The Sound of Music: Plagas orchestra
folder
+M through R › Resident Evil
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Adult ++
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12
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Category:
+M through R › Resident Evil
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
11,385
Reviews:
146
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Resident Evil, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Organization fun and Leon's Self Release.
Disclaimer: DO NOT OWN,CAPCOM DOES.
ADA’S REPORT OF THE PLAGA AND THE ORGANIZATION
Ada recently told the Organization that she had a theory about the plagas inside the human host; they could hear or respond to the hidden noise inside each cult member’s ceremonial rods. In her first report, before being hauled to a private facility where she would be locked away, her memories and files were immediately transferred to the Organization, giving them ample time to infiltrate the grounds with the fake Ada on their own. It wasn’t easy, but doing so was purely a stroke of genius, having to transfer the same DNA tissue of the real Ada and cloning her to create a semi-perfect fake. They had several clones tried out and sadly, some of them failed; the fake Ada who was presently getting more than her just desserts in a chaotic world of sexual depravity and lust was still in all accounts and purposes rather immature. Cloning as everyone should know, had its very delicate matters and which were very much flawed despite its scientific perfection of touching life.
When the Organization pushed in their data to retrieve the real Ada’s files, her sultry and pleasant voice came on, out of that recorder, cloaking the entire room which was already swathed in mystifying anonymity. That darkness hid the eyes and upper part of the Organization’s members. A fly on the wall started to flicker its wings; roaming its hairy feelers around the solidarity of its hold in the room and would use its multiple eyes: it would not be able to see anything but a multitude of pale and pinkish human fingers entwined together in a suspended relaxation above bloated midsections.
They, the men of the covert organization had heard it; their shadowed heads turned towards the other. Then just to make sure, the secret agents would listen to it again and later make conclusions that would inevitably change the world. One man leaned over; just enough to stretch his arm and press the button of the small recorder with the touch of his index.
Ada’s Report: (excerpt from the game itself)
The Salazar family, castellans for generations, possess the ability to control Last Plagas. The organization's hypothesis is that a unique frequency of sonic wave sensed only by the parasites is used to control them. The same principle used in dog whistles.
This was inferred through the analysis of a tissue sample we retrieved. The tissue contained an organ presumably used for sensing sound waves. I've seen cult members carrying ceremonial rods and I wonder if they emit these sounds. Of course, this is purely theoretical.
After listening to that, the third man whose voice was gruff and quite dark and deep pursed his lips. “Sound waves….yes, just what I suggested earlier to the real Wong. The reports from the lab were definite and we must retrieve the main plaga sample before any other organization does.” Then he paused, waiting for anyone to counter, and when none came, he once more voiced out: “Interesting isn’t it?” He turned his voice to his partner closest to him. “Any suggestions?”
The man who had pressed the button harumped loudly and cleared his throat, and let out a long shaky breath; his fingers fidgeted for a few seconds before answering. “Let’s see, sound waves….if that is so, let's go back on an elementary level: what do dog whistles do and what are their primary functions?
His partner next to him eagerly complied; he used to be an elementary teacher before going into the military, and later joining the ranks of the Organization. And so in a very monotone voice that sounded worse than elevator music: “Certainly! As you all know, or if you haven’t, a dog whistle is in the range of 16000 Hz to 22000 Hz, allowing frequencies below 20000 Hz heard to the human ear. Some dog whistles have adjustable sliders for active control of the frequency produced. Depending on the way the whistle is used, for example, someone may blow on the whistle itself and just want a dog's attention or inflict pain for the purpose of behavior modification.”
They were seriously falling asleep by the time the man had finished his small soliloquy on the dog whistle information. The man who had finished the short oral orientation could tell by the soft sounds of snoring; he couldn’t by their faces which were obscured anyhow.
This immediately perturbed him to say the least and a meaty fist banged on the table, causing everyone to jump up; the coffees on the table spilled over, wetting their pants as it sploshed cold dark liquid over their immaculate black clothes. The squeaky man who hadn’t spoken up earlier squeaked even louder. “My goodness! Heavens! My lord! This is preposterous! What’s the meaning of this?” Agitation splayed across his actions, since his face was deeply hidden in the cover of darkness. His hands went everywhere, as if he were swatting flies around him, then slowly calmed down.
The squeaky man pulled out his white hanky out of his suit and started to dry himself of the stained coffee. They were all awake now, having been interrupted by the loud offensive noise on their sensitive ears and cold black coffee splattered on themselves.
The man pressing button had snapped his fingers. “Pain? Inflict pain! Did you hear that? That must be one of the reasons why the cult Los Illuminados wants to cultivate this plaga sound wave thing-a-ma-gig!”
Mr. Squeaky was whimpering now. “And what does that prove? Unless everyone is injected with the plaga, then this infection would thereby infiltrate the entire world, only to keep attention to the one who bears the rod.”
They all spoke in unison: “The Rod…” Almost whispering amongst themselves over the ‘rod’, and wondering if they too could possess such rods. It would come in most handy to as a bioengineered wand to order weapons to destroy any enemies. Why hadn’t they thought of this before? Why had only the Salazar family been able to produce such gems? And what was the purpose of Saddler’s claim into this? So many questions so little time.
Indeed, the rod, and they all looked at each other in that darkened room with only a small light in the middle of the table to give the darkness room to shadow their faces and lighten their midsections. It was the rod, just like Ada had suggested that would play itself out in the game, and what a game it would be. They had to figure out a way to bring the real Ada back into the mission without that irritating Albert Wesker finding out; or worse, Osmund Saddler who is by far one of the smaller players in this field of competitive spy games. They needed the upkeep of their shady organization on top of the world with the best serums.
What’s worse, they all silently thought, without voicing their equal fear was that the real Ada was going to be a difficult woman to bring back. She would make life a not so pretty place for them if they didn’t find an alternative approach to offer something in return for her silence and cooperation. She would not have liked the idea of having a clone take her place much less to return halfway through the mission or worse, towards the end of a mission only to find her pathetic doppelganger had completed everything.
That would be a low blow to her adventurous and spy-loving fire-spirit. Oh, a woman’s scorn and hell fury was something they weren’t looking forward to. And although they would have planned to blow up the entire island’s base in the case of…..they knew inherently that the real Ada Wong was too valuable to just throw away. She had the original DNA, therefore, it would be crucial to keep her intact. They had to give her the false idea that she was just another player in the field. Besides, the odds were currently in her favour compared to that miserable copy. And unless there was a perfect clone she wouldn’t be needed. Fat chance of that.
