Stage 7: Emasculation


Devil's Elbow, Kentucky


Sherry was in the kitchen making coffee. The early morning sun was still pink and pretty on the horizon. The eastern sky looked like lava beneath the sea. It was brilliant. The blend of hues was breathtaking. And she saw, now in this moment, the splendor of the raw, untouched, perfect countryside.

She wore a little white nightgown. It was unadorned and simple. It was white cotton and made her feel about twelve years old. Everything she owned had been given to her by the agency. She had never, ever, bought her own wardrobe.

Horrifying to be 22 years old and never gone shopping by yourself.

Shaking her head, she sipped her coffee and watched the world wake up.

She turned away from the pretty little window and gasped. She gasped. And the coffee mug dropped from her hand, hit the floor and shattered with a tinkle of shattering ceramic. Coffee spilled over the tiles and cooled, smelling like mocha delight.

Leon Kennedy was The Immortal because he never died. He faced hordes of nightmares and he just…rose. The Ghost was another of his nicknames. They said he moved like one. She believed them. He was just standing there in the doorway, inches away from her. And she hadn't even heard him move.

The floors in the house creaked like mad. It was INSANE that he'd been able to get around without a peep. Her hand pressed to her collarbone and held there while she calmed her racing heart.

They stared at each other from inches away.

His voice startled her in the encompassing softness of the absence of sound, "Where is your gun, Sherry?"

"...do I need my gun to make coffee?"

Leon tilted his head, studying her. "You always need your gun. Always."

She glanced at him.

The early morning light was kind to him. As if he ever looked anything but beautiful. Would she ever be able to look at him and not feel twelve years old? Of course, in her nightgown, with her hair tangled and loose around her…she did probably look it. So, there was that.

He was…mostly naked. Just a pair of boxer briefs in some shade of blue that was shades darker than his eyes. Mostly naked and beautiful. And each line of muscle, each curve of skin, each sprinkle of hair from nose to toes and ears to ankles was molded, gilded, guided by hands that had carved the greatest sculptures in the world. He made her heart race just fine without scaring her half to death.

Because this…need in her? It scared her all on its own.

"...where is your gun, Leon?"

The loud snap of sound had her jumping. It was there, that enormous Magnum of his, it was just there in his hand. Where had he been keeping it on his mostly naked body? He was many things. He was also, apparently, a wizard. He could conjure things from nothing.

"Never leave anywhere, ever, without your gun, Sherry. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"I can't protect you if you aren't smarter than that."

"I don't need you to protect me."

And now he lifted a brow, mocking. It rolled in her belly and brought her eyes narrow against him. "Don't you?"

"I'm not some fucking little girl, Leon. I don't need you to save me anymore. And I don't need to take my damn gun to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. You're being paranoid."

"Am I? If I was an enemy, right now, right in this moment, how would you stop me? I'm bigger, faster, stronger and better trained. I stood here for...probably eight minutes watching you and you didn't even realize it. They might have trained you but they didn't teach you. Not enough. Not even close to enough. Not to survive in the game we're playing."

He was right. On one hand, he was very right. And yet he wasn't entirely right. He didn't know what she could do. He didn't understand that she would win in a fight with him. He might hit harder, true. But she could take those hits and keep on coming.

That was the gift of the G-Virus.

And apparently, his clearance didn't grant him the knowledge of that. It was interesting to know it. Considering how high up the ladder he was.

"Are you offering to teach me, Leon?"

"Yeah. I'm offering to teach you. If you want to learn."

"I want to learn." She watched him lower the gun in his hands and set it on the kitchen table. She watched him study her. She could see the intelligence on him, the assessment. On one hand, she was his lover; she was the woman he'd molded and held and made his. On the other, she was his protege; the eager student willing to sit at his knee and suffer his cruel tutelage to gain the knowledge and the skill he offered. "I want you to teach me."

She wanted all he had to offer. She wanted him. And it made her brave...or foolish. Or both.

She stepped over the coffee on the ground. He waited near the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest. Sherry pushed him against the frame hard enough to startle him.

It pulled a gasp from his mouth.

She put one hand on his arms, holding them against his chest. She put the other one in his hair. He leaned down like he'd kiss her and she blocked him. Surprised, he met her eyes.

She was intensely watching his face.

He liked it. That look on her face. It was...what? It was need. Or want. It was hunger.

No.

It was an obsession.

His face told her to take it. Take what she wanted from him. He'd let her. A powerful man; he'd let her take what she wanted from him. That was the nature of the thing between them. Sometimes owning someone was about give and take.

She wanted to hold him there against the doorframe and force what she felt for him onto him, into him, until it killed them both.

