris, and he began to masturbate her vulnerable little pearl. Aided by his slippery-hot come, his fingertip barely stroked the tiny bundle of nerves before they both moaned piteously in the darkness.
In return for this…the benevolent god made the girl his own.
Her body bowed against his. Excruciating pleasure shot through her; pleasure so sharp it became pain. He deliberately worked her swollen clit, focusing on the underside and very tip, knowing just what she needed. Her legs stiffened and twitched at each concentrated touch and her hips undulated, unable to stay still under his relentless attack. Her tired muscles gripped him, rippled along his length, still inexplicably hard. She writhed as his finger continued to torment her.
It was too much.
It was too much, she would break.
She would shatter into a million pieces.
He loved her so that wanted to feel everything the she did… He wanted to feel her pleasure and her pain and the thousand other things she felt without him.
She cried out hoarsely, the sound of misery and anguish echoing around the room. "Please!" she begged. Mercilessly, he continued to stroke her clit. Unending, measured, so that she could not plateau, could not catch her breath, could not even close her poor shaking legs to defend herself.
He loved her so that he wanted to crawl inside her and live there… And so he devised a way to become the girl…
The scarab burned brightly in the darkness. Garnet light spilled across the sheets like a stain.
They would be together for all of eternity… And if the god died… the girl would too.
He thrust his cock then, just once, and pushed her… pushed them over the edge.
She came - empty, delirious, with his sacred name in her mouth. And he came... as her.
Both of them as close to death as they had ever been.
April 2008.
Would you choose him, Jill? Over me?
The lash of the whip made her body arch and flail, like a fish on the deck of a boat, tangled in thin netting. She gasped. She yanked wildly at the restraints that kept her poor, bloodless arms wrenched above her head.
She had seen a picture of him.
It had been an accident. She hadn't meant to look. She hadn't wanted to. But the laptop was open. The screen was bright, as he swiped through file after file of B.S.A.A. personnel. She'd tilted her face up when she heard him sigh, almost wearily.
And she saw it. A newer photo - one she hadn't seen before. The same dark brown hair, and deep hazel eyes, and square jaw, and solemn frown. His name was spelled out at the top of the screen, above a cluster of statistics.
Her heart had lurched at the sight. One stuttering beat. Barely a flutter.
But she'd felt him tense beside her. Heard the laptop slam shut.
It had been an accident.
Would you choose him? After all I have done for you?
Another whip crack split the silence of the musty air like thunder. She sagged, her bound wrists popping in resistance as they supported her full weight.
Her heart had skipped and he'd felt it… and now he would beat her half to death for her mistake.
Answer me!
"No, sir!" Her answer was a sob. It was high in her chest. She choked on the words.
He knelt down in front of her and stared up into her flushed face. No?
She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out his glare. Her jaw clenched and she ground her teeth, grimacing in pain.
She felt the woven leather handle of the whip under her chin. Slowly, he lifted her face up to meet his. Her heart hammered in her chest. Lurching, unsteady.
No? You wouldn't choose him? If you had the choice?
She opened her eyes. A tear trailed down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously on her aching bicep. Her bottom lip quivered. "No, sir. I...I would never choose him over you. I wouldn't. I would never."
Perhaps…maybe…he would let her rest. If she answered him correctly. If she pleaded correctly. If she somehow, some way could fix what she'd done. He might leave her alone. He might…he might take pity on her, if only she could say the words that would make him happy...if she could find the right words, put them the right order…
She dangled in her bondage and he stared up at her suffering, unmoved.
I seem to recall you choosing him before.
"Please, sir," she tried, her voice wavering with tears. "I swear. I never chose him. When he had me… he made me - it wasn't me..."
Wesker stood, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched her twitch, and shuffle, and struggle, her body so exhausted that it couldn't stay still, couldn't stay upright. The only thing keeping her from collapsing to the dirty floor, collapsing into a pile of sorry, weak flesh, was the pulley system.
You're lying to me.
"No…no, sir! I swear!" The words tumbled out of her desperately, her body heaving with them. "Please!"