They couldn’t get off their minds how sickly annoying the fake Wong was. It’s a wonder she hadn’t gotten herself killed. They had seen some of her moves, fluidly graceful like the real thing. The only problem was, was that she participated into that disgusting bad B porno flicks scenario with the short Castilian, just before getting herself raped by that big oafish mercenary. The real Wong wouldn’t have allowed that to happen; she was way too clever and skilled to allow such things to go on. Yet with some odd fascination, they had watched with some uncomfortableness, partly keeping their gag reflex down as they gaped at the gorging suck down of that verdugo slong. It was by far the worst thing they had ever seen.
The room flickered on and off since the light in the middle of the table was losing energy from the overused and now dying bulb. The secret men gasped in unison as one smarter fellow clicked on one of the monitors, encasing them all in a strange bluish light, their heads still cut off from the light itself giving them the impression of ever creeping mystery and intrigue as it should be. The squeaky man piped up again, and the others were already annoyed by his voice.
“I could use another cup of coffee. Hot please.”
In a chorus agreement, they all pressed their buttons simultaneously, calling their personal secretaries. In no time at all, a team of trophy worthy women came waltzing in the room, through the security double sliding doors, entering gracefully with personal access. Each woman looked quite stunning, bearing the same outfit; a unique bra that fitted their upper body like a fem bot surprise; gold plated and deadly inside, bearing not only their beautiful bountiful breasts, but a secret lighter to light the cigars on the Organization’s member who indulged on imported Cuban cigars. Their silver and gold boots clicked on the clean but shabby grey cemented floor. For their skirts they were assigned to wear them past their knees to give them a look of prudish insincerity, but only under the conditions that they had a slit on the side to reveal a nice shapely thigh.
From the old fly on the wall who has been around longer than his brothers; it was seeing through its insectile multi eyes how ridiculously similar this was to the Austin Powers show; the creature’s skinny feelers got stuck feeling up the monitor screen at the time its short span attention could hold.
The squeaky man grinned from ear to ear; a heavenly bluish light revealed his gaping smile, only to have a cigar shoved in his mouth with a gentle push. A pair of boobs fired out a small controlled flame to light the expensive tobacco. As the squeaky man puffed, the monotoned voice man waved his hand away as his secretary attempted to give him his own personal Cuban pipe. “Just a cup of hot coffee, darling.” And he lecherously winked at her.
His pretty secretary serenely smiled; a genuine and pleased expression lined those perfect full carefully painted expensive lips. She leaned over just enough to pour him a cup of hot steaming coffee out of the small pot held securely in her delicate manicured hand. There was a movable tray there just like they have on the airplanes with all the necessities of every beverage and snacks for the team of secretive men. The women were encased in the faint bluish light, giving them an ethereal lovely glow while the men surprisingly still, were kept in the shadows. It was as if the shadows were hired to enclose their identities, only giving indication that they did indeed have a mouth by way of their mumbling voices and the whitish trails of cloud producing smoke puffing out of their pricey cigars. White smoke curled up thickly from the thick tobacco sticks out of their mouths; the faint reddish glow sucking down towards their mouth as they breathed it in.
The squeaky man relaxed back with his signature squeaky snigger. “Ah this is the life. Now all we have to do, is wait for the next move.” He turned to his satisfied colleagues. “Gentlemen?”
Again, they all agreed in unison.'
LEON AND THE AGGRAVATING PLAGA: THE ASSAULT
----------------
The farmer’s church didn’t loom threateningly like that imposing castle; it remained hidden behind some sparse trees in the foreground, not to mention the way the dark atmospheric miasma created by hugging the surroundings like a mother with her baby. Leon realized as the sky dipped darker that night might give him some cloak and dagger mystery: this would either benefit him in many ways; or rather hinder his way if he couldn’t buy a new map soon. He did notice the sparkling blue medallions that hung on branches, and sometimes chinked between crevices of the church as he approached; a closer view of things cleared his vision as the miasma dissipated as soon as he entered within range.
With his usual 20/20 vision, even as the streak of darkness threatened the already depressing sky, Leon proceeded to fire off all the medallions one by one. The lone medallion near the church’s bell clinked off noisily, dropping to the ground with a special treat: a package of new ammo. As if he didn’t have enough already. His pockets were getting quite full and when this government agent met up with the traveling weapons dealer, he’d make damn sure to shove some of this stuff up his ass. Not literally, but quaintly, hoping to get more than a fair share.
The road to wisely find Miss Graham was not going to be a piece of cake. Just thinking about food was torture. He pulled out a piece of gum hidden in his jacket pocket, hoping it will hold him for a little while. Chewing thoughtfully on it, the Agent relaxed; it felt to him as if doing something other than reaching highs and lows of adrenaline pulls were rare. Spearmint juices swirled around his tongue, mixing with his saliva; he savoured the flavour. Deliberating about cakes and hot chocolates was too much of a torture, and if his plaga was in the mood to get hungry, it’d probably force him to crawl on all fours like an animal, licking the dried sap juices off the dying tree trunks. What’s worse – to actually eat one of those smelly pieces of rotting flesh on the tables inside the villager’s homes. Thankfully, he wasn’t that desperate and besides, it was time to start using his head.
Those long gone days of Boy Scout trips should have paid off; especially the past grueling months spent with his former teammates out in the heat of the jungle, or in the thick of training when the rain poured like cats and dogs. Reminders of the time working his way to be where he is now brought a painful sharpness about this mission. And really, this trip was actually quite prissy comparably; there was nothing in the way of mudslides or climbing treacherous mountains. Not yet. Although the current situation should keep him in check, this excursion wasn’t even half over. He didn’t believe by any means that Saddler would be stupid not know his presence was causing havoc and mayhem. Just call him 4th-of-July Leon in a quiet remote back water little village, equipped with explosives and enough luck to win in all the casinos lining up the Las Vegas strip.
Listening to the eerie whistle of the wind, he glanced up: the ashened clouds rumbled overhead, revealing distinctive pre-storm indications in the atmosphere, and urging Leon that he had to get indoors soon. His constitution was pretty tough. Figuring that his plaga knew that, it probably would be taking advantage of that somehow. He wanted to speak to it, play something interesting for him, while he searched for Ashley. Shaking his head, murky thoughts of speaking to a goddamn parasite was beyond ridiculous.
The sound of plip plop distracted him and he felt wet something hit him; as he looked up, faint droplets of water gently touched his face; the few drops of rain wouldn’t quench his thirst and the gum in his mouth started to dry and toughen.
The merchant had something to eat for a price, he knew. As large and bulky as the merchant was, there was bound to be lots of provisions that satisfied a man’s thirst and hunger pangs. By the time his worn boots had stepped on a few more planks to get by, a familiar growling sound came from ahead: Dogs. This really should be a piece of sweet cake, Leon thought, his finger on the customary weapon, he walked on with cocky assurance.