But she was too afraid of herself to do more than stare at him, breathing fast and hard. She whispered, so softly, "Teach me."

Leon moved away from the door frame and into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee. He was so casual about it. So careless. He moved out the back door of the little house and onto the little porch there. It was a brisk morning. There was the soft call of a lark, singing its morning tune with a pretty sound.

He sat down in one of the chairs at the table there on the deck. The wrought iron was cold and delightful on his skin. The little house had neighbors on either side beyond the privacy fence. It had neighbors across the pretty little river that spilled and rolled behind it.

It was a safe house in a safe area not for privacy but because it was centrally located to town. It was only a fool that would attack a safehouse ten blocks from the police station. The exposure was another way it was protected.

He turned his head to find her looking at him.

Leon sipped his coffee.

She had a choice here. She could go inside and dress for the day. She could get a cup of coffee and join him at the table. She could go back to bed, if she chose.

He watched her face.

And said, "Come here."

And he took away her choice.

Sherry moved out onto the cold porch. The wood was cool and tempting under her bare feet. She moved toward him.

Leon said, quietly, "Stop." When she was a foot away.

She did, waiting. He held her eyes and intoned, "Lift your nightgown and touch yourself for me."

Jesus.

Sherry hesitated. She glanced around. It was early, yes, but they were SURROUNDED by other houses. Surely he was kidding.

He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. That expression…it was taunting. It was cool. It was daring her to say no. It was daring her to follow the command. His face said he didn't care either way she went with it.

Sherry lifted her nightgown with one hand. She wore nothing beneath it. Nothing. She was utterly bare.

It thrilled him.

She saw it. She glanced at his body and could see how much it thrilled him. She wanted to cross the last foot to him and put her hand in his pants.

Leon's mouth twisted to the side, smirking.

And then she touched herself. It was hesitant. It was almost chaste. The delicacy of her enthralled him. She was so virginal when she moved. So sweet. Her innocence was so perfectly, painfully, beautifully corruptible. It made him throb for her.

He watched her while she touched herself. She slid her fingers against her soft little slit. She touched herself between her folds so sweetly. And he said, quietly, "Put your fingers inside yourself."

Sherry held his eyes. She bit her lips. She glanced around. She couldn't have him spanking her. NOT HERE. Not in the open.

Jesus.

The power was heady from it. She slid her fingers into her waiting body. She was slick inside. Not yet ready for anything but inquisitive exploring. But her body welcomed the questing of her. She shivered; her mouth opened on a gasp.

Nodding, one of those beautiful eyes hidden behind that shaggy blonde hair of his, Leon added, "Use your other hand to stroke your clit."

Her other hand slid down her body. But the nightgown fell forward and covered her.

And she knew what he would say now.

She knew it.

"Take it off."

God.

Sherry shivered. She shivered. He lifted a brow as she hesitated. A house close by opened a door and she heard a dog released into a yard.

Her hands stopped their touching of her to grab her nightgown and pulled it over her head. The cold air tortured her pretty pale skin. Her nipples were turgid now and begging. The goosebumps on her skin excited him.

He commanded her again. "Touch yourself. Don't come, Sherry. I mean it."

She touched herself. She did it. She had to. She couldn't have him spanking her outside. Not where anyone could see. This was a job for her. If she drew attention to herself, it could be trouble for both of them. Didn't he understand that?

Of course, logically, she could just go back inside. He wasn't going to hurt her. Not really. She knew that.

Right?

It was a game.

His face was so impassive. So calm. But his EYES. His eyes said it wasn't a game. His eyes said he was serious. His eyes said he owned her.

And it felt like fire in her body to know it.

She played with her body. She stroked, she flicked, she lingered. She knew how she liked it. She'd been doing it to herself for so long. She'd always, always, always pictured him while she did it. And now he was here. He was here. And he was watching her. "Tell me how much you want me, Sherry. Tell me now."

She held his gaze, brazen in a way that scared her. And her voice said, hoarsely, "Do you like to watch me touch myself, Leon? I always think of you while I do it. Always."

It humbled him. It enthralled him. He studied her eyes to find the lie of it. And there was none.

She whispered, stroking her sensitive nub, thumbing her body. He watched her hands move, shifting on the chair where he sat as his erection throbbed for her. "I was so young. So young. They…oh god…" She found a spot inside herself that was so good…so bad. And she almost came. But she stilled her hands and breathed until it passed. She was so slick and tight around her own fingers. She eased back on her clit to avoid going over the edge. And finished her statement, "They took you away. But your face…your face…it's all I could see. All I could see for years. I have a notebook filled with pictures of your face that I drew. I drew it. Because it was my obsession for so long."

