Resident Evil: The Dead Must Breed (Zombie/Monster Evolutions Fanfic)

Chapter 34: Chapter 34: Treatment Gone Wrong I

a/n: we doing weird shit here, tread on your own risk

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Ghosty scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly slipped on the slick metal floor. His entire two-hundred-pound frame vibrated with sheer, unfiltered enthusiasm, and his tail wagged so violently it actually blurred, drumming a rapid beat against the brick wall.

"One time!" she quickly clarified, holding up a single trembling finger. "You lick the venom out, completely respectfully, and then later I’ll... you know. Deal?"

He didn’t even hesitate. He padded right up to her, claws clicking eagerly against the floor, and sat down directly in front of her. His massive armored head was perfectly level with her hips. Those pupilless white eyes locked onto the torn section of her pants with terrifying, laser-focused intensity.

Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat.

Why is he staring at it like it’s a birthday cake.

She reached down and gingerly pulled the torn fabric further to the side, fully exposing the field of inflamed welts covering her outer thigh.

"Just the red spots," she instructed, hating how wobbly her voice sounded. "No exploring. No wandering. And absolutely no funny business."

Ghosty did not offer any verbal confirmation, nor did he look like a creature prone to respecting verbal contracts. He simply leaned forward, chitin plates shifting with quiet metallic clicks, and dragged his massive tongue in one long, incredibly slow stripe across her outer thigh.

The relief was instantaneous.

The fiery itch dissolved beneath the thick, wet slab of muscle, replaced by a cool, spreading numbness. The syrupy, floral-scented saliva coated the angry welts, immediately reducing the swelling.

"Oh... okay, yeah, that works," she breathed, her shoulders dropping an inch. "Good boy. Right there. Just—wow, that feels so much better."

He let out a dismissive snort, his warm breath ghosting across her bare skin and sending a weird, entirely unwelcome shiver up her spine.

He took another broad lap up her outer thigh, cleaning the remaining welts with agonizing precision. The texture of his tongue was bizarre. Like a thick, wet sheet of velvet dotted with tiny soft bumps that lightly massaged her irritated flesh. It wasn’t rough or painful, but it certainly commanded every single ounce of her nervous system’s attention.

"Alright, that’s—that’s enough on the outside," she muttered, her hands hovering nervously near his scaly temples. "There are a few more on the inside. And please be quick. This basement is freezing."

Ghosty obediently shifted his massive skull, angling his snout toward the inside of her thigh.

Rebecca had to widen her stance to give him room, bracing her shoulders against the damp bricks. The contrast between the freezing wall against her back and the absolute furnace radiating from his jaws was making her head spin.

His tongue slid up the inside of her thigh.

The cold basement air vanished. The sweet, bakery-fresh scent of his saliva overpowered the harsh ammonia, filling her nose with warm vanilla and honeysuckle.

"Y-yeah, right there," she stammered, her fingers twisting the ruined green fabric of her shorts. "Just hurry up so we can get out of here."

Ghosty took a much slower, much deeper lap upward.

The thick muscle dragged over the most sensitive stretch of her inner thigh, leaving a heavy trail of hot slick in its wake. The healing relief was still there, but a completely different, incredibly dangerous warmth was following close behind it. Tiny sparks zipped up her leg and settled deep in the pit of her stomach.

She had never been touched like this. She’d spent her entire teenage life buried in chemistry textbooks. The closest she’d ever come to intimacy was a clumsy, overly long hug from a fellow recruit after a shooting drill, and even that had ended with her talking about ballistics until he walked away.

And now she was standing in a biohazard dungeon, letting a mutated scaly beast thoroughly wash her bare inner thigh.

Her life choices were really something else.

"Um... Ghosty," she warned, her voice coming out small and breathless. "You’re getting a little high up there. The bristles didn’t even reach that far."

He completely ignored her.

Instead of backing down, he took another deliberate, agonizingly slow swipe up her inner thigh. This time, the very tip of his tongue brushed against the tight black elastic of her panties.