He turned and walked away from her, handing the whip off to the maijini in the shadows. It had waiting patiently for its turn - and maijini so loved to torture. Its face, raw and rotting, emerged from the darkness.
"Ten more for Miss Valentine. Make her sorry for lying."
"Sir!" She screamed then, her voice hoarse, breaking. "Please! Please!"
One day you will thank me for teaching you honesty.
"No, please! I'll do anything!" she cried, and the words echoed around them, bouncing off the wet stone walls, kicking up the dust and dirt beneath her toes. She stumbled forward, chasing after him as best she could, until she reached the end of her shackles. The chains caught, and she was dragged back, her knees buckling as she tripped under the rig. Her erratic movements disturbed the single light bulb above them. It swung back and forth, illuminating him for split-second intervals, like the flickering of a silent film reel.
He looked at her blandly, as one might look at someone speaking a different language.
The time for begging has past, Jill. I have tried to show how wrong you were about him. But you're so very, very headstrong. It's almost as if you… cannot believe me. And reprimanding you this way hurts me too. Surely you can see that I don't want to do this. It wounds me, deeply.
Silence for a moment. The pulley creaking. Her own breath hitching and catching in her chest. And then:
You know I have to punish us because I love you. I love you more than he ever could.
More tears fell, trailing down her cheeks. They stung a still-healing gash on her lip. She tasted pennies. "Please…" she tried once more.
Shh… quiet now.
"Please… I love you too," she wept, hiccuping between the bitter words.
We'll try again tomorrow. Perhaps you will love me enough then.
The whip cracked ten more times in the stillness. She didn't have the strength to make another sound.
But he did. She heard him cry out with every lash as blood dripped down her bare back.
March 2007.
The abstraction of being what she was - being a body slave - was somehow enticing, when one imagined it. Exciting, and breathless, and intoxicating.
The reality, Jill knew, was nothing like that. It was an exercise in extreme patience. Very long periods of waiting. Very long periods of stoic sufferance.
She sighed and lifted her arm to relieve the cramp that had settled there. Her muscles protested, and the silver handcuff that kept her in her place - at his feet always - tinkled against the claw-footed chair leg.
She waited for him whether he was at home, in the office, or laboratory.
She waited…to be of use.
The beautiful scarab on her chest glowed faintly, nestled between her generous, naked breasts. He was thinking of her. She could feel it when he did - heat and light pulsing through the wires and tubes that wound between her ribs, twisting their way around her heart and lungs. He had sewn himself into her very body. He had made sure that she would never not know him.
They were no longer separate beings. They existed with each other, and only with each other. A topiary tree with a split trunk, braided back together.
She pressed her cheek to the curved chair leg and closed her eyes.
She felt his fingers stroke the top of her head, gently curling her fine white hair. She could hear him type with his other hand. The toe of his boot tapped the hardwood floor - a mesmerizing, hypnotic tattoo that made her content and sleepy.
Your bladder is full.
Roused by him, she pushed herself to sitting up straight. He was looking down at her, his head cocked to a slight angle.
He was fascinated by human processes. He didn't have them anymore - not many, at least - and so the simplest of functions became something of an obsession for him. He could feel these things through her, he told her. He could feel her bowels move and hot urine pass through her urethra. He could feel her nausea when she was ill. He could feel her migraines, which occurred once a month on the left side of her skull. He could feel her uterus contract and the slippery discharge of blood and mucus and painful little clots passing through her cervix. And he marveled at it all - every human sensation, pleasant and unpleasant.
Let's go relieve ourselves.
She swallowed thickly. Her stomach dropped.
There were things she swore she would never get used to. Invasive, degrading things, humiliating things. But she did them. And, like all things with time, they began to feel routine.
This was one of them.
A/N - We originally posted this story under a separate author name as we didn't think it would be good for our other piece, "Paradise Found", which is obviously for a very different audience. However, we continued to play with this and decided it deserved to sit alongside "Paradise Found", like two sides of the same coin. We really hope you enjoy this and that you're ready for something of a ride as Wesker descends further and further into his passion. Thanks for reading!