WARNING [NO AFTERCARE, domination, worshipping, choking, degrading, praise, missionary, mouth covering, fearplay(?), VERY long drabble w/ marination]
You couldn't get enough of the plush pillows your head laid between with each rest, the deep crimson of their covers matching the gigantic silk comforter that swallowed you whole. Your sleep was always tender on nights of no stress or rapid thoughts, and, even then, you never felt a wink tired after you woke up.
Slowly but surely you became conscious, your eyes eventually cracking open and meeting with the slick alarm clock that screamed 17:30 in neon red. You pulled yourself upright against the ridiculous pile of pillows, blinking away your sleepiness as you untucked your legs from the blankets and swung them to your slippers at the side of the bed. Stretching up to reach the ceiling, you hear the center of your chest crack in with your shoulders as you put your feet into your slides.
They softly pattered against the wood floors as you went out of your room and down the hall, the bottom of your shirt caressing the middle of your thighs with every step forward. You knew where you were heading, what turn to take to get to the stairs, and even which staircase to use to get to where you wanted to go even faster. You frequented this home more than your own at this rate, getting a call every 2 weeks to confirm availability for your cleaning services at the same time, same dates, same hours.
Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday⎯ your fingers slid against the banister that encircled the stairs⎯ and Friday were mandatory for you to show, while weekends⎯ you reached the top of the stairs and began to descend down⎯ you had to be on call. You were paid handsomely for being openly available during the weekends despite sometimes not having to show, and you couldn't be more grateful for a job that paid you as well as this. You thought that this gig would be a scam, a dud, a total waste of your interest, until you were paid for Monday. Then Tuesday. Then the weekend arrived, and you were stacked to the brim full of money⎯ money that you were not going allow to be put into someone else's pockets. Though, as you thought more about it, it comes together as to why the owner of such a home would pay as much; professional cleaners deserve a professionals' salary, especially when cleaning a house this large.
Your feet hit the floor and you were off towards the kitchen, your fuzzy slippers slightly dragging on the floor boards from their heft. You began to buy nicer items as your time spent with this job grew longer, up to the span of almost a year. The slippers you wore at this very second were, in fact, a splurge purchase from a brand you've been eyeing since you saw their popular furry boots, but could never afford.
You got to the dining room, the entrance of the kitchen just in sight when you turn to face the long dining table. You ate here⎯ you pass by a seat that sat under the wall mount of a large stag, its antlers stretching towards the ceiling like a tree growing for the sun⎯ whenever duty called, the long hours of the day passing by with every harsh scrub to the grout between tiles. You were cautious at first, when the owner's assistant informed you of your duties and boundaries of working in this house; you could cook food, eat at the dining table, use whatever you needed from select spaces. But soon, those boundaries shrunk, the assistant saying the owner was offering for you to use the furniture to subdue your aching muscles, use the showers and baths to ensure the water runs properly⎯ to even go as far as to want you to increase your availability for overnight stays, stating the beds needed to be used to keep the dust away.
Eventually, as the half year mark arrived, you finally met the owner of the manor. It caught you off guard when you saw a large shadow fall in front of your view of the bookshelf you were giving much needed attention to, your duster tensing in your hand as your grip threatened to snap it. When you turned to face your boss, your hold on your tool did not falter, and instead tightened to the point you swear you heard it cracking under your fingers. He had a dominant, overpowering atmosphere plaguing the room with his arrival, his demeaning gaze nailing you through his black sunglasses as he eyed you once over. He knew your were uneasy, he could practically smell the stench of your nervousness, and it was apparent to you with the way his gaze remained unwavering, like he was observing you, seeing how you would react to his sudden appearance. You could feel his eyes sink in to your face, then your hair, then your uniform, and finally, your eyes; you could feel them being drawn to stare, and never turn away, as if your very soul was being bound to submit through your sea of color. In reality, he knew what you looked like, his cameras across the manor watching your every move the moment you drove just ever slightly close to the property (eventually as you settled in with working for him, he would send one of his assistants to go pick you up and take you home in one of those sleek black cars you knew cost a fortune).
