The Journey to The Queen's Castle

Now silent and quite lethargic from struggle and a steady flow of spanking, Albert hung from the man's shoulder, feeling like a hunted animal. The only solace he found was imagining blowing his captor into pieces or perhaps injecting him with the Uroboros virus enough times to make the slithering parasites explode from him within minutes. Yes, this caused a stirring in his chest and he had to fight off the dark laughter that threatened to bubble from his chest and out of drooling lips around the leather that was fitted into it. He thought of stabbing his care-taker through the chest continuously until the man was no more than a broken face and many holes through a desecrated body. He idly wondered if such thoughts meant that he was crazy. Not that it meant much then.

His buttocks burned and he could've sworn they were glowing even in sunlight. Surely the other soldiers around him were getting a view of his body. Oddly enough, such a thought filled him with pride, knowing very well that he was quite handsome even in the degrading position he was in. He was perfection, was he not? One with DNA perfect enough to survive the Wekser Project, and no doubt something else thought him perfect enough for him to survive even after death. And yet, was he really living? Or was this all some sort of dream in the after life? As they came close to a village on the boarder of what was Albert's kingdom, the captain ordered the rest of his men to halt before coming off of the horse with his misbehaved prince. He attached a lead to the leather bit that connected to metal rings on either side of his cheeks before untying his bonds. With the way the bit was fitted to his head, there would've been no use in trying to run away.

"Stand.", the soldier gave his order quickly and sharply before smacking him in the backs of his calves with a whip. Begrudgingly Albert stood, glaring at the soldier. He silently prayed for the man to just keel over and die but his moment never came. "You will walk in front of me and my men. Your knees will be raised up with each step and you will walk with your chin up for all to see. Your hands will be behind your neck and if I see you slip up on any of these accounts I will make absolutely sure you are punished accordingly. Do I make myself clear?"

Albert's fingers clenched at his sides as a soft growl came from his throat. So he was to be displayed for all to see, was he? It took everything in him not to start tearing him limb from limb where he stood and yet the prospect of common people getting to have a view so finely sculpted as his body gave him a similar sense of that pride he felt earlier. Heaven knows he had taken long hours in his life to view himself in a mirror, studying his muscles and making sure he was preened and worked to perfection. If he were to make sure people would fall unto his charm, he needed to do it well. With that, in all of his anger, he complied. He turned on his heel and marched forward, face completely devoid of emotion as though he were still a soldier. As if he were marching off to war. Marching to face what monsters and bio organic weapons that lie ahead in wait. He stepped forward, leading the rest of the soldiers though tethered to the captain as though he, himself, was one of them. Head held high and knees coming up as far as he would go, he would comply. It wasn't worth getting punished for a simple matter of walking. Even so, he was still whipped by the leather the soldier held in his hand, attacking at his buttocks, thighs and calves to keep him moving.

He felt color begin to brush along his cheeks as they grew close to the village, seeing how common folk stopped what they were doing to oggle at the group of them, applauding that they had a new tribute, or to comment on the lovely catch the soldiers have picked. He was now all too aware of how his genitals bounced with each step, or the bruises that were beginning to form on his backside. Where had his pride gone? Why was it replaced with embarrassment or humiliation? Still he kept moving on, glaring as a villager would comment on his lovely appearance or his eyes, trying not to lash out at those who would pinch a hind-cheek or prod at his organ to try to get it to harden.

Barbaric. Everyone here is barbaric. Does no one have any shame? Is this sort of show such a part of the norm here that something as disgusting as human violation is merely status quo?

