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Some routines from Albert’s upbringing in the Spencer Foundation Homes still lingered. He had breakfast at 7:00, lunch at 12:00, dinner at 6:00, with little deviation, because Albert preferred it when things went to schedule.
It was a pattern he carried with him beyond the homes, into the limited domestic life he’d experienced. With his first partner - a sweet, bright-eyed Serbian woman - he’d tried to build something resembling a normal life. She had been intelligent, though not so driven that her ambitions ever became inconvenient to him. A safe, warm body he’d been able to bury himself in at night for a time.
This life had been novel at first, untread territory, exciting in the way first relationships always were. But the novelty inevitably waned; the woman and her routines became too familiar, and he left. Having experienced being in a relationship and finding it lacking, he didn’t expect that desire would ever return.
But then, the boy.
Twenty-five and bright-eyed, just like Albert remembered, with soft lips and long lashes and a softer frame than the original had ever had. The clone didn’t have as intensive an exercise regimen as the source. A little jogging to help keep its shape, but little else. Albert didn’t mind. He enjoyed the softness of him, the fullness of his thighs, the gentle swell of his belly. He looked domesticated, sweet. Albert’s little housewife.
As expected of a housewife, Chris was obedient. Any lip, and he was chastised. Any outright defiance, and Albert undid his belt to drive the lesson home. He’d programmed the clone to love him, to want him, to serve him, but it was still Chris in some capacity - the fire in the boy wasn’t possible to entirely extinguish, and nor did he want to extinguish it. It gave him the opportunity to discipline the boy, and he always cried so beautifully.
At 5:55 exactly, Chris came to retrieve him for dinner. Wesker wasn’t much of a cook himself - or rather, while he could learn to cook competently, he preferred other people to do it for him - so he’d provided the boy with cookbooks to ensure he could have three warm, home-cooked meals a day. He’d even gone through the effort of marking what recipes suited his tastes.
Memory implantation in clones wasn’t yet viable, so Chris had needed to learn to cook from scratch, but he’d more or less mastered it after three months. Chris had always been a quick study.
Tonight, he'd made salmon, roasted asparagus, and scalloped potatoes in a creamy, cheesy sauce; one of Albert's favourites. He stepped into the dining room and sat down at the table, waiting to be served by Chris, who was wearing nothing but his apron. There didn’t seem to be any point in giving Chris clothes when he always took them off throughout the day anyway. Whenever Albert had an… inclination, he’d bend the boy over the nearest available surface, and the frequency of this had quickly made clothing an inconvenience. Chris looked sweet like this, in any case, in nothing but the frilly pink apron Albert had bought on a whim to amuse himself (that he found it arousing was just a bonus).
In many ways, Chris was like a doll, something he could dress up and strip down at his leisure.
He smiled as Chris served their plates and sat down across from Albert.
“Busy day?” asked Chris.
“It always is,” said Albert as he took his cutlery and began to cut into the salmon. “This looks delectable, Chris; you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Aw, come on,” said Chris, grinning stupidly, just like he had during S.T.A.R.S. “It’s not that good. I’m sure you could make it even better.”
Albert had taught him that modesty, too.
“A shame, then, that I don’t have time to cook.” He carefully bit a fragrant piece of salmon off the tines of his fork and hummed in appreciation. Perfectly cooked and seasoned. “But your cooking is more than agreeable. What will you be making tomorrow?”
“How do you feel about linguini?” asked Chris. “Been a while since we’ve had pasta.”
Albert chewed and swallowed another mouthful of food. “Agreeable.”
“Just agreeable…?”
“I find pasta a little plain,” said Albert, slicing through one of the scalloped potatoes. “But I’m sure you’ll make something palatable with it.”
Chris’ brow furrowed and his mouth opened, and though he looked like he wanted to protest, all that came out was a resigned sigh. It was, despite this being how Albert had made him to be, a little disappointing.
“It was a compliment, dear,” said Albert.
Chris nodded and forked some potato into his mouth. “I know, I just-”
“Swallow first.”
Chris quickly swallowed. “If you want something other than pasta, I could make that instead. That was the point of me asking how you felt about it.”
One of Albert’s fine eyebrows rose. “And I told you, quite clearly, that I would find the linguini agreeable. I wouldn't have tabbed the page if I didn't like it.”
“Okay,” said Chris, sighing again, which made Albert’s temples throb. He’d have to curb that tendency before it became a theme. “I’ll make linguini then,” Chris went on. “Maybe as a side to some steak, since I know you like that.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Albert indulgently, and Chris beamed.
They exchanged pleasant, idle chatter throughout the rest of dinner, and once they had finished eating, Chris gathered the plates and took them to the sink to wash up. The sound of rushing water and clinking cutlery was pleasantly domestic.
Albert closed his eyes and listened for a time. It was moments like these that he understood, deeply, why William had taken up with Annette and formed a family, despite the vulnerability it introduced. There was no greater liability than a child, after all.