She shivered, close now, so close. The look on his face. The fascination. The want. The longing. It was so raw. It was so hot. It was so enthralling. He was listening to her, watching her, wanting her and waiting for her to finish. Finish herself. Finish her tale. "Every time I put my fingers in myself…I pretended it was…you…"

She was panting, panting, shaking and quivering.

Leon answered, gruffly, "Do you want me to put my fingers in you, Sherry?"

"…oh god…yes…" A hiss. A quivering hiss. A shivering hiss. "Please."

She gasped, jerking against her hands. And his voice instructed her again, gravely and deep, "Come to me."

Come for him?

She gasped, shaking. No. Come TO me. He wanted her to come to him. Not for him. Didn't he understand she'd been coming TO him for years?

But she moved, she moved, on shaking legs.

He said, "Straddle my legs."

And she parted her legs to walk forward until she was standing over him, legs spread, eyes on his face. That face. She craved him.

He lifted a hand and slid his fingers between hers where they touched her. And he pushed their joined hands into her waiting body. Slick, wet, tight she closed around their dual assault with heedless glee. Her free hand stopped stroking her clit to grab the side of his face. She almost slapped him when she grabbed him so hard. She heard it echo. Her thumb aligned beside his ear. Her fingers curled into his hair.

And his hoarse, hoarse, hoarse voice whispered, "Don't come, Sherry. Not yet."

They worked her body together, fucking, fingering, finding that spot that stole her breath. She gasped, arching. "Please…please…Leon…"

It was his name on her mouth that did it. He was done for her. She was, without a doubt, the most fascinating creature he'd ever seen. Her willingness to please him, ease him, tease him…it aroused in ways that had no name. It was sinful, sating, wetting and bedding him in a single felling shift of want. His other hand slid up her torso and cupped her breast. He could feel her racing heart.

He felt her body tighten around their thrusting fingers. His palm tweaked her nipple, tugging and he whispered, "Don't, Sherry. Don't."

But she couldn't get away from his eyes. She couldn't escape his fingers and hers as they brushed and pressed and pushed. She twisted her fingers in his hair and jerked. She drove her tongue into his mouth and her body down on their hands. And she came, wetly, needy, grunting and humping and fucking his mouth with her tongue.

He let her. He let her tongue plunge into his mouth. His eyes stayed open in wonder, in want, watching her face while she rode their hands and raped his mouth. Even here, even now, her innocent want of him was refreshing. It was unbridled. It wasn't calculated. It didn't offer a whore's skill. It offered a girls untried, untested, unparalleled exploration.

The hand tugging her little breast rolled around her body. She was still coming, still kissing, still gasping as he brought his hand down on her.

The slap was loud in the quiet morning. It echoed. It stung. She was still pink from the night before. And it surprised her enough that she…slapped him.

It wasn't on purpose. It was more reaction than that. He hurt her; she slapped him.

And that slap echoed in the morning.

Horrified, she drew back from thrusting her tongue in his mouth. His cheek was pink from it. Her bottom was stinging. She was guessing his face was too.

Sherry whispered, hoarsely, "I'm so s—"

But he didn't care. He didn't want to hear I'm sorry. She knew that. He grunted and grabbed her throat, stealing her words and scaring her. He scared her. And she liked it.

His other hand shifted and grabbed her hip. She watched his face, saw the flash of excitement and anger, and he jerked her down. Her quivering thighs couldn't resist. She couldn't gasp, it was caught by his gripping fist. He seated himself inside of her in one angry thrust.

It hurt.

The angle was sharp and she wasn't ready. She was wet from her orgasm. She was. She was wet. But she wasn't ready for that. Not yet. And she was still sore from the night before it seemed. She made a sound of distressed pain and pushed against his chest.

Leon grunted and shifted. He lifted and put her on the table. It was cold on her bottom but worked like a balm to soothe the ache of it. His hand held her throat, his other held her hip. He angled her against his body.

She whispered, "Don't. Wait. Don't."

Don't wait. It sounded about right. She was throbbing around him. Throbbing with soreness. The hand on her hip grabbed one of her knees and drove it back. It opened her body to him. It put him deeper in her.

She pushed at him even as her body pulled him deeper into her aching soreness. She spasmed around him. Her hands grabbed his face.

He hissed it now, "I said don't resist me, Sherry."

Of course. Of course, he'd said that.

She whispered, "Please."

Please, what? Please don't? Please don't stop? He watched her face. She shook her head. "Please."

And his hand on her throat pushed her back completely on the table. He pushed her flat on her back on the cold iron table. His hands shifted and pushed her knees back and open.

Her hands flailed and grabbed. She grabbed his wrists while he opened her. She grabbed his wrists while he split her open. He didn't just fuck her. He put her knees back against her chest and tried to kill her. He was trying to rip her open.

