Stage Six: Perversion
Six days into her captivity, she was convinced no one was ever coming for her. No one. But how long had he hidden who he was from the world? He was insane. He was a mastermind. He was a monster.
He was a genius.
He could hide her forever until she gave him what he wanted.
She escaped two nights in the row by playing his perfect companion. It galled her, it grated in her soul, but it kept his hands off her. He, it seemed, wasn't interested in rape. Not really. He wanted her to...want him? To come of her own free will?
It was disgusting to think of it. Did he think she'd just...open her thighs and submit? He didn't know who the hell he was dealing with. He thought Chris was stubborn - Chris wept at commercials of homeless kids needing donations. He was a softie inside. Her? She wasn't.
He would only get what he took from her. He would only get it through force. She would NEVER give him anything freely.
The fifth night in - there were no guests. He had her taken to the dining room and left alone. She considered, for handful of moments, running. But she knew what happened if she ran.
The door cracked open - voices followed her. She knew what happened if she ran.
She ran anyway. She couldn't sit there. She just...couldn't. She pushed out of her chair and hit the door at a run. Surprised, the servant with the tray with the water carafe on it didn't have a chance to stop her. She foot swept him, kicked him in the hip, and hit him in the face with his own tray.
She made it to the main foyer before he stopped her. Her hand was on the latch, lifting - when the dart took her in the back of the neck. Claire made a sound of horror and lost the strength in her hands as she slid to the floor.
She awoke on her bed, watching the canopy.
He leaned over the bed to look at her - no glasses now. Just the weird gold and red of his eyes. He looked so calm. She hated him. It BURNED.
"This ends, Claire, when you tell me what I want."
"...fuck off." Quietly. She felt the hammer of her heart. Maybe she was abandoned here. But she was loyal. She'd die and take Sherry to the grave with her, protected.
He sighed, shaking his head, "Always the hero, it seems."
She saw it coming and turned her head away. The needle in her skin. The moment her will crumpled with regret. The rage burned beneath her flesh with stifled heat.
His hand slid into her hair. He tilted her face back toward him. "What do you want, Claire?"
And she hissed, desperately, "To watch your eyes while you die."
He pressed their mouths together. She shivered with hate...but opened her lips. It was a rich kiss, heady, and made her head swirl. He was so soft about it. Almost delicate.
She hated that too.
Her hands lifted to shove him away - and curled in his vest to bring him closer. He smelled like cigars and scotch. He smelled like wood smoke and something darker. She moaned a little in fear of it.
Wesker scooped her hands and laid them over her head. She shook, trembling, even as he moved his mouth to her belly. She stared so hard at the canopy that the little flowers on it started to burn behind her eyes. She shook her head, denying.
"Please...please stop."
She hated the begging. Hated herself for doing it. Hated herself for having a brief moment of wanting to end it. Cowardice. Cowardice wanted her to jump out the window behind her and take all she knew to the grave with her. She was no coward.
And yet...she begged him to stop.
And she hated herself for it.
He lifted his head, smiling lightly. "Where is she?"
Claire shook her head, turning her face away again. His hands skimmed lightly, under her shirt, peeling it up her belly and off her arms. She gripped the headboard above her so hard, it hurt. It hurt and helped clear her head a bit. Maybe she couldn't stop him from touching her...but she could stop herself from touching him back.
She could do that.
His fingers undid the clasp at the front of her torso, freeing her breasts. She whimpered, watching the moonlight on the window. She could endure this. She could endure. She could en-
His mouth settled over one nipple, wetly, lazily. He tugged it into his mouth and playfully palmed her other breast. She jerked, as if he'd electrocuted her, and her hands bumped the headboard into the wall behind her. The pull of his mouth went into her groin and made her wet, almost instantly.
His free hand slid down her belly and into her pants. She shook her head, quaking. "No."
But her hips jerked into his delving fingers as he penetrated her. Gently. Smoothly. He let go of her peaking breast to say, "Tell me what I want, Claire. And I'll give you what you want."