⎯ Soon, you turned to the kitchen and froze, your eyes skimming the sudden view of your boss who was leaned over the sink and washing the dishes. His usual uniform was gone, and in its stead, he had his casual white dress shirt on, it noticeably hugging his back and biceps like a perfectly fitted glove⎯ his sleeves were rolled up in an oddly meticulous way, you noticed⎯ with nice iron pressed pants and matching black dress shoes. His hair looked disheveled, just enough to where you could tell he ran his fingers through it in what few could recognize as irritation.
You felt sick, your face paling and your hands clamping onto the bottom of your shirt⎯ shit, your shirt. You looked down at what you were wearing and felt completely defeated, your chest feeling the snake of shame wrap itself around your beating heart to the point you truly felt it pause a beat. To top it all off⎯ you looked back up to view him once again⎯ he was doing the dishes. Your job.
What made the shame ever so slightly surrender, however, was the fact that your boss himself had told you if you ever felt the need to, use the guest room to rest. That's what you did, so perhaps he would excuse this first time instance?
You blink, and you realize you've been staring longer than you should be. You clamp onto your shirt one last time, letting it absorb any possible sweat, and relax your anxious expression before plastering on a soft, awkward looking smile.
"Good afternoon, Mister Wesker."
There was a pause in the air that felt as long as a year, yet was but a second, the sound of running water and the scrubbing of dishes being the only thing making noise. You cringed internally at the silence, half tempted escape while you still could, but you knew you would land yourself in a deep grave if you attempted such a thing.
"It took you long enough to address me."
You flinched when his voice cut through the air like a knife to butter. Your smile was wiped clean and your eyes dodged to the floor, the malice in his voice evident, even if it was but a small amount, "I apologize for that, sir. I was unsure if I was in the appropriate clothing to greet you."
Wesker didn't get home till late at night, compared to the regular 9-to-5 job, and when you were working, you were meant to greet him at the door and have the house spotless. Him arriving early is a first⎯ a once in a blue moon occurrence, if you will. You always follow the rules and have things ready for his arrival, his expected time varying between 9 PM to even 7 AM, and on late nights like those, you're either driven home, or allowed to spend the night; vigorous hard work is rewarded with a luxury bed.
He placed the last dish into the dishwasher and dried his hands on the rag placed to the side, his voice running through the room, "Dishes left in the sink, waiting to be cleaned, and you're sleeping upstairs."
Your hairs begin to stand, his a-matter-of-fact manner of speaking tipping you off, "I apologize sir, I did not expect you to be home this early.."
"I hire a cleaner to clean, and yet I find my hands taking over your occupation." Wesker folds the towel and sets it in its spot.
Before you could answer, he turns around, his ungloved hand running through his hair to home one of the blond hairs that laid slightly out of place.
"However," He crosses his arms, his watch glinting in an almost taunting way at you, "I don't mind touching with my humanity every so often."
You felt a weird sensation at his words⎯ you could sense something was out of touch with him the moment you had met Wesker, and the way he spoke about humans or humanity as if he were a higher being never sat well with you. Perhaps it was because he was rich, or perhaps it was because of his work being important to the people of the world, as he has told you before many times.
"Regardless. I pay you an extraordinary amount of money that any sane person would dream of, even kill for."
You stand in silence, clasping your hands over one another at your stomach as he continues on, "Have I allowed your rules to be too laxed? Or, perhaps I've spoiled you to the point of lower standards."
"No, Mister Wesker." You answer, "I just needed rest."
He eyes your attire, "I can see that, little lamb."
Your eyes widen, knowing you're in deep now, and you unconsciously pinch the hem of your shirt. Somehow, you work up the courage to bring your eyes up to give him the respect he deserves, but you grow the regret it as you catch his light hazel eyes peeking above his glasses staring at you in a way that screams you fucked up.
You breathe out your nose and let your shoulders drop.
"𝘖𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥.."
Wesker had shoved you against his office desk, fear coursing through your veins as your heart beat with the strength of an oil rig. You felt the world spin and your brain run oddly cold and fuzzy, every pump of blood feeling harder than the next as your back was pressed onto the mahogany table.
"Your punishment has been long overdue, lamb. Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been slacking off." He tensely spoke.
"I haven't been, Mister Wesker! I swear⎯!"
You froze as his hands slide just below your shirt and pull your shorts to your ankles, "Do not swear to me when being dishonest. The only thing it will do is get you into deeper trouble."