The persistent growling grew louder and the appearance of what would have been ‘normal’ dogs were blocking his passage; they were covered in wet grey fur, eyes the color of red indicated that these pets were injected with the plaga that was going on. Quickly thinking about how their music would sound, he tried to shut out anything else but the focus to shoot at them before the revolting thought of bestiality came into unnecessary and involuntary actions.
This was not going to do at all! Leon narrowed his eyes, taking careful note of the way the dogs inched their way to him; they weren’t going to jump just yet……they will….his instincts told him to keep steady with the firing aim. Foaming at the mouth, the injected animals were jaw slacked; thick saliva hung from their mouths and the purring sounds of a thousand lions seem to emanate out of their bodies. Their chaotic invisible music, as the Agent had guessed was dark, but he was not expecting this to be anything more than a monotone chorus.
He fired instantly, hating the thought of even having to remotely have any lustful depravity with four legged creatures. The only way he’d consider or allow his goddamn freeloader to start singing the come-hither-me-tunes that fucked around with his hard cock was having Ashley Graham on all fours. Even then, there was no way he’d take advantage of that poor girl anymore.
Bullets started flying everywhere; they stabbed through the damp non fertile ground: his good aim struck the targets. Those resilient dogs were pushed back and over on their backs, rolling over twice with mewling pained whimpers. Leon’s baby blues widened at the sight of what transpired next – plaga tentacles spurted out of their matted furry backs, giving them the ability to heal despite getting shot at.
Gloved fingers dipped into his jacket to find a lone flash bang, throwing it up in the air while he dipped and rolled suavely on the wet solid floor, coming up with another bang for good measure. It exploded; the impact of the flash caused a loud piercing cry from their foaming mouths. Languidly, Leon got up from his bent posture and smiled; devil may care on his pleasant features.
The creatures didn’t even leave any droppings. Not a problem since the traveling salesman was close by. Taking pot shots with extra ammunition at the hanging medallions left over, he noticed they were clinging to the tombstones with the interesting symbols from the so-called Illumindos. One thought did cross his mind: That Merchant guy must be a magician with the way all the medallions were placed. This extra venture would get him a free weapon. After nipping a few down, his plaga shrilled distractedly, leading his legs to the castle. An irritation filled him, but found his groin hard against his pants.
He murmured angrily at the plaga inside him:
‘Why don’t you just suck my cock and get it over with? Hell, I can’t seem to do shit without you pushing my body around like a rag doll.’
And as fast as he detoured away from the church, he was standing before a tall castle; the sky looked dark with clouds passing with high winds and creating a sensation of a cyclone. He swallowed; a stray finger reaching down to his crotch to still the raging blood that pumped through his veins.
‘Whatever’s inside there, it better be something good.’
Leon was soon on his way to a different section in the castle. His dusty boots marked its way up the surprisingly clean staircase; a curvaceous stairway brought him up close to a door – several doors: a door way at the far end where there stood a couple cloaked figures and the one in front of him. He decided to take the less bumpy road: door number one.
As the door clicked open, he was brought inside a sparse hallway; small and slightly cramped with vases on end tables that flanked doorways. Slicking a few of them down, he found a couple delightful gems to pocket. Continuing on and trying vainly to ignore the way his pulsating cock smashed against the wall of cloth separating its freedom, he walked into a bigger hall that blessed him with great big open windows.
A fresh breeze danced softly inside, touching Leon’s face with a gentle kiss; the windows to his right faced outward. Flowing up above in the shape of a large flag were scarlet pastel curtains cushioning atop crisp invisible winds. Leon’s dark blond bangs finally pushed aside to show both his eyes; clear grey-blue eyes staring out past the windows held a beautiful soul of intensity. Keeping his gun hand facing the ceiling, the hired licensed to kill agent soft treading noises across the floor paused; he glanced down, remarking the similar colors that splashed across the carpet; a distinctive marking gave the appearance of a well kept castle.
There up ahead, was presumably a hallway leading to another way out or in. He didn’t care anymore, just as long as he can get himself the girl to rescue and be on his merry way. Of course, the situation was interesting to say the least as statues to his left remained stiff and unmoving. Kennedy hazarded a guess that they could at anytime start moving; anything goes in this plaga infested castle. Remarkably, the cultists that he had shot earlier were of a different breed. Their plaga manifested even more disgusting than the villagers he had witnessed.
Distractedly gliding his furtive glances over at the windows, catching glimpses of crows flying overhead; the distant sing song of their music flowed in a manner that clung to their feathers. A sigh of relief was plain on his face; he didn’t really want his plaga to start singing. The longer he had this foreign substance inside him, the longer he called it ‘his’; a possession of sorts that clung to his identity, all of his vital organs were affected by it. He was glad his hard-on was starting to go down .........but, luck would have it in this case, a bittersweet yet sexy symphony blaring out with full blown violins – from tiny to giant sized instrumental pieces. Whistles through parted invisible lips blew in a haunted hollow spectral plane-existing tunnel, playfully against the background of the string quartet.
The chambers in his heart pumped faster and faster – the parasite was up to no good and he knew it. It’s funny too, he mused, walking silently forward; the sounds of his footfalls were cloaked by the gentle wind. Leon could smell the ocean close by; a salty but sweet tangy scent assaulted his nostrils and he could swear that his parasite wanted him to go there. Close to the water.
My bonny lies over the ocean. My bonny lies over the sea….
Blinking back a blank look, a mild irritation settled in. Leon remembered that song somewhere in his head; it was an old song that spoke of a long lost dead one.
“Yeah..” he scoffed darkly to no one in particular. “Just about everyone around here pretty much - dead.”
Perhaps due that foreign substance implanted inside him, Leon immediately felt a twitch of passion; a steady gradual flow of that feeling of being randy. The goddamn parasite was singing, startling his host enough to halt from the soft shriek of music.
Gritting his teeth with fists clenched, a tension spiked up through Kennedy’s body, thanking whatever gods were watching that there wasn’t anyone around to witness the hardening member between his legs. AGAIN! His pants felt tight, well around his groin, making him elicit a throaty groan as his eyes rolled around from the involuntary hard-on. Glancing down, a frown painted his pretty boy features.
If he didn't do something soon, he'll get the almighty blue balls. A pained expression marred his handsome features at that dark thought.
“What the hell are you up to? There’s no one around to fuck alright?” It was as if the confirmation alone would keep the blood flow to a minimum; that wasn’t going to happen since he was walking like a stiff with something heavy in his pants. Right now with a grim determination, was to try and keep himself concentrated on the task to get it down.