Anger burned beneath his chest, searing a heart that he swore no longer beat. He let a puff of air escape from his nose as they called him "a bad little prince" or "spoiled brat prince" and other such names. He let the words fall off of him like water on skin, not letting it sink in. He had been called worse. Way worse. He had been treated worse. He had died so many times. So how was this bad? To make matters worse, the group stopped at an inn. Feeling more sick than hungry, he was somewhat relieved to be made to wait outside. A soldier stayed behind, holding Albert's arms behind his back. A crowd of onlookers came to view the handsome and bound prince. The man announced to the rest of the crowd, "This Prince Albert is a new tribute to The Queen. Observe her new lovely piece of property, Ladies and Gentlemen. He is very disobedient- so even now his organ does not stiffen to the blows of his Masters' paddles. He will have to learn now, will he not?"

The crowd burst into cheers and shouts of "Yes!" and "Teach him!". He wanted to struggle out of the Soldier's grasp, but he knew that if he even so much as attempted to escape, the crowd before him would advance on him like a pack of cerberuses that he so often needed to shoot away from him. His stomach churned once again at the thought, before he knew it he was being turned around with his hands now bound together in front of him by the soldier's large hands. "See how bruised he is already? This is nothing in comparison to the bruises he will endure at the castle." He spoke with a smile. The rest of the crowd giggled and taunted him further. Albert did not direct his gaze downward out of embarrassment, instead stared into the eyes on the one who was handling him.

"They will have to murder me first.", Albert muttered to him with the faintest smile. What's another death to add to the many others he experienced? The soldier's eyes narrowed down at him.

"It seems someone won't go down without a fight. We're going to have to do something about this." the soldier spoke, a bit more to Wesker than to the rest of the crowd. He ordered one of the village members take a rope from one of their homes, once back Albert's arms were strung up above his head to the inn sign so that he almost needed to stand on his tiptoes. He wriggled and writhed, trying to get his hands free of the iron bars that he had once done so easily in his previous life, but it was useless. His struggles only seemed to get the crowd even more riled up. His breath quickened as he saw the soldier remove his belt from the corner of his eye, being forced to stare dead on at the onlookers around him- somewhat reminded of the zombies that had once crowded Raccoon City.

Teeth bit down on the leather in his mouth as a groan shuddered through him with the first wallop from the belt. The leather cracked onto him, sending him a tingling sting of pain up his spine. He was hit again, nearly causing him to loose his footing, a growl escaping from him. He would not be torn down. He would not be defeated to easily. The crowd "ooh"ed and "aaah!"ed as he was left breathless and his throat burned with his groans and growls. He wriggled and jutted his hips this way and that to try to get away from the belt's licks, feeling disgusted with himself when his penis hardened and his growls started turning more moan-like. He always thought himself more of a sadist, and yet as the pain sensitized his flesh and the strap stroked against his genitals every now and then he noticed his head was tilting back- half wanting the treatment, half wanting to murder his tormentor in a horrid, gory show. He bit back curses as the belt continued to split his thoughts, vaguely hearing the crowd's cheers of the performance they were receiving.

Finally the torment stopped as the rest of the soldiers exited the Inn, looking down at the fresh bruises and welts with approval, congratulating the soldier on his thoroughness and smirking at how stiff the Prince had become. Albert refused to look them in the face, feeling they no longer deserved his glare. Instead he turned his head and stared out at the villagers, his chest heaving to bring better air into his lungs and his hair gently falling to his eyes. Before he was untied from the sign a few curious crowd's people walked over to study him, admiring how muscular he looked, the peculiarity of his eyes, or even simply to stroke his length a bit and pinch at one of the welts that developed on his back side. He didn't so much as give them a moan or a simple grunt as they touched him, his features now as cold to them as would be his employees in Umbrella. He hated them. He hated the ones who captured him and the petty villagers who take pleasure in watching Albert Wesker be degraded into nothing more than a common prisoner of war. He who was to become a God. He who mowed down all in his path with his own hands to bring glory into his midst. Most of all he hated that wretched Queen, a woman whom he not yet had met. In fact, he thought, he may hate her more than Redfield. Yet he marched as he was supposed to back to the soldier's horses as the leather lead was attached back to his bit, once again leading the soldiers through and out of the village. The next kingdom would be The Queen's.