Her body bowed, bringing a gasp from her mouth as he stroked her. What did she want? FREEDOM. FREEDOM.
From what?
Him. Freedom from him.
But her body didn't want that. Her body jerked and welcomed him. She shook her head even as she turned it toward him. "Please...let me go."
It boiled out of her mouth with rage and yet...she nipped at his mouth and invited his laughter as he kissed her.
He thumbed her body, he tasted her breasts, he tempted her mouth with kisses. She felt the goosebumps. She felt the warmth spread from her body to her blood. She felt the hate bleed into the need.
She denied it. She denied them both. Her face was a mask of horror and self hatred. "Please...please...don't..."
Please don't what? Stop?
What did she want? Her body spasmed, racing, and came around the symphony of his fingers inside her.
8:00 p.m.
She wore such a pretty party dress. It was purple and shimmered. It was a perfect bell with a heart shaped boddess. The perfect curve of her ample bosom was displayed like freckle dusted porcelain.
As she dined, she watched the faces around her.
The beautiful faces.
It was surreal. It was the blonde Nordic god with his endless beauty. Tall and commanding, a warrior with a black heart. Never the white knight, no, the black knight. The Dark Knight. The one that courted the darkness to bring the world to his hand.
Never a prince charming. The handsome face, the laughter, the smiles and charm…lies. Liar. FAKE. He was nothing more than a monster.
Did they know what waited beneath the effortless grace?
Did they know what he offered when the night was long and the torches burning?
Claire – consent…consent and I will let you go. Give me what I seek. Relent. Comply. I will offer you the world.
LIAR.
Always the injection now. Every night.
No one was coming. No one knew where she was. She was trapped here…in the arms of the liar. The fake. The dark knight. His victim. His toy.
Around her, dancing. Dancing. The world was dancing now.
Colors and laughter and beautiful gowns. A ball.
Would you like to go to the ball, Claire?
…yes.
Kiss me, Claire. Of your own free will. And I will take you to the ball.
One kiss. Freely given. It had cost her pieces of herself she couldn't understand.
The Dark Knight caught her eye now, watching her. He smiled. He gestured with his hand.
Claire knew, she could resist him here. She could make a scene. She could run from the dining hall and the ballroom and embarrass him.
But if…if she did…the horror of what he would do to her would never end. He would bleed her. He would inject her. He would touch her, stroke her, tease her. She would curse him and cry…and come. His TOY. His puppet. His slave.
She rose. She walked down the length of the table. Beautiful, resplendent. The red of her hair was woven through with crystals and sparkles and butterflies. Beautiful, resplendent.
He took her hand. He guided her to the reflective mirrored floor. She could see them now as they danced. He was effortless at it, smooth, slipping into each step like a professional. He twirled her, swirled her, stole her breath with it.
He danced like a prince…for a demon.
Against her ear, he said, so so softly, "Relent, Claire. Comply. I will give you the world."
The world.
It was beyond this castle. This farce. This lie where he held her. It was beyond him. And beyond the shimmer of bodies and laughter and music.
And the wall where he would bind her – and strip away her soul.
She rolled her face back. He smiled. The blue of his eyes…contacts…clearly. A handsome man. A beautiful prince.
LIAR.
DEMON.
MONSTER.
And she whispered against his perfect mouth, "…fuck…you."
The swirl of skirts. The laughter. It chased them from the room as he dragged her away. The moonlit veranda. The ivy clinging, crawling, swirling up the slick stone. The tinkle and tickle of soft rain around them like a storybook.
A fairytale.
The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave.
He slung her to the stone bench there. Her petticoats tangled around her legs.
She lifted angry eyes to him.
He grabbed her face and tilted it up to him. "Tell me what I need, Claire. Tell me. Relent. Comply. Enough of this."