Think of those twisted, stinkin’ ganados. Think of those hideous bandaged bloodied Chainsaw bitches you saw earlier…yeah, that’s right, disgusting isn’t it? Instead of adjusting his cock to go down, it was to his utter disconcertment working the opposite direction. It was as if the plaga was laughing at him through the music. The salty sea air entwined deliciously with a heady soft melody, swayed to the beat of Kennedy’s now sweating body. He couldn’t believe that a cold sweat started to form around his forehead, his face, all around his skin. A heartbeat that belonged to someone else, not his, pumped viciously in his ear; the blood rushed to his dick like a gasoline hose pumping inside his human instrument.
Sometimes a man is just a man. His insistent arousal was at an standpoint; achingly stiff and uncomfortable, Leon barely acknowledged his surroundings. The scenery before him exposed no danger, allowing his baser instincts to take over. As he slumped against one of the solid white washed statues looking down at him, fumbling hands undid his trousers. It was to his violation that this action alone poised an instant threat to his motor skills; the plaga was taking over again. Touching the base of his crotch just once over, a sweet delicious melody slid inside, tickling eardrums and the smooth lining of blood vessels with a soft feather.
Leon’s half opened eyes stared out at the ocean of sky that presented itself; the curtains remained floating on air like an bottom fan had blown its propellers to keep them afloat. Touching his member gently; it throbbed heatedly; a rush of blood furiously boiling to a point of distraction. His mouth halfway open, full lips parting to allow a hot tongue to touch bottom lip, flicking out to wet what was dry a moment ago.
An unbelievable surge of white-blistering heated pinchers demanded him to rub the free hardened long and thickened length to a steady soft pace. At first, a gentle caress to ease the pain of blood fusion dancing in his eyes, taking over his senses and brain power. His legs parted, knees drawn up as his bare ass smashed against the pale garishly clean carpet. A guttural cry of pain and pleasure floated from him; a reverberation of lustful awakening demanded absolution in the form of an aching self awareness.
Leon knew he hadn’t done this in awhile, hadn’t had the time; but, the plaga demanded some sort of vicious twisted pleasure from him. No dramatic violins plagued, no more annoying trumpets blaring out with disjointed harsh scolding; it was an honest sultry heated number straight out of an ancient love story. Somehow, this plaga knew all the songs ever made, pulling its lore on its vulnerable plaga’s host. And if by some sheer bad luck, or good luck, from what ever point of view came upon the hapless ever so innocent Agent, there was going to be some physical interaction.
He softly squeezed his cock, just gentle enough to elicit some pleasure; the naughty plaga inside him sang a seductive powerful tune, seducing the Agent’s blood infused dick into a standing towering inferno. With deft fingers, they glided up and down the long thickened column, softly at first then picked up considerable speed. The rhythm predictably aligned with the song, as the music rose to a powerful crescendo. Leon groaned louder; his guttural passionate cries were choking him up. Throat felt dry, desiccated from all the groaning. His thoughts of lust were consuming him, igniting all of the fundamental signs into red alert. Statues looked down at the exhibition of self gratification; the still life created eyes moved with mystifying awe at the man in plain clothes. Leon’s balls felt tight; they pulled up as the swirling semen inside needed to shoot free.
Blue startling eyes kept staring out into the expansive grayish-blue dark sky, curtains billowing with a soft cadence, illuminating the scenery of soft easy breezes and tropical setting within an ancient castle of old but clean furniture. A flush of pinkish flesh, engorged with blood between masculine fingers moved with steady speed; Leon gasped, groaned, uttering more self indulgence at the lust the plaga brought on. He was climaxing, reaching a height higher than a woman’s heat could clasp around him. It felt as if this masturbation would go on forever until: ”Unnnnaagggghhhhhh…..” A ridiculous guttural cry – even to his own ears. A large amount of white thick liquid spilled out like an overflowing fountain of youth; firstly shooting out in thick globs, reaching towards the sky to the open window. Then with an intensified slow motion reaction, the thickness shortened; small spurts pushed out as if they wanted to be part of the parade of luxurious fulfillment.
He could hear how his breathing relaxed, coming off the intensity of the recent hand job, was amazed at the influence of the nasty parasite’s lustful mannerisms and manipulations. Looking towards the window, he had to wonder how he managed to get some of his cum on the window sill; the carpeting was now decorated with bits and spots of thick semen. With a shaky movement to get up, he slipped a bit as his hand, still damp slid off the wall. The statues moved, swayed forward as Leon’s hand had barely touched it; as the statue started to fall face forward, the Agent quickly captured it, pushing it clumsily up against the wall.
While his back was against the heavy unmovable marbled stiff, Leon allowed himself to blow air from between his lips; bangs flew upward, relaxing back down to cover parts of his vision. Realizing that his pants were still down, the limpness of his cock and sac hung there in the open cool air. With trembling legs, he straightened up then leaned down a bit, shaky hands tried to pull pants back up. Managing to secure his pants over his naked groin, it was with some effort to actually get his wits together. A leg stumbled forward, sensing this heavier than usual; it wasn’t a surprise that the rest of his lower body shook a bit from the weakness felt. He cursed, hating the fact that this plaga was fucking with him whenever it felt like it. Once he got Ashley back and found a cure, he’d make sure to rip this freeloading creature out with a bang.
Rushing forward, he slipped, did a forward swing of his body on his back to the ground….falling hard on his ass; his arms flailed out almost professionally as they caught hold of the floor. A half grunt, breath knocked out of him a bit and a grumble of pain came forth. “Shit. This isn’t my day.”
Finally, with the last residue of energy, Leon lay flat on his back almost helplessly; facing upwards to the ceiling, blue eyes caught sight of a circular opening. It was small but it still led the way to the roof of the building. That would come in handy for the future, perhaps but what was the use of that there? Getting up, he saw what he had slipped on: His own cum. Rolling his eyes at the stupidity, Leon shook his head. “I must be producing loads of protein in my body.”
He flicked his groin again, the 2nd time that day, all the while, despite himself – grinning cheekily. “Yeah, you’re a fucking heller alright. Keep it down will ya?”
Leon S. Kennedy wasn’t the type of guy with enormous sexual exploits; he knew his mark of being a good guy even to the point of extremities – believing in the power of marital bliss and steadfast monogamy. Still, he was only a man with needs. And the plaga took advantage of this; the little creature must be sniggering inside, waiting till it clasped its greedy little worm-like feelers on its surprisingly near genius and moralistic new host. These attached freeloaders could communicate with one another, expounding and expanding; they played all the songs from a person’s memory banks.
They spoke to each other through these sound waves; and they planned to take over the world with the promise of guaranteed sex!
