Stage Eight: Conversion


On the horns of a nightmare...


At some point, she'd fallen asleep and woken up Albert Wesker's companion. She was one of the "them"; those horrid people she'd come to hate. She was like Miracella, his handmaiden - a woman so cantankerous that she flayed the flesh from her victims for his pleasure and her own when commanded.

She was like his steward, Lars, who daily went into the village and returned with some poor soul that disappeared into the castle and never emerged again. She could hear the screaming. She could hear the crying. She could never find the victim.

Claire tried. She tried. She combed the hallways when he wasn't with her and searched. But he was brilliant. He was nefarious. He was good at hiding. Hadn't he been hiding in plain sight for years in Raccoon City?

The second attempt she made to run got her all the way outside to the stables. No cars. No escape. No horses. Just a stable filled with hay.

He'd caught her on foot a half mile away when she'd taken off in the cold. Barefoot. Desperate. Shamed. Shamed, because he'd barely touched her before she'd collapsed and given up.

That was the scary part. She was losing her fight. He'd tossed her over his shoulder and walked, carelessly, the half mile back to his castle. He didn't send his goons. He always collected her himself. He almost, never, had to say a word.

She didn't know how much time had passed. It might have been days. It might have been years. It might have been moments.

The second time she ran, he attached a "watcher" to her. A pretty girl who was terrified and obeyed him. She tracked Claire around the estate and wouldn't leave. She followed her into the restroom to watch her pee. It was humiliating.

Nightly, he came to her bed. He promised he'd stop the injections if she gave him what he wanted. He promised, he'd stop the injections if she submitted to him without fighting.

Freely given, Claire. Freely. And I will give you the world.

She didn't want his world. She wanted her own. But what was her world? Was anyone looking for her? Did anyone care?

She felt like she'd been in his world forever.

She escorted him to dinner nightly. She didn't even fight now. She did whatever it took to avoid the injection. But somehow, someway - she'd end up with it in her neck by nightfall. She couldn't let him touch her without it. She just couldn't. She fought so hard.

She tried to stop it. But she ended up coming apart beneath him from his hands and his mouth.

He hadn't fucked her. She felt like, maybe, he was waiting for her to beg for that. She would rather DIE than beg Albert Wesker to take fuck her. She stared at herself in the mirror and said it aloud, "You are not his."

But she didn't really feel like her anymore either.


She sat for three hours in a small chair across from his desk. He worked. He made calls. He ignored her.

And he finally hung up and said, "Are you ready to comply?"

Claire shuddered. She shook her head: no.

His hand swirled the needle on the desk. She shook her head: no.

And he said, "Relent. Comply. Or I will destroy you."

No one was coming for her. She was here. She was here with him. The dark prince. The Liar. THE FAKE.

The thing she dreamed of when she slept. Her body bowing and bucking in the sheets. Her mind weeping and dying in her head. Her soul torn and tempted and trying to flee from him. Her hatred and her need warring inside of her.

She was afraid. She was afraid she was losing who she was. She was afraid…she was becoming his.

He lifted the needle. He moved around the desk.

She was shaking like a leaf. She stared at the window beyond his desk. It was snowing.

He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. He put the needle to her throat. And she yelled, "WAIT! WAIT! JUST WAIT!"

He waited, watching her.

Those sunglasses.

She hated him.

Her hands shifted. She grabbed his zipper. His mouth crooked up in a half smile.

"What's this?"

She shook her head. He kept ahold of her hair. Her hands jerked down his . She reached inside to find him.

He set the needle down on the desk.

He kept her hair in his hands.

She'd do ANYTHING to avoid that needle.

Anything.

She spilled the heady length of him into her grasp. Long and pale. Thick and veiny against a nest of fragrant hair. He scooped back the other side of her hair.

And she opened her mouth to him.

The taste of him disgusted her. It make her gag. She tried to fight against her own actions. No drug now. Just her.

He pushed her down on him.

She fought the reflex to push away.

And she opened her throat to him.

He slid into her mouth, into her lips, the sticky slide of her saliva eased the way. She went part way and came back. Part way and came back.

And he said, "No."

And pushed her down on him completely.

He went to the back of her throat and down it. She gagged. Her hands grappled at his thighs to stop the assault. But he held her there, plunged past her limits, throbbing in her aching throat. She moaned, tears springing from the pain of it.

And he rode back so she could breathe again.

She gasped around the length of him. She pushed at his thighs to free herself.

And he said, "No. Do you want the injection, Claire?"

She hated him. She hated him. She hated that she shivered now. SHE shivered…for him. And hated herself.

Her hands shifted to his hips. She angled herself. And drove her mouth down on him now. Fast, wet, slick. She stook the meat of him into her aching throat with each plunge.

All the way. All in.

One hand slid into his pants to cup the needy weight of him. She rolled him. She drove her mouth down. She punished him with the press of teeth from time to time. He grunted, twisting his fingers in her red lockes.

He let her go. When she hesitated, he drove her back on him.

She shifted in the chair. She looked up the line of his body. He was watching the fat length of him shove forcefully into her aching jaws.

She thought , desperately, that he took FOREVER to come. COME, she cried in her head, so I can run away and throw up and die. COME.

And he pulled out of her throat.

She gasped, gagging a little at the pain of it.

She leaned away from him, trying to relearn how to breathe.

He slid the sticky, slick head of himself against the seam of her lips. He used the fat length of himself to lightly slap her face. Jesus. She trembled.

She spat, "Hurry up! Damn you!"

And he laughed. He laughed. He answered, "Will you comply?"

She shook her head: no.

And he pushed himself back into her throbbing mouth.

She was sore in her throat now. He was too big. And the angle too sharp. And the ride in and out too painful. She fought against it and he pushed her fully down on him again. He held her there. She grunted, gagging, and he rode back to give her air.

She slapped his thighs, protesting. And he grunted, "Finish me, Claire. Or I will put the injection into you. I will have you pull down your pants and fuck me. DO IT."

Jesus.

She went fast, hungry, moaning and taking it. She drove her mouth down like a wild thing. His hands slid out of her hair. They slid down, down, and cupped her breasts. He slid them inside her tank top and cupped them beneath her bra. He plucked her nipples, swirled her in his palms. And helped her drive him into the back of throat.

She moaned. She gasped. He tugged on her and had it going from tits to groin. She hated him.

And he came.

Unprompted. Unexpected.

She drove her mouth down on him and he just…went. He shot into the back of her throat so fast. It was thick and sticky and salty. And HOT. It burned. It hurt. It brought tears to her eyes again.

He ground her there as far as she could go. She fought. She gasped. She took it.

And he jerked out of her mouth while she gasped, shaking.

And finished by painting the pale mounds of her cleavage with the paint of him.

She shuddered….and hated him.

She was nearly empty now. Nearly numb. She was afraid all that would remain when it was over, was the ghost of Claire Redfield - and the power of Albert Wesker.