She was sure of it.

Sherry screamed. She screamed on the table in the backyard of that little house where she was trying to pretend she didn't want it. Didn't want him. And didn't want the pain he forced into her body like a sword.

She shouted his name, shouted, "Stop! Don't stop! GOD!"

And her hands grabbed the backs of her knees and replaced his. She did it. She kept herself open to him. Don't resist me, he'd said, and she didn't. She gave him everything she had. Teach me, she'd said, and he taught her to love the pain of the want for him that bled and burned and robbed reason from her in a skin-prickling rush.

His hand shifted to grab her hips. He jerked her in against his body harder, faster, deeper. It was wet, slapping and smacking and striking like a hammer of flesh. The pain was awesome, it was awful, it was amazing. It struck against the pleasure in her belly and exploded.

It came out of her mouth in a keening wail. She hated and loved and craved him. She craved him. Because he rode her body harder, harder, forced himself into her so far she felt him thrusting in her chest. And she was moaning now, moaning and bucking and holding on.

No no no, she moaned. It was too much. It hurt. It was too much pain, too much pleasure. He shoved the release of it into her body and forced her over the edge. She was so wet around him that it was like a slip and slide of slick greed. He rode in now like he was made for her body. Rode in while her body went so tight, so tight, sucking him with mindless fervor and desperate feral need. He laughed, laughed, and dropped his mouth to kiss her.

He grabbed handfuls of her hair and jerked her up. She let go of her legs, quaking, shaking, spastically flopping on the table with each painful wave of release. He caught her around the waist and carried her into the house with one arm.

She felt like a dead thing in his arm. But he put her against the counter in the kitchen, forced her face down on it. Her breasts smashed against the cool granite. Her hands scrambled to find something to hold on to and he lifted her hips until her feet dangled off the floor and shoved himself into her dripping sheath.

He had to work for it. Wet or not, she was tight from use, from overuse, from engorgement and release and need. Her hands finally settled on slapping him. She reached around behind her to slap his ass. She slapped his invading body while he held her down on the counter with a hand on her back. She slapped his hip…and it gripped as she found that rhythm in her. He hammered her into the counter while she dug her nails into his ass.

Her other hand came up behind her shoulder and grabbed a handful of his hair. He came collapsed around her back and kissed her when she turned her head. Wet. Tongues. Teeth. Temptation.

He eased his fucking. He eased it back. He eased it until it was smooth, slow, gentle in her aching body. He tongued her mouth and slid in and out of her body while she throbbed around him. The sweetness, the shift of it, was the most amazing thing she'd ever felt.

It stole her breath. And it forced her pulsing, pushing, needing body to come again. Just like that. Sherry gasped musically into his mouth. And her body tightened like a fist against his cock.

Leon gave it what it wanted. He pumped her full of himself. And her sore, aching, quaking little sheath devoured the sticky spurt of his release with a desperate sucking.

Sherry made a tortured little sound in her throat.

She'd come here to find a target. She'd found Leon Kennedy in her living room. And he kept finding her buttons, her weaknesses, her wants. He kept finding her soul.

And he kept fucking her raw.

How did you get out of bed with a man determined to possess you?

And would you ever really want to?

She was kinda afraid she was going to fail her mission because she was constantly impaled on Leon Kennedy's cock.

…she couldn't think of a better reason to fail anything…ever…EVER.

She only knew that she wanted to feel the ache of him inside of her…forever.

His arms shifted; he rolled her around on the counter. He lifted her against him. Sherry put her arm around his neck and held on while he carried her from the kitchen and sat down in the recliner. Did she curl around him on his lap like a...child? Like something.

And he stroked her hair.

Those possessing hands of his soothed her now. He stroked her, petted her, and when he spoke, he spoke of the mission. She listened, stroking a hand over his sweaty, taut belly while he spoke. And she craved him. She craved him.

And she was desperately afraid that even when it was done, even it as over and she was back in her cage...she would never be able to let him go.

She whispered, holding him. "Teach me."

And she meant to teach her how to survive. How to survive it all. But she didn't know if she'd survive him. And it wasn't something he could teach her at all.


Post note:

We see a parallel between the horror of what is happening to Claire and the commanding beauty of what is happening with Sherry and Leon. Both are, in a way, domination. But one is clearly not pleasing both parties. I'm hoping it shows the drastic difference in the darkness that is our own desires.

I like Leon here. Admittedly, I like the powerful version of him. I so often write him broody, moody, and conflicted. He's not here. He's just...hot. And in control. It works. HOPEFULLY!

I'm so nervous writing this one! I hope it plays out alright. As always, leave it, love it, review it and let me know what rocks, what sucks, and what rules.

Slainte!