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Next chapter: There's yaoi hopefully next; sorry took so long, we were both so very sick and we're happy to hear from you all!
I was going to place the yaoi in this chapter but this was already near 6,000 words, so I broke it up into two chapters.
--SecretsofPandora
Ada recently told the Organization that she had a theory about the plagas inside the human host; they could hear or respond to the hidden noise inside each cult member’s ceremonial rods. In her first report, before being hauled to a private facility where she would be locked away, her memories and files were immediately transferred to the Organization, giving them ample time to infiltrate the grounds with the fake Ada on their own. It wasn’t easy, but doing so was purely a stroke of genius, having to transfer the same DNA tissue of the real Ada and cloning her to create a semi-perfect fake. They had several clones tried out and sadly, some of them failed; the fake Ada who was presently getting more than her just desserts in a chaotic world of sexual depravity and lust was still in all accounts and purposes rather immature. Cloning as everyone should know, had its very delicate matters and which were very much flawed despite its scientific perfection of touching life.
When the Organization pushed in their data to retrieve the real Ada’s files, her sultry and pleasant voice came on, out of that recorder, cloaking the entire room which was already swathed in mystifying anonymity. That darkness hid the eyes and upper part of the Organization’s members. A fly on the wall started to flicker its wings; roaming its hairy feelers around the solidarity of its hold in the room and would use its multiple eyes: it would not be able to see anything but a multitude of pale and pinkish human fingers entwined together in a suspended relaxation above bloated midsections.
They, the men of the covert organization had heard it; their shadowed heads turned towards the other. Then just to make sure, the secret agents would listen to it again and later make conclusions that would inevitably change the world. One man leaned over; just enough to stretch his arm and press the button of the small recorder with the touch of his index.
Ada’s Report: (excerpt from the game itself)
The Salazar family, castellans for generations, possess the ability to control Last Plagas. The organization's hypothesis is that a unique frequency of sonic wave sensed only by the parasites is used to control them. The same principle used in dog whistles.
This was inferred through the analysis of a tissue sample we retrieved. The tissue contained an organ presumably used for sensing sound waves. I've seen cult members carrying ceremonial rods and I wonder if they emit these sounds. Of course, this is purely theoretical.
After listening to that, the third man whose voice was gruff and quite dark and deep pursed his lips. “Sound waves….yes, just what I suggested earlier to the real Wong. The reports from the lab were definite and we must retrieve the main plaga sample before any other organization does.” Then he paused, waiting for anyone to counter, and when none came, he once more voiced out: “Interesting isn’t it?” He turned his voice to his partner closest to him. “Any suggestions?”
The man who had pressed the button harumped loudly and cleared his throat, and let out a long shaky breath; his fingers fidgeted for a few seconds before answering. “Let’s see, sound waves….if that is so, let's go back on an elementary level: what do dog whistles do and what are their primary functions?
His partner next to him eagerly complied; he used to be an elementary teacher before going into the military, and later joining the ranks of the Organization. And so in a very monotone voice that sounded worse than elevator music: “Certainly! As you all know, or if you haven’t, a dog whistle is in the range of 16000 Hz to 22000 Hz, allowing frequencies below 20000 Hz heard to the human ear. Some dog whistles have adjustable sliders for active control of the frequency produced. Depending on the way the whistle is used, for example, someone may blow on the whistle itself and just want a dog's attention or inflict pain for the purpose of behavior modification.”
They were seriously falling asleep by the time the man had finished his small soliloquy on the dog whistle information. The man who had finished the short oral orientation could tell by the soft sounds of snoring; he couldn’t by their faces which were obscured anyhow.
This immediately perturbed him to say the least and a meaty fist banged on the table, causing everyone to jump up; the coffees on the table spilled over, wetting their pants as it sploshed cold dark liquid over their immaculate black clothes. The squeaky man who hadn’t spoken up earlier squeaked even louder. “My goodness! Heavens! My lord! This is preposterous! What’s the meaning of this?” Agitation splayed across his actions, since his face was deeply hidden in the cover of darkness. His hands went everywhere, as if he were swatting flies around him, then slowly calmed down.
The squeaky man pulled out his white hanky out of his suit and started to dry himself of the stained coffee. They were all awake now, having been interrupted by the loud offensive noise on their sensitive ears and cold black coffee splattered on themselves.
The man pressing button had snapped his fingers. “Pain? Inflict pain! Did you hear that? That must be one of the reasons why the cult Los Illuminados wants to cultivate this plaga sound wave thing-a-ma-gig!”
Mr. Squeaky was whimpering now. “And what does that prove? Unless everyone is injected with the plaga, then this infection would thereby infiltrate the entire world, only to keep attention to the one who bears the rod.”
They all spoke in unison: “The Rod…” Almost whispering amongst themselves over the ‘rod’, and wondering if they too could possess such rods. It would come in most handy to as a bioengineered wand to order weapons to destroy any enemies. Why hadn’t they thought of this before? Why had only the Salazar family been able to produce such gems? And what was the purpose of Saddler’s claim into this? So many questions so little time.
Indeed, the rod, and they all looked at each other in that darkened room with only a small light in the middle of the table to give the darkness room to shadow their faces and lighten their midsections. It was the rod, just like Ada had suggested that would play itself out in the game, and what a game it would be. They had to figure out a way to bring the real Ada back into the mission without that irritating Albert Wesker finding out; or worse, Osmund Saddler who is by far one of the smaller players in this field of competitive spy games. They needed the upkeep of their shady organization on top of the world with the best serums.
What’s worse, they all silently thought, without voicing their equal fear was that the real Ada was going to be a difficult woman to bring back. She would make life a not so pretty place for them if they didn’t find an alternative approach to offer something in return for her silence and cooperation. She would not have liked the idea of having a clone take her place much less to return halfway through the mission or worse, towards the end of a mission only to find her pathetic doppelganger had completed everything.
That would be a low blow to her adventurous and spy-loving fire-spirit. Oh, a woman’s scorn and hell fury was something they weren’t looking forward to. And although they would have planned to blow up the entire island’s base in the case of…..they knew inherently that the real Ada Wong was too valuable to just throw away. She had the original DNA, therefore, it would be crucial to keep her intact. They had to give her the false idea that she was just another player in the field. Besides, the odds were currently in her favour compared to that miserable copy. And unless there was a perfect clone she wouldn’t be needed. Fat chance of that.
