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You make your way into his office with a stack of paperwork under your arm. Wesker has to review the plans and sign off on them, but he’s notoriously hard to pin down. He doesn’t like the bureaucratic side of this job.
Wesker’s office is full of chrome and glass furniture that looks expensive, but lacks taste. A bit like him. He’s wearing one of his finely woven Italian suits, waistcoat accentuating his slim figure, patent leather shoes, an expensive watch, his suit jacket slung over the back of the chair. His feet are on the desk, one crossed over the other, and he’s on his phone.
He doesn’t look up to acknowledge your presence.
“Sign these,” you say as you drop the stack on his desk.
“Knock next time.”
You ignore the sarcastic drawl. “There are three forms that need your signature and the one on top needs a comment.”
Wesker doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look up.
“Are you listening?”
He waves his hand dismissively, smiling down at whatever’s on his phone. God he’s annoying.
“We don’t pay you to do nothing.”
“I’ll do it when I feel like it.”
He glares at you, eyes flashing behind those glasses that you’ve always found ridiculous. He’s trying to be intimidating and sure it must work on most people. But not you. To you, he just looks pathetic.
“You’ll do it now or-“
“Or what?”
Wesker’s lip curls into a smirk and your irritation with him dials up to max. You just can’t stand him when he’s in this mood. Smug and obnoxious. Oh wait, that’s his mood all the time.
He swings his legs off the desk and rises from his chair, moving round in front of it. Wesker is tall, well above six feet, and he towers over you. An ominous looming spectre who knows how to use his physical assets to get what he wants. You can’t pretend that his charms don’t work on you, a lot of the time they do, but Wesker has a slimy smug coating that’s off putting. He’s handsome, arrogant, and when he rolls up his sleeves to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms you hate to admit you get a little lightheaded. Then he’ll ruin the mood with some stupid phrase that he thinks is witty or a remark on his own sexual prowess - even when his performance is just above mediocre.
You tolerate him because he’s attractive, a challenge, and when you manage to provoke a whimper from his disturbingly thin lips you feel a sense of satisfaction beyond words.
You move closer to the desk where he’s still leaning, perched nonchalantly on the edge without a care in the world. You reach forward and press your palm to his crotch, twisting your fingers into a grip, feeling solid metal beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. He goes a little pale and the smirk slips slightly.
“Remember why I put this on you?” You speak before he can answer. “Did you think it was for your own fun?”
The smirk turns into a sneer and he scowls at you, but you can see the blood rushing to his temples, the glow of his flushed skin at his neck, his skin so visible at his open collar. You’d call him a slut but you know he’ll enjoy it too much, and this is supposed to be an educational moment.
“It’s to keep you in your place.”
You push against the cock cage beneath your fingers, shoving him back against the desk. His lips part.
“You’ll finish that paperwork now, won’t you?”
“Yes.” His voice is low, a purring drawl. He’s trying to maintain a little control over the situation, act like he isn’t bothered.
“Good. No more delays.”
“Of course. It would be my pleasure. And maybe…afterwards-“
You roll your eyes at him and scoff.
“Be a good boy and sign these forms and I’ll think about it.”
You watch him move his pen. His long elegant fingers move swiftly across the page, the movements almost hypnotic.
“Done.” He smiles expectantly at you, his eyes bright.
“Do you need something?”
His expression immediately darkens and you feel that satisfying feeling. His desperation looks so pathetic.
“You promised-“
“I didn’t. I said I’d think about it.”
“Well?” Wesker’s eye twitches. You lean forward and take his glasses between your fingers and gently pull them away from his face. He closes his eyes as your fingertips brush his temples.
“Kneel.”
He slides to the floor like a puppet cut from its strings. Eager to please, quick and malleable. You like when he bites, but sometimes the obedient man you’ve carved out of him is much more pleasant to deal with.
You press your fingers to his lips and he parts them willingly.
“Whore,” you say softly. He blinks, raises his eyes to look up at you through pale lashes, a sharp contrast to the red and amber swirls against black pupils. His tongue reaches out to lick the tips of your fingers, but you’re not here to be delicate. You shove two fingers in his mouth and press down on his tongue before hooking them over his bottom teeth and tugging him forward.
He lets out an uncontrolled whimper and drool starts to slide down his chin.
“Get up,” you say harshly. “You look ridiculous on your knees. Look at you. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius? Isn’t that what you tell everyone? What would all those people say about you now if they could see you?”
Your words of humiliation have their desired effect. He swallows, cheeks turning pink as he scrambled to his feet. You shove him back against the desk and he stumbles, making a small grunting sound as he hits the wood.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You kick his feet apart and press a knee between his legs. He lets out a soft moan. “I don’t want to hear your stupid voice.”
You reach down to undo his pants, slowly, taking your time. The silver touches your fingers, warm, and beneath it his straining cock. You look down at it, take in its softness, flushed, desperate to be free. You laugh and he bristles.
“Have you touched yourself?”
“No.”
“Look at me, I need to know you’re telling the truth.”
“How could I?”