"You think if you say it again…I'll suddenly change my mind? Which part of FUCK YOU did you misunderstand? The fuck? Or the you? You need me to sound it out for you? F-U-C-"
It was swift.
The slap.
He slapped her face.
She spit at him even as it stung. And his fist pulled her hair, tilted her head back, and sneered into her face. "So stupid. So stubborn. Redfields – how I will rejoice when I see the end of you both."
"Oh yeah? DITTO KIDDO."
And she jerked.
Because he'd stabbed her with that fucking needle. She hadn't even seen it. She didn't know it was there. He just stabbed her with it.
It stole her breath.
And her voice came out on a gasp, "…BASTARD!"
She tried to shift away and the bastard knelt at her feet. He threw up her petticoats. She tried to pull back and his hand found the smooth, warm inside of her thigh. She froze. Her eyes went wide.
And he smiled. "Tell me what I want, Claire."
She couldn't say no anymore. She could only shake her head now in horror.
The damn women who'd dressed her had left her without panties. She knew why now. She knew. And she was so afraid it rolled off her in waves. It made her head swim.
And then he touched her. He touched the soft heat of her. And she made a small mewl of fear.
"Shall I stop, Claire? The choice is yours. Tell what I need and this stops."
She couldn't speak. Not a word. Her hips shifted away from his touch…her legs opened for him.
And he laughed.
He laughed.
She watched the moonlight on his head now. It bowed between her legs. She shook her head to deny it and her body bucked into his mouth. His mouth.
It delved onto her body like a feast. The party beyond the veranda went on. Swirling dresses, laughter, clinking glasses – masks and merriment. It was peppered by her gasping. It was peppered by the wet sounds of his feasting.
She spilled back on the bench even as she said, "…please stop…"
And her legs opened for more.
Her petticoats settled around his face. Her spine bowed, her hands grasping for his hair. It tunneled there. She yanked at him to dislodge him…she shoved him harder against her for more.
The reluctant slave. The victim.
The whore.
Her body whored for him. She felt him part her, play at her. Tongue in her, on her, fingers and stroking. She was so wet. She was gasping, " . No."
But her body was shaking. Her thighs quaking. Her eyes unable to look away.
One of his hands slid up her body. It caught her throat, it spilled her head back to the moonlight and held her. She felt a fat tear slip down her cheek. The pain of the pleasure, the horror of the want, the body and the mind so far apart…so far away. Cleaved from each other like pieces that were never a whole.
It spilled from her mouth. She felt the red shimmer of it. He curled his fingers in her, found that spot, and stroked it. She denied. Fighting. Fingers jerking him away…fingers rubbing him against the creamy need of her. Her sounds. They were high now, desperate.
"No…I don't…I won't…"
She would. She did. Every time he touched her…she did.
She whispered, "….don't…."
And his tongue curled up in her like a snake. A serpent. A hungry thing.
She came against his mouth with a cry of release. It rolled out of her. She spilled sticky and hot against his delving tongue. It took her, tasted, rolling in the release of her body like he'd swallow her whole.
She shook her head, she tried to pull away, she tried to pull him closer.
Her hands freed her body. It spilled him back.
She shoved him away…and her hands pulled him down.
She whispered, "…oh god, no…" And kissed him. Wet. Tongues and teeth. His laughter in her mouth. Her taste in her mouth.
….her hands on his pants. She was pulling at his zipper. She was trying to slide away. She was pushing and pulling and gasping. And crying.
And coming.
He stilled her, holding her hands to her belly. He gave her his tongue in a rhythm that had her humping in horror and need on that stone bench.
And he said, "Not yet. Not yet…keep resisting me, Claire. Keep resisting. I will destroy you with pleasure."
Oh god.
She believed him.
He left her on the bench. Gasping.
Shaking.
Crying.
Hating.
And still hungry for him.
Post note: I use the Prince and the Slave here which originally was written as a tail piece to this story. I'm going to grow Wesker and Claire as obsessive for a little bit so the reader can see her draw to him.