They couldn’t get off their minds how sickly annoying the fake Wong was. It’s a wonder she hadn’t gotten herself killed. They had seen some of her moves, fluidly graceful like the real thing. The only problem was, was that she participated into that disgusting bad B porno flicks scenario with the short Castilian, just before getting herself raped by that big oafish mercenary. The real Wong wouldn’t have allowed that to happen; she was way too clever and skilled to allow such things to go on. Yet with some odd fascination, they had watched with some uncomfortableness, partly keeping their gag reflex down as they gaped at the gorging suck down of that verdugo slong. It was by far the worst thing they had ever seen.
The room flickered on and off since the light in the middle of the table was losing energy from the overused and now dying bulb. The secret men gasped in unison as one smarter fellow clicked on one of the monitors, encasing them all in a strange bluish light, their heads still cut off from the light itself giving them the impression of ever creeping mystery and intrigue as it should be. The squeaky man piped up again, and the others were already annoyed by his voice.
“I could use another cup of coffee. Hot please.”
In a chorus agreement, they all pressed their buttons simultaneously, calling their personal secretaries. In no time at all, a team of trophy worthy women came waltzing in the room, through the security double sliding doors, entering gracefully with personal access. Each woman looked quite stunning, bearing the same outfit; a unique bra that fitted their upper body like a fem bot surprise; gold plated and deadly inside, bearing not only their beautiful bountiful breasts, but a secret lighter to light the cigars on the Organization’s member who indulged on imported Cuban cigars. Their silver and gold boots clicked on the clean but shabby grey cemented floor. For their skirts they were assigned to wear them past their knees to give them a look of prudish insincerity, but only under the conditions that they had a slit on the side to reveal a nice shapely thigh.
From the old fly on the wall who has been around longer than his brothers; it was seeing through its insectile multi eyes how ridiculously similar this was to the Austin Powers show; the creature’s skinny feelers got stuck feeling up the monitor screen at the time its short span attention could hold.
The squeaky man grinned from ear to ear; a heavenly bluish light revealed his gaping smile, only to have a cigar shoved in his mouth with a gentle push. A pair of boobs fired out a small controlled flame to light the expensive tobacco. As the squeaky man puffed, the monotoned voice man waved his hand away as his secretary attempted to give him his own personal Cuban pipe. “Just a cup of hot coffee, darling.” And he lecherously winked at her.
His pretty secretary serenely smiled; a genuine and pleased expression lined those perfect full carefully painted expensive lips. She leaned over just enough to pour him a cup of hot steaming coffee out of the small pot held securely in her delicate manicured hand. There was a movable tray there just like they have on the airplanes with all the necessities of every beverage and snacks for the team of secretive men. The women were encased in the faint bluish light, giving them an ethereal lovely glow while the men surprisingly still, were kept in the shadows. It was as if the shadows were hired to enclose their identities, only giving indication that they did indeed have a mouth by way of their mumbling voices and the whitish trails of cloud producing smoke puffing out of their pricey cigars. White smoke curled up thickly from the thick tobacco sticks out of their mouths; the faint reddish glow sucking down towards their mouth as they breathed it in.
The squeaky man relaxed back with his signature squeaky snigger. “Ah this is the life. Now all we have to do, is wait for the next move.” He turned to his satisfied colleagues. “Gentlemen?”
Again, they all agreed in unison.'
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The farmer’s church didn’t loom threateningly like that imposing castle; it remained hidden behind some sparse trees in the foreground, not to mention the way the dark atmospheric miasma created by hugging the surroundings like a mother with her baby. Leon realized as the sky dipped darker that night might give him some cloak and dagger mystery: this would either benefit him in many ways; or rather hinder his way if he couldn’t buy a new map soon. He did notice the sparkling blue medallions that hung on branches, and sometimes chinked between crevices of the church as he approached; a closer view of things cleared his vision as the miasma dissipated as soon as he entered within range.
With his usual 20/20 vision, even as the streak of darkness threatened the already depressing sky, Leon proceeded to fire off all the medallions one by one. The lone medallion near the church’s bell clinked off noisily, dropping to the ground with a special treat: a package of new ammo. As if he didn’t have enough already. His pockets were getting quite full and when this government agent met up with the traveling weapons dealer, he’d make damn sure to shove some of this stuff up his ass. Not literally, but quaintly, hoping to get more than a fair share.
The road to wisely find Miss Graham was not going to be a piece of cake. Just thinking about food was torture. He pulled out a piece of gum hidden in his jacket pocket, hoping it will hold him for a little while. Chewing thoughtfully on it, the Agent relaxed; it felt to him as if doing something other than reaching highs and lows of adrenaline pulls were rare. Spearmint juices swirled around his tongue, mixing with his saliva; he savoured the flavour. Deliberating about cakes and hot chocolates was too much of a torture, and if his plaga was in the mood to get hungry, it’d probably force him to crawl on all fours like an animal, licking the dried sap juices off the dying tree trunks. What’s worse – to actually eat one of those smelly pieces of rotting flesh on the tables inside the villager’s homes. Thankfully, he wasn’t that desperate and besides, it was time to start using his head.
Those long gone days of Boy Scout trips should have paid off; especially the past grueling months spent with his former teammates out in the heat of the jungle, or in the thick of training when the rain poured like cats and dogs. Reminders of the time working his way to be where he is now brought a painful sharpness about this mission. And really, this trip was actually quite prissy comparably; there was nothing in the way of mudslides or climbing treacherous mountains. Not yet. Although the current situation should keep him in check, this excursion wasn’t even half over. He didn’t believe by any means that Saddler would be stupid not know his presence was causing havoc and mayhem. Just call him 4th-of-July Leon in a quiet remote back water little village, equipped with explosives and enough luck to win in all the casinos lining up the Las Vegas strip.
Listening to the eerie whistle of the wind, he glanced up: the ashened clouds rumbled overhead, revealing distinctive pre-storm indications in the atmosphere, and urging Leon that he had to get indoors soon. His constitution was pretty tough. Figuring that his plaga knew that, it probably would be taking advantage of that somehow. He wanted to speak to it, play something interesting for him, while he searched for Ashley. Shaking his head, murky thoughts of speaking to a goddamn parasite was beyond ridiculous.
The sound of plip plop distracted him and he felt wet something hit him; as he looked up, faint droplets of water gently touched his face; the few drops of rain wouldn’t quench his thirst and the gum in his mouth started to dry and toughen.
The merchant had something to eat for a price, he knew. As large and bulky as the merchant was, there was bound to be lots of provisions that satisfied a man’s thirst and hunger pangs. By the time his worn boots had stepped on a few more planks to get by, a familiar growling sound came from ahead: Dogs. This really should be a piece of sweet cake, Leon thought, his finger on the customary weapon, he walked on with cocky assurance.