"W-wait! Stop!" she gasped, her left knee giving a totally involuntary twitch. "That’s a restricted zone! There are zero spider bristles on my underwear! I checked! Twice!"

She tried to step away, but her boot caught on the uneven floor grate, forcing her to plant her back against the gross, web-covered wall to keep from sliding down.

Ghosty didn’t retreat a single inch.

He let out a low, rumbling huff and pressed his heavy, skinless snout directly against her pubic bone. The sheer weight of his armored head felt like a warm concrete block parked between her thighs, pinning her against the masonry.

"Hey! Excuse you!" she huffed, shoving her palms uselessly against the thick chitin plates covering his forehead. "Personal space! Boundaries! We talked about this! Well, I talked about this, and you licked my face, which was not a legally binding agreement!"

She couldn’t even bring herself to say the actual word for what he was sniffing. Her strict upbringing was screaming at her to fight back, to draw her knife, to do anything to preserve her dignity. But her body was staging a full-scale mutiny. Her muscles felt heavy and weak, and the cool numbness from his saliva was melting into a deep, throbbing ache right between her legs.

Ghosty blinked his milky eyes up at her, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

Then he lazily hooked the very tip of his massive tongue under the edge of her black panties.

"N-no! Do not get my underwear soaked in your weird dessert-spit! That’s my last pair! My LAST PAIR, Ghosty!"

With a wet, slurping sound, he deliberately dragged his tongue right over the center seam of her damp cotton panties

The heat transferred straight through the thin fabric in a localized, devastating wave. The friction from his rough papillae dragging across the tight cotton sent a direct, unmitigated shockwave of pleasure squarely into her sensitive core.

Her brain short-circuited.

Nononono—

"Ngh!"

The sound tore out of her throat before she could even think about stopping it. A small, pathetic, completely involuntary noise that she would deny to her dying breath. Her fingers, which had been trying to push his skull away, completely gave up their mission and ended up just helplessly gripping the edges of his insect armor.

Her knees wobbled. Her boots slid slightly on the damp metal.

That didn’t just happen. I did not just make that noise. That was the wind. That was a pipe creaking. That was anything other than me having a reaction to—

Ghosty let out a deep, vibrating purr.

The mechanical, idling-engine sound rumbled directly out of his chest cavity, passing straight through his heavy jaws and vibrating the completely soaked crotch of her panties.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

"Are you... are you purring?!" she squeaked, her chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths. "You are a zombie! Mutants do not purr! S-stop vibrating against my... against me!"

She was trying so hard to sound authoritative. To sound like a S.T.A.R.S. officer delivering a firm reprimand to an unruly K-9 unit. But her voice came out breathy and high-pitched and absolutely nothing like the tone she was aiming for.

He swiped his tongue over the seam again, pressing significantly harder this time.

Schllllrp.

The thick, slippery saliva easily soaked right through the cotton barrier, bathing her sensitive folds in absolute, friction-free heat. Her hips gave a tiny, traitorous jerk forward, completely on their own, trying to chase the incredible pressure of his massive tongue.

STOP. Stop moving. Why are you MOVING?!

She clenched her thighs together, trying to trap his snout in place, trying to prevent any further escalation. But that just pressed his wet nose more firmly against her, and the pressure made her see stars.

"I am going to... to leave you down here!" she threatened frantically, her eyes darting around the empty corridor as if Billy Coen was about to step out of the shadows and witness her absolute degradation. "I’ll put you in a kennel! You hear me?! I will find a giant cage and lock you inside it!"

Ghosty wasn’t intimidated by her empty threats in the slightest.

He playfully nudged the soaked black cotton entirely to the side with his wet nose, fully exposing her bare, completely flushed sex to the cool basement air.

The cold hit her first. Then the realization.

"W-wait—no—Ghosty! Don’t look!"