Your gut dropped to your feet as his fingers glid under the straps of your panties, your head beginning to go dizzy as you felt every vein flow faster and faster through your body. Slowly, his fingers curled around the hem and began to pull down, down, down.. You could barely breathe as every bit of air lumped together in the back of your throat, the muscles in your neck twitching when it became too much, then to implode with your heart and release all together just to start over in an endless cycle.
Yet, with the very fear that bled into your bones, striking every limb, muscle⎯ and you had the audacity to find pleasure in the pit of fright. You always have.
He firmly shot you a glare, "Eyes on me."
Your eyes snapped up towards Wesker, "Keep your eyes on my hands."
You did as he instructed, moving your gaze to his hands as they went down to grasp his belt. The veins that bulged and rooted themselves throughout the back of his hands and up his arms were noticeable, delightful; they intricately wrapped around each hand and slithered up his forearms, his left arm having a vein that slid itself down to the knuckle of his middle finger. You watched as he meticulously unbuckled his belt, the straps coming undone before he unbuttoned and carefully pulled down his zipper.
"Excited for your punishment, aren't you?"
He snapped you out of your daze, and yet your eyes stayed glued on his hands as he pulled down his pants just enough to allow his covered bulge to rest outside the opened zipper. You felt hot, and you knew you were the kin of a blooming cherry red with how tingly you felt all over your face.
"Punishments are supposed to be⎯" Wesker grabbed you by your throat in one swift motion, a short audible gasp passing through you, "hurtful. So why, my dear, do you seem to be enjoying this?"
You have the look of pure ecstasy on your face, your eyes trailing up his veiny forearm, then his toe-curlingly thick bicep, as you imagine the type of punishment you would receive by his hand.
".. Because I deserve it, sir." You quietly respond.
A smile of wicked entertainment spreads across his lips, "Of course you would be blissful from that. You should be grateful I'm even bothered to put a woman as disobedient as you in your place.."
With a squeeze from his hand around your neck, he released you and brought it to the slit of his boxers, "'You know what to say, girl."
The curl of his voice sent an ache between your thighs, desperation making a home in your brain and heart, maybe even your very soul with each second that passed. Embarrassment ran wild for you, your eyes averting to the corner of his office.
Just as fast as you pulled your eyes away, his hand shot out and grabbed your chin, your lips puckering and eyes snapping to him.
"Don't look away from me, you pathetic lamb."
The flash of aggression in his voice made your insides clench and spill to the desk, your thighs instinctively closing together. Wesker took a pause, then turned your head slightly to the right, and then the left, your eyes never once leaving his face.
"I have to say, you are quite the specimen.." He mused, turning your face back towards him.
"And those eyes of yours.. So expressive. Especially when I.."
His free hand slowly grasps the band of his boxers and tugs down, a veiny cock hitting his stomach before curving downwards from its heavy girth. Your pupils blow out and your eyes widen as they flash down to his pulsing dick that, to you, felt like it was gazing back with a thick bead of sheer white fluid gathering at the tip, almost as if it was tempting you to make a move.
You felt the grip on your chin tighten, your lips now in a full pucker as you feel his eyes pierce through your sockets.
Wesker's eyebrows furrow, "Oh yes.. Just like that."
He paused, "⎯ Now, are you ready for your punishment, little lamb?"
You look up at him, and give a short nod, your thighs spreading to allow his own to rest in between. You watch his cock glide under your shirt and rest on your lower stomach, the shape of it molded against your clothing to the point you could see its pulsating motion; there was even a streak of dampness where the tip had caressed your clothing.
Wesker let you go, only to quickly grab you by your neck with one hand, and the back of one thigh with the other to spread you farther apart. His thick tip drew back from under your clothes then aimed down, pressing into your clit and pushing against your weak spot before sliding down between your slick folds. When it caught on your hole, he pushed the head of his cock into your tight mess, watching as it settled in akin to a lollipop sinking between your sweet lips.
You felt your insides twitch around the tip, only a second spared for you to adjust, until he made sure you remembered that this was a punishment, not a favor. Wesker slammed his full, thick cock all the way in till you could feel his lower stomach pressed against your clit, and the head kissing⎯ no, bullying your cervix.
Before you could cry out, he moved his hand from your throat to cover your mouth in a firm hold.
"Remember, little lamb, this is your punishment, and I am not holding back."