The persistent growling grew louder and the appearance of what would have been ‘normal’ dogs were blocking his passage; they were covered in wet grey fur, eyes the color of red indicated that these pets were injected with the plaga that was going on. Quickly thinking about how their music would sound, he tried to shut out anything else but the focus to shoot at them before the revolting thought of bestiality came into unnecessary and involuntary actions.
This was not going to do at all! Leon narrowed his eyes, taking careful note of the way the dogs inched their way to him; they weren’t going to jump just yet……they will….his instincts told him to keep steady with the firing aim. Foaming at the mouth, the injected animals were jaw slacked; thick saliva hung from their mouths and the purring sounds of a thousand lions seem to emanate out of their bodies. Their chaotic invisible music, as the Agent had guessed was dark, but he was not expecting this to be anything more than a monotone chorus.
He fired instantly, hating the thought of even having to remotely have any lustful depravity with four legged creatures. The only way he’d consider or allow his goddamn freeloader to start singing the come-hither-me-tunes that fucked around with his hard cock was having Ashley Graham on all fours. Even then, there was no way he’d take advantage of that poor girl anymore.
Bullets started flying everywhere; they stabbed through the damp non fertile ground: his good aim struck the targets. Those resilient dogs were pushed back and over on their backs, rolling over twice with mewling pained whimpers. Leon’s baby blues widened at the sight of what transpired next – plaga tentacles spurted out of their matted furry backs, giving them the ability to heal despite getting shot at.
Gloved fingers dipped into his jacket to find a lone flash bang, throwing it up in the air while he dipped and rolled suavely on the wet solid floor, coming up with another bang for good measure. It exploded; the impact of the flash caused a loud piercing cry from their foaming mouths. Languidly, Leon got up from his bent posture and smiled; devil may care on his pleasant features.
The creatures didn’t even leave any droppings. Not a problem since the traveling salesman was close by. Taking pot shots with extra ammunition at the hanging medallions left over, he noticed they were clinging to the tombstones with the interesting symbols from the so-called Illumindos. One thought did cross his mind: That Merchant guy must be a magician with the way all the medallions were placed. This extra venture would get him a free weapon. After nipping a few down, his plaga shrilled distractedly, leading his legs to the castle. An irritation filled him, but found his groin hard against his pants.
He murmured angrily at the plaga inside him:
‘Why don’t you just suck my cock and get it over with? Hell, I can’t seem to do shit without you pushing my body around like a rag doll.’
And as fast as he detoured away from the church, he was standing before a tall castle; the sky looked dark with clouds passing with high winds and creating a sensation of a cyclone. He swallowed; a stray finger reaching down to his crotch to still the raging blood that pumped through his veins.
‘Whatever’s inside there, it better be something good.’
Leon was soon on his way to a different section in the castle. His dusty boots marked its way up the surprisingly clean staircase; a curvaceous stairway brought him up close to a door – several doors: a door way at the far end where there stood a couple cloaked figures and the one in front of him. He decided to take the less bumpy road: door number one.
As the door clicked open, he was brought inside a sparse hallway; small and slightly cramped with vases on end tables that flanked doorways. Slicking a few of them down, he found a couple delightful gems to pocket. Continuing on and trying vainly to ignore the way his pulsating cock smashed against the wall of cloth separating its freedom, he walked into a bigger hall that blessed him with great big open windows.
A fresh breeze danced softly inside, touching Leon’s face with a gentle kiss; the windows to his right faced outward. Flowing up above in the shape of a large flag were scarlet pastel curtains cushioning atop crisp invisible winds. Leon’s dark blond bangs finally pushed aside to show both his eyes; clear grey-blue eyes staring out past the windows held a beautiful soul of intensity. Keeping his gun hand facing the ceiling, the hired licensed to kill agent soft treading noises across the floor paused; he glanced down, remarking the similar colors that splashed across the carpet; a distinctive marking gave the appearance of a well kept castle.
There up ahead, was presumably a hallway leading to another way out or in. He didn’t care anymore, just as long as he can get himself the girl to rescue and be on his merry way. Of course, the situation was interesting to say the least as statues to his left remained stiff and unmoving. Kennedy hazarded a guess that they could at anytime start moving; anything goes in this plaga infested castle. Remarkably, the cultists that he had shot earlier were of a different breed. Their plaga manifested even more disgusting than the villagers he had witnessed.
Distractedly gliding his furtive glances over at the windows, catching glimpses of crows flying overhead; the distant sing song of their music flowed in a manner that clung to their feathers. A sigh of relief was plain on his face; he didn’t really want his plaga to start singing. The longer he had this foreign substance inside him, the longer he called it ‘his’; a possession of sorts that clung to his identity, all of his vital organs were affected by it. He was glad his hard-on was starting to go down .........but, luck would have it in this case, a bittersweet yet sexy symphony blaring out with full blown violins – from tiny to giant sized instrumental pieces. Whistles through parted invisible lips blew in a haunted hollow spectral plane-existing tunnel, playfully against the background of the string quartet.
The chambers in his heart pumped faster and faster – the parasite was up to no good and he knew it. It’s funny too, he mused, walking silently forward; the sounds of his footfalls were cloaked by the gentle wind. Leon could smell the ocean close by; a salty but sweet tangy scent assaulted his nostrils and he could swear that his parasite wanted him to go there. Close to the water.
My bonny lies over the ocean. My bonny lies over the sea….
Blinking back a blank look, a mild irritation settled in. Leon remembered that song somewhere in his head; it was an old song that spoke of a long lost dead one.
“Yeah..” he scoffed darkly to no one in particular. “Just about everyone around here pretty much - dead.”
Perhaps due that foreign substance implanted inside him, Leon immediately felt a twitch of passion; a steady gradual flow of that feeling of being randy. The goddamn parasite was singing, startling his host enough to halt from the soft shriek of music.
Gritting his teeth with fists clenched, a tension spiked up through Kennedy’s body, thanking whatever gods were watching that there wasn’t anyone around to witness the hardening member between his legs. AGAIN! His pants felt tight, well around his groin, making him elicit a throaty groan as his eyes rolled around from the involuntary hard-on. Glancing down, a frown painted his pretty boy features.
If he didn't do something soon, he'll get the almighty blue balls. A pained expression marred his handsome features at that dark thought.
“What the hell are you up to? There’s no one around to fuck alright?” It was as if the confirmation alone would keep the blood flow to a minimum; that wasn’t going to happen since he was walking like a stiff with something heavy in his pants. Right now with a grim determination, was to try and keep himself concentrated on the task to get it down.