If he'd really wanted to, he could have made Chris bear his children, changed him so he had a pretty pink cunt and womb instead of a cock between his legs. Not an appropriate allocation of his resources and time, but nor had this project been in general. It had little value as an experiment. It was an indulgence, and Albert didn’t try to convince himself otherwise. Even men like him needed a reprieve from work every so often. But for now, with so much uncertainty around his plans for the future, there wasn’t time to alter Chris and introduce a child to the situation.
The water cut off, then came the sound of Chris drying his hands and footsteps. Albert opened his eyes and turned his head to watch Chris approach.
“Shower,” said Albert as he stepped out of his chair. “I don’t need you smelling like dirt and sweat while we’re together.” He glanced at his wristwatch. It was seven thirty. “Then we’ll have a few hours to enjoy ourselves before sleep.”
Chris’ cheeks flushed, like they always did when Albert announced his intentions for the evening. Time hadn’t eroded the boy’s shyness at all, and it was delicious. He was still so responsive each and every time.
Albert stepped into the suite's well-furnished bedroom, while Chris trailed into the shower to wash himself with the expensive sandalwood soaps and shampoos Albert kept a steady stock of. Once the door was closed, Albert began removing his clothes, folding them and placing them aside. He’d spent all day sitting in front of a computer, outlining a new project for Tricell, so he didn’t feel any need to shower himself just yet.
He sat on the edge of the bed and popped his back, stretching his arms above his head. He wasn’t tired yet, but he usually was by the end of their marathon. Fucking Chris had done wonders for his insomnia.
The door creaked open and Chris returned, wearing only a towel draped around his neck to catch the moisture from his hair. Albert nodded to the space in the middle of the bed, and Chris obediently crawled into it, stretching himself out, his legs sliding open in passive acceptance of Albert’s intentions. The lack of passion was a little annoying, but at least the blush on Chris' cheeks remained.
“Did you prepare yourself in the shower?” asked Albert, a standard question. Chris didn’t usually forget to these days, but he had to make sure - he didn’t need the boy bleeding all over his sheets again because he’d neglected such an essential step.
“Yes,” said Chris. “I used the water-based lube.”
“Good.”
Albert slid onto the bed after him and positioned himself between Chris’ spread legs. Such long, pretty legs. He took a moment to run his hands up the length of them before spreading them apart and getting his heavy, flushed cock into position. When the head nudged Chris’ hole, the boy gasped, curling his fingers into the pillow.
“Deep breath,” murmured Albert, then pressed inside. His eyelashes fluttered at the gripping heat on his cock.
Chris’ back bowed off the bed, his bottom lip catching between his teeth and his nails biting into the blanket before he slowly, slowly relaxed into the intrusion. He was nice and wet inside, courtesy of the lubrication, enabling an easy slide as Albert began to fuck him in earnest. Chris’ breath came panting out of him, mingling with Albert’s own laboured breaths. Albert leaned his forehead against Chris', gazing down at Chris’ fluttering eyelashes and how dark and long they looked as they brushed against Chris’ cheeks. His lips were very pink up close, and his skin flushed and flawless. Pretty, as always.
Chris’ small, pink cock bounced against his belly as Albert fucked him. He didn’t know the size of Chris’ cock in reality, but he’d spent a considerable amount of time caging this one so it would be a pretty, small, delicate little thing, an additional method of emasculation. He had free rein to do with this body whatever he liked, and so he did.
He wedged an arm between their bodies and curled his fingers around Chris’ throat, applying pressure to the sensitive cartilage. Instead of tightening up or panicking like he had in the past, Chris went limp, like a rabbit trapped in the jaws of a wolf. There was pleasure in that, the instinctive yielding to Albert, but - it wasn’t like Chris to submit like this. Not without Albert forcing the matter, at least.
He applied a little more pressure to try to prompt a better response, and Chris merely let his head fall back and began pressing back into his thrusts. It was pleasant. And not what he wanted at all.
He ground his palm down against the clone's throat, watching its face redden and then start to turn blue, lips tinged with hypoxia. Only then did its eyes fly open, wide and swimming with confusion and arousal. Its cock was fully hard now, trapped between their gyrating bodies.
“After all this time, you really should be able to predict my desires better than this,” said Albert between thrusts, his hand still firm on the clone's throat, applying a little more pressure, a fraction more, feeling the vulnerable cartilage curve under his palm. “What have I told you about being too passive in bed? We’ve spoken about this.”
Its mouth was open, but nothing came out. Panic had begun to overtake its confusion. Eyes wide, tears in the corners.
It was a good look. Albert quickened his thrusts. “You aren’t acting like him,” he went on. “I know the punishments for misbehaviour aren’t pleasant, but they’re a mandatory part of the role you’re playing. I need you to find a balance between obeying me and providing me with an actual-”
A quiet, almost undetectable snap filled the room. He looked down at his hand, the tendons prominent, the knuckles white. Underneath them, the clone's neck was at an odd angle, and it had gone so still under Albert that it was apparent it wasn’t just submission this time.
Albert sighed through his teeth. All that effort had amounted to this: a doll that couldn’t even withstand being strangled. It was still warm, but he didn’t particularly feel like fucking it in this state.
No matter, he thought as he pulled out and got to his feet. He’d just take it back to the lab and fix it, like he always did.