Wesker snarled at you, pulling his hips back and snapping them back into your thighs. You moaned through his palm, your hands coming up to grab his wrist and dig your nails in just enough to sting. You could feel every ridge, every thick vein of his cock as he was beginning to plunge harshly into your mushy pussy, his hips getting into a violent rhythm as he painfully began to ravage your hole.
"Dear god, lamb⎯," He clenched his teeth and sharply sucked in air, "oooo..⎯ despite all of your nonsense, you have a delectable cunt I can't seem to stop craving for.."
You closed your eyes and whined behind his hand, his cock hitting one spot that just felt so painful yet indescribably good, as he vigorously made sure to sink his entire length into every quick, deep thrust. In a flash, he gripped your cheeks once again, your lips set agonizingly in an 'O' shape with his rough grab.
He snapped at you, "Do NOT close your eyes while I'm fucking you stupid, whore."
You flinched at that word; whore. It shook you deeply, sentimentally as tears brimmed your eyes in shame.
"You're nothing but a little cock whore to me.. -𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘩- A stupid toy for me to fuck and use."
You felt your tears roll down your cheeks, your face beaming red and your mouth letting out sickly pleasured noises as your cunt plaps over and over again against his heavy balls. He was mean, so very mean today, and yet you, the sick attention seeking girl you are, reveled in his words, your pussy clenching on his length.
He breathes heavy, "With a body like this, I expected it to be tainted long before me, little lamb. You should be grateful I was the one that let you see stars."
Wesker groaned a soft fuck, before letting your face go and slamming his hand onto the table, his brutality causing him to falter as he felt his balls fill up from the fast pace he set for you. You cried and moaned and whined with each passing second, the constant bullying of his cock hitting your cervix filling you with bliss, and yet, you were constantly battered out of it when he would thrust hard and cause a light pain to ripple through your womb; you honestly thought it was him being rough and creating a bruised spot, but you soon realized it was the pure force of his hips that caused the tip to break through ever so slightly into your womb.
Your eyes began to roll back, your legs beginning to shake as you laid your hands next to your head and took all he was giving you.
"You do so good taking me, little lamb⎯ fuck." Wesker's face tensed as he leaned his face down to the side of your head, grabbing his sunglasses and ripping them off his face.
He pinned his glasses down beneath his hand as he placed it back where he had slammed it before, his reality slipping through his fingers with every pound inside of you, and every bead of sweat that glimmered against his skin. He would never admit it, never, and he finds it impossible he even has such a mindset about you, but⎯ he slides the hand he held the back of your thigh with under your shirt towards your waist and squeezes⎯ you are perfect. Wesker finds it absurd he could even imagine someone like you would intrigue him, and at first, you were like any other maid he had hired in the past, but as he watched you through the cameras, there was something peculiar. Something that screamed at him that you were significant. Worthy.
And yet, with such thoughts, he could not shake the addiction he had for staring at you, talking to you, touching you, fucking you. You had him wrapped around your finger, and you would never know. To him, you were his goddess on earth, and he loathed that fact. To have thoughts of someone like you being compared to that of a god, before himself, ate at him alive. But he contently drowned in the thoughts of you like that of a sacrifice. You took him over. Sinfully, and absolutely.
He plunged forcefully back and forth into your wetness, Wesker groaning through clenched teeth as your moaning and whining sent him into a frenzy. He was close.
You grabbed onto his shirt towards his collar and cried, "Wesker!"
That completely unraveled him.
With one abusive thrust, he shoved the tip of his cock past your cervix and fed your womb full of all he had to offer. You let out a shaky moan as you felt his hot seed spill into your hungry hole, your walls convulsing with intent to suck him empty.
He did one last hard snap into you before letting it sit, then slowly pulling out. He stood straight and looked at your sex, seeing it fully agape from where he had let himself take you. Not a drop leaking out.
"You were starving for my seed that bad, huh." Wesker spoke, but it felt like it was directed to your puffy cunt more so than yourself.
You slowly closed your eyes, your body completely shutting down as he let you go and placed his sunglasses back on. Wesker eyed you once more, lust breaking through into his brain as he watched your chest rise and fall, and your pussy slowly adjusting to being without him⎯ but, he needed to get back to work. You heard him fixing himself up before going behind the desk and opening a drawer, soon closing it and setting something on the desk behind your head.