Think of those twisted, stinkin’ ganados. Think of those hideous bandaged bloodied Chainsaw bitches you saw earlier…yeah, that’s right, disgusting isn’t it? Instead of adjusting his cock to go down, it was to his utter disconcertment working the opposite direction. It was as if the plaga was laughing at him through the music. The salty sea air entwined deliciously with a heady soft melody, swayed to the beat of Kennedy’s now sweating body. He couldn’t believe that a cold sweat started to form around his forehead, his face, all around his skin. A heartbeat that belonged to someone else, not his, pumped viciously in his ear; the blood rushed to his dick like a gasoline hose pumping inside his human instrument.
Sometimes a man is just a man. His insistent arousal was at an standpoint; achingly stiff and uncomfortable, Leon barely acknowledged his surroundings. The scenery before him exposed no danger, allowing his baser instincts to take over. As he slumped against one of the solid white washed statues looking down at him, fumbling hands undid his trousers. It was to his violation that this action alone poised an instant threat to his motor skills; the plaga was taking over again. Touching the base of his crotch just once over, a sweet delicious melody slid inside, tickling eardrums and the smooth lining of blood vessels with a soft feather.
Leon’s half opened eyes stared out at the ocean of sky that presented itself; the curtains remained floating on air like an bottom fan had blown its propellers to keep them afloat. Touching his member gently; it throbbed heatedly; a rush of blood furiously boiling to a point of distraction. His mouth halfway open, full lips parting to allow a hot tongue to touch bottom lip, flicking out to wet what was dry a moment ago.
An unbelievable surge of white-blistering heated pinchers demanded him to rub the free hardened long and thickened length to a steady soft pace. At first, a gentle caress to ease the pain of blood fusion dancing in his eyes, taking over his senses and brain power. His legs parted, knees drawn up as his bare ass smashed against the pale garishly clean carpet. A guttural cry of pain and pleasure floated from him; a reverberation of lustful awakening demanded absolution in the form of an aching self awareness.
Leon knew he hadn’t done this in awhile, hadn’t had the time; but, the plaga demanded some sort of vicious twisted pleasure from him. No dramatic violins plagued, no more annoying trumpets blaring out with disjointed harsh scolding; it was an honest sultry heated number straight out of an ancient love story. Somehow, this plaga knew all the songs ever made, pulling its lore on its vulnerable plaga’s host. And if by some sheer bad luck, or good luck, from what ever point of view came upon the hapless ever so innocent Agent, there was going to be some physical interaction.
He softly squeezed his cock, just gentle enough to elicit some pleasure; the naughty plaga inside him sang a seductive powerful tune, seducing the Agent’s blood infused dick into a standing towering inferno. With deft fingers, they glided up and down the long thickened column, softly at first then picked up considerable speed. The rhythm predictably aligned with the song, as the music rose to a powerful crescendo. Leon groaned louder; his guttural passionate cries were choking him up. Throat felt dry, desiccated from all the groaning. His thoughts of lust were consuming him, igniting all of the fundamental signs into red alert. Statues looked down at the exhibition of self gratification; the still life created eyes moved with mystifying awe at the man in plain clothes. Leon’s balls felt tight; they pulled up as the swirling semen inside needed to shoot free.
Blue startling eyes kept staring out into the expansive grayish-blue dark sky, curtains billowing with a soft cadence, illuminating the scenery of soft easy breezes and tropical setting within an ancient castle of old but clean furniture. A flush of pinkish flesh, engorged with blood between masculine fingers moved with steady speed; Leon gasped, groaned, uttering more self indulgence at the lust the plaga brought on. He was climaxing, reaching a height higher than a woman’s heat could clasp around him. It felt as if this masturbation would go on forever until: ”Unnnnaagggghhhhhh…..” A ridiculous guttural cry – even to his own ears. A large amount of white thick liquid spilled out like an overflowing fountain of youth; firstly shooting out in thick globs, reaching towards the sky to the open window. Then with an intensified slow motion reaction, the thickness shortened; small spurts pushed out as if they wanted to be part of the parade of luxurious fulfillment.
He could hear how his breathing relaxed, coming off the intensity of the recent hand job, was amazed at the influence of the nasty parasite’s lustful mannerisms and manipulations. Looking towards the window, he had to wonder how he managed to get some of his cum on the window sill; the carpeting was now decorated with bits and spots of thick semen. With a shaky movement to get up, he slipped a bit as his hand, still damp slid off the wall. The statues moved, swayed forward as Leon’s hand had barely touched it; as the statue started to fall face forward, the Agent quickly captured it, pushing it clumsily up against the wall.
While his back was against the heavy unmovable marbled stiff, Leon allowed himself to blow air from between his lips; bangs flew upward, relaxing back down to cover parts of his vision. Realizing that his pants were still down, the limpness of his cock and sac hung there in the open cool air. With trembling legs, he straightened up then leaned down a bit, shaky hands tried to pull pants back up. Managing to secure his pants over his naked groin, it was with some effort to actually get his wits together. A leg stumbled forward, sensing this heavier than usual; it wasn’t a surprise that the rest of his lower body shook a bit from the weakness felt. He cursed, hating the fact that this plaga was fucking with him whenever it felt like it. Once he got Ashley back and found a cure, he’d make sure to rip this freeloading creature out with a bang.
Rushing forward, he slipped, did a forward swing of his body on his back to the ground….falling hard on his ass; his arms flailed out almost professionally as they caught hold of the floor. A half grunt, breath knocked out of him a bit and a grumble of pain came forth. “Shit. This isn’t my day.”
Finally, with the last residue of energy, Leon lay flat on his back almost helplessly; facing upwards to the ceiling, blue eyes caught sight of a circular opening. It was small but it still led the way to the roof of the building. That would come in handy for the future, perhaps but what was the use of that there? Getting up, he saw what he had slipped on: His own cum. Rolling his eyes at the stupidity, Leon shook his head. “I must be producing loads of protein in my body.”
He flicked his groin again, the 2nd time that day, all the while, despite himself – grinning cheekily. “Yeah, you’re a fucking heller alright. Keep it down will ya?”
Leon S. Kennedy wasn’t the type of guy with enormous sexual exploits; he knew his mark of being a good guy even to the point of extremities – believing in the power of marital bliss and steadfast monogamy. Still, he was only a man with needs. And the plaga took advantage of this; the little creature must be sniggering inside, waiting till it clasped its greedy little worm-like feelers on its surprisingly near genius and moralistic new host. These attached freeloaders could communicate with one another, expounding and expanding; they played all the songs from a person’s memory banks.
They spoke to each other through these sound waves; and they planned to take over the world with the promise of guaranteed sex!
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Next chapter: There's yaoi hopefully next; sorry took so long, we were both so very sick and we're happy to hear from you all!
I was going to place the yaoi in this chapter but this was already near 6,000 words, so I broke it up into two chapters.
--SecretsofPandora