You shrug, picturing the scene from just last week when he was face down on a mattress, ass in the air, your fingers probing inside him as you milked him for all he was worth. The cage stayed on that time. He’d been very disobedient.
You slip a finger beneath the silver and touch the mechanism that frees the cage. It falls loose into your hand and you place it on the desk.
He hardens before your eyes, rapid, a testament to his desperation.
“When was the last time you came?”
He casts his eyes down at the floor in an almost bashful expression. “It’s been eleven days.”
“You keep count?”
“Maybe.”
“Interesting.”
You grip his cock, wrapping your palm around his length and squeezing. His lips part and he lets out a choked gasp, clutching the desk for support. Your other hand moves to massage his balls and you can feel how swollen they are beneath your touch.
His eyelids flutter closed and his head rolls back. You set a harsh rhythm and he bucks his hips trying to increase the friction. Precum is smeared all over his cock and you’re not careful as you run a thumb over the head. It’s getting on his lovely Italian suit.
You pull your hand away and he groans - no, growls - like an animal. You put a hand on his shoulder and give a purposeful shove, letting him fall back to his knees.
“Are you going to-“
“Finish you? Give me one good reason why I should.”
“Because you started-“
He stops speaking as your boot connects with his crotch. The tip of your boot brushes against the underside of his hard cock, lifting it slightly.
“Is this all you have for me?”
The truth is, Wesker’s cock is big, it’s probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. The problem is Wesker knows his dick is impressive, so he needs someone like you to tell him that it’s not. You see his cock twitch in response.
“You’re so predictable.”
“I’m-“
“I didn’t request a response.”
He throws you another one of those scowls accompanied with a vicious snarl. When he does this combination he looks like a trapped animal, and in a way that’s what he is. A caged beast reduced to his most base urges. Just a little further and he’ll start begging. It’s always the same.
“You’re a mess.”
The red in his cheeks rises again.
“Pathetic.”
His pupils dilate, the red glow flashing brighter still. He’s no longer snarling, now his lips are parted gently, wet from where he’s nervously licked them.
“But the more I insult you…” Your boot presses harder and a small whine escapes those pitiful lips. “…the more you like it.”
“Please-“
“Oh that was quick.” You smile and release the pressure from your boot. “Usually it takes you longer to beg.”
You didn’t think those snakelike pupils could dilate further but somehow they’re widening even more. He surprises you more and more every day.
“I’m not-“
“Yes you are.” Strands of his disheveled hair are falling across his forehead. You’re slowly pulling him apart piece by piece. It’s amusing… “So, tell me what you want me to do to you.”
He’s silent as he stares up at you.
“Oh, well if you don’t want anything-“
“Wait. Please…”
“You want me to touch you?”
After a moment’s pause he speaks in a wavering voice. “Y-yes. Please-…please touch me.”
His voice is choked and strained as if he’s swallowing poison. It’s hard for him to be vulnerable even though the excitement he feels at the prospect is evident on his face and body.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re too pathetic for me to touch you now. Do it yourself.”
His lips part in indignation.
“You have my permission,” you continue, unfazed. “Go on. Finish yourself. Make the most of it, I don’t know when I’ll feel like letting you out again.”
He tentatively reaches for his cock. Still kneeling he grasps it in his right hand, steadying himself against the desk with his left. You tilt your head to one side, watching as he touches himself, taking in the sight of his trembling fingers against blush pink.
“Hurry up.”
His jaw clenches and he starts to stroke himself faster. You see the veins in his forearms shift as he moves, tense and messy. He’s usually so controlled, so calm, but not here on this floor. Here he’s yours to command and he does it all so nicely, so willingly.
He cums into his hand, frantic and trembling. He looks up at you just as he does so, a moan on his parted lips, his red eyes blazing, pupils dilated to their widest.
Wesker is panting heavily. Any semblance of orderly propriety he had when you entered the room has been stamped out. His skin glows through a thin sheen of sweat, his face and neck are flushed red, those eyes still bright and indignant.
“It looks like you’ve learned your lesson.”
He’s silent. His lower lip trembles slightly as if he’s about to form words but he just continues breathing heavily.
“You’ve made a mess.”
You watch him visibly swallow, then reach out to place a finger beneath his chin, tilting it up so he’s forced to look into his eyes.
“You know what you need to do, right?”
He nods, mouthing half-formed words. His eyes are half-lidded, still aroused. You know he has extraordinary stamina. If you weren’t planning on caging him up again he could probably go for another round.
“Words, Albert.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Albert?” He’s so easy to rile up. “What would you prefer? Dr Wesker?” You scoff and he bristles. “I need you to clean up this mess you’ve made. Understand?”
Wesker nods.
“Words.”
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse, low.
“And you want to clean up your filthy mess, don’t you? And you’re very sorry you’ve made it. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“In a full sentence please.”
“I’m-“ He stops. Swallows. You can see the cogs turning in his head, he’s trying to work out if the arousal he gets from the indignity is worth the indignity itself. He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry-“
“Look at me.” You jerk his chin sharply upwards and hear another soft whine.
“I’m sorry for making a mess and I’ll clean it up.”
“Good boy.”