With a sigh and a comb through his hair, he went to the door and spoke as coldly as his usual self, "Clean yourself up and finish with the house, Miss (L/n). While you're at it, clean up the mess on my desk. I don't want your excrement ruining my mahogany table."
And with that, he left, shutting the door behind him and leaving you there to pick up after yourselves. That quick exit really hit your heart sore; he didn't even bat an eye at you, or help you pick up yourself. Fresh tears brimmed your eyes in shame, but you sat up and gained your balance when you stood on your feet to slide your panties and shorts back up.
You wiped your tears away and took a moment to process. Wesker never left you without aftercare, even if it was chopped when he would caress you in comfort, or intently helped you cum your soreness away. This really enforced the fact that this was a punishment. And you hated it. Which was a part of his plan.
You recall that he had taken something out of his desk, and you turned, seeing a leather red necklace box sitting with a note that had Lamb written on it. You stepped around the table and picked up the note, turning the clearly expensive card around and reading what was wrote in cursive.
𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅.
⎯ 𝑾𝒆𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒓
Wow, how nice. You bitterly thought, placing the note next to the box before picking it up. When you opened it, your sourness and sorrow washed away, a golden necklace sitting in black silk. It was a thin chain that had golden omamori shaped tag with what you could tell as Kanji engraved vertically on the small pendant.
子羊
Kohitsuji..
Your cheeks felt warm as you slid your hand under the pendant and lifted it closer to your face. You had been practicing reading Kanji and speaking Japanese for some of Wesker's important peoples that would visit the manor every now and then for a meeting, and it seemed to have really paid off.
Lamb.
You smiled and took the necklace, putting it around your neck when you faced the mirror by the door. Your heart was bursting with happiness, and it showed as you flaunted the necklace off to yourself. Until you remembered you had a mess to clean.
You turned towards the table and saw the mess you had made, some of it even leaking down the front... How embarrassing.
You suppose it was a slight when he caught you from your own orchard of mind. Falling into the lap of the inevitable, perhaps he believed he was always meant to have you—to hold you like this, his hands threading through your hair, softened by something he can’t quite recognize—something he barely feels anymore, except when he looks at you.
When you would go numb beneath your cigarette and he would press into your lips; he’d taste your ash. You’d keep your secrets to yourself, and he’d do the same—secrets tucked into the cigarette box you’d share.
A pack of Marlboros, and he would remember his boarding school days—when you’d slip behind the chainlink fence, wasting away on cheap liquor and heady desires, a small resistance on your lips when you’d press them to his and it would taste like cement instead of the summer you both shared with eachother.
When you’d bicker over the smallest things and Wesker would search your face as he leaned toward you, and suddenly you’d forget what you were mad about, because he always tasted sweet when he was concerned.
Now you are on his lap, and he is still concerned—still afraid of losing you, even if he knows you would never leave. Because maybe he is still that teenage boy, and you are still that teenage kid he was infatuated with, and it all feels so fleeting that you are together now.
You used to be on the Academic Decathlon team with him. You’d study in his dormitories, which were always cold and required you to bundle up. The scarf around your neck would be replaced with his fingers, and you’d sprawl across his desk, studying until you both fell asleep.
He remembers when he hated you. Envied you, because perhaps he missed it when it was so easy to love something as simple as you.
But you’re here now. The same scarf around your lips as you cuddle against him and all he can think is what you’d never know about him and what he’d never know about you.
The cigarettes; he's numb under them. He takes a small drag, offering you a share but your head is too low to take it so he leans down and shifts it to your lips.
You exhale the past and inhale the future. A future with him seems so distant yet so close—tangible only beneath your fingers as they trace his thigh. The past you carry with you and cherish, because he is part of it. Wesker. Yours.
“My dear—“
He begins, so softly.
“I love you.”
But you were younger then. As was he.
And you don’t know whether to believe it when his hands come to yours, gentle and careening them with the scent of himself.
Vanilla. Warm vanilla. He’s always worn the same cologne since he was a teenager. You wonder if he misses it, those halcyon days when you were both young and stupidly in love with each-other.
You stink like him, and you don’t know whether to believe yourself when you respond— because the scarf around your neck is tightening with the memory of ash and liquor and smoke.
“I love you too.”
Because perhaps when a monster is not a monster, it is because he is loved by one as well.