She tried to reach down, to pull the fabric back, to preserve some tiny shred of modesty. But her hands were still gripping his armor, and her arms felt like overcooked noodles, and she couldn’t seem to make her fingers obey.

He was staring. She could feel those milky white eyes on her most private place, taking in every detail. The flush of arousal she couldn’t hide. The wetness that had absolutely nothing to do with his saliva. The way she was swollen and sensitive and practically trembling for—

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about—

The massive, impossibly thick slab of textured muscle surged forward.

Ssssschhhhlllloorp.

One long, devastatingly wet slurp. His tongue completely enveloped her exposed cleft, dragging from bottom to top with agonizing slowness.

"Mnh—AH!"

Rebecca’s spine arched against the grimy wall. Her head tipped back, her green cap completely knocking loose and falling onto the dirty grates below. Every single coherent thought in her brain instantly vaporized, entirely replaced by the blinding, overwhelming sensation of his tongue aggressively washing over her most sensitive flesh.

No. No no no. This is wrong. This is so wrong. He’s a dog. He’s a mutant. He’s a zombie. I’m a S.T.A.R.S. officer. I’m not supposed to—I shouldn’t be—why does it feel so—

It was absolute, catastrophic sensory overload.

His tongue was incredibly wide, effortlessly covering her entire core in a thick, hot blanket of constantly moving muscle. The syrupy saliva provided a completely flawless lubricant, allowing him to slide rapidly up and down her slippery folds with greedy, relentless enthusiasm.

Schlck schlck schlck schlck—

The disgustingly loud, wet noises of his licking echoed obscenely through the quiet hallway. Each stroke was longer and slower than the last, like he was savoring her. Tasting her. Learning exactly what made her legs shake.

"Y-you are so... nhh... you’re a terrible listener!" she sobbed out, her fingers desperately tangling into the exposed muscle on his heavy neck. "I said stop! Ahh... why does that... oh god!"

I can’t—this isn’t—I’m not enjoying this. I’m NOT. It’s just physical. It’s nerve endings. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t—

He began swirling his tongue in tight, rapid circles directly over her swollen nub.

"HAAH—"

Her hips jerked forward so hard she nearly lost her balance. The combination of the agonizingly perfect friction with that deep, vibrating purr in his chest was too much. Way too much. Her virgin nervous system had absolutely no reference frame for this kind of stimulation. It was like trying to process a supernova with a calculator.

"Mngh... Ghosty... ahhn... I can’t..." she stammered, her hips beginning to grind back and forth against his snout completely on their own. "This is a gross... haaah... a gross violation of medical ethics! You can’t just... eat out your patient!"

Why did I say it like that?! Why did I use those words?! I should have said ’perform unconsented medical procedures’ or ’violate professional boundaries’ not—not EAT OUT—

He answered her weak reprimands by wedging his heavy, armored jaws even further between her legs. He completely pinned her to the bricks, forcing her thighs as wide apart as they could physically go.

But he didn’t go deeper.

Instead, he pulled back slightly, focusing entirely on her outer folds. Long, broad strokes that lapped from her entrance all the way up to her clit and back down again. Over and over. Never quite giving her enough pressure to tip over the edge. Just enough to keep her suspended in that agonizing, desperate space between almost and please.

Schlllrrrp... schlck... ssschlllrrp...

"P-please..." she whimpered, then immediately bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. I did NOT just say please. I didn’t. I was saying ’please stop.’ That’s what I meant. That’s definitely what I—

He circled her entrance with the tip of his tongue. Slowly. Teasingly. Probing just barely at the opening and then retreating.

"Nhh—don’t..."

Circles. He’s doing circles. Around my... around the... oh god I can’t even think the word. This is insane. I’m being edged by a bioweapon in a basement. My S.T.A.R.S. application definitely did not cover this scenario.

He flattened his tongue and dragged it upward with excruciating pressure, ending with a sharp flick directly against her clit.

That was the final straw that broke the dam.

"AHH-NGHHHHH!"

[To Be Gooned]

blueballed? trivago!

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