AN: I've been playing Wild Hunt non-stop since release and decided to post up some smut for it. No plot spoilers for any of the games/books, so not to worry if you haven't played Witcher 3 yet. Just Geralt being his regular grumpy, man-whore self. Enjoy!
Long Winter
He could feel it, deep in his belly. Tense and hot and aching. It had been a brutally long, brutally lonely winter. He'd barely been able to afford food and bed, let alone female company. And the only way someone like him could get such company was with a large sum of coin, which he didn't have.
Until now. The buds of spring had brought with it the waking of dormant creatures that terrorized villages and hamlets, a rush of problems that filled his stomach and his purse. This, this awakening of the Sun, was his favourite time of year. The only time people welcomed witchers into their towns and looked at him with something other than fearful disgust. He had let go of such vanities long ago, hopes that people would welcome him with open arms or that women would greet him with interest or heat, but it could get tiring, having to placate every person he met.
But now, his bloated goatskin pouch would remedy that problem. He'd been a bit wary of buying whores in a much younger time, pride clouding his head, but he'd grown used to most people cowering from him—much of his bed company was that of sorceresses or nymphs. Or, as the case was, a hired whore.
Most of the smaller towns and hamlets dotting the landscape didn't have a big hand in the prostitution industry, and if they had any at all, the establishment—and employees—were usually hard on the eyes and nose. He'd managed to find a decent town, and to his delight and even more decent brothel. He settled his mare in a vacant stall and entered the brothel with determination, excitement curling in his gut. A very long winter it had been.
He saw the usual crowd as he stepped inside; greedy-eyed men drooling over the spilling cleavage of the heavily make-upped women, who flirted with anyone with gold at their hip. The smell of sweat, perfume and cum assailed him, pungent and unpleasantly strong.
"Why hullo there, dear," a woman said to his right, and he turned. It was obviously the Madame of the house—her clothes were finer and mildly more proprietary than the other girls, and she had an air of authority about her. She touched his arm, smiling to show straight teeth. He took the hygiene and good dental as a good sign. "How can I help you, witcher?"
He heard the giddiness in her voice. It would have made him hard—more hard, anyway—if not for the knowledge that she was wetting her panties over the size of his purse and not his appearance. Still, he enjoyed the reputation his profession brought, especially in such a house. Whores vied for his coin, and witchers paid as well as they collected.
"You've a lovely band of girls," he said, his voice dry from disuse, and smiled faintly as he looked around the house.
She nodded, leaning closer. "Thank you, love. I'm proud of every one. Now—" she patted his arm, guiding him away from the entrance. "Let's get you away from the cold. Brutal, it is, even with the spring."
He listened to her soothing tones as she moved them towards the rooms, allowing it to relax him. Her hand was warm on his arm, and she smelled nice; not the overwhelming stench of cloying perfume some whores wore, but a subtle, softer scent that begged him to lean in closer.
"I've several girls free," she murmured, motioning to a few, who had collected into a giggling group. "Take your pick, lad, and we can settle a price."
Geralt looked at the pack of women, his mind already drifting at the sight of so much skin. At this point, he didn't care which one he took with him, and struggled with the idea that he only got to pick one. He thought briefly of negotiating a package deal with the Madame, but decided that he also needed enough money to buy supper and repair his road-worn hunting supplies. "They're all very beautiful," he replied after a moment, eyeing them appreciatively. "It'd be insulting to choose."
"Oh-ho, a charmer, I see! Hear that girlies?" the Madame said loudly. "I'll have them choose then, if you don't mind the small wait. They can bicker awful when you let them."
"Not at all," he replied, smiling. The Madame motioned him to sit in a pouffy chair while she clicked over to her employees in thick high heels. Geralt watched them snicker and whisper amongst themselves, and heard most of it despite their low tones.
"I've had a witcher before," a brunette said. "Lord, they're good. One of the few that actually make you come without a bunch of fiddling or toys. Tiring, though. And he looks hungry."
"Well then, it can't be you!" A blonde protested. "You can't hog them! I want a go!"
"You just fucked that Duke Frederick-something-or-other," the Madame argued, crossing her arms. "You can't hog either."
"Oh? You want a go of him then?"
"Aye, so what if I do? He's handsome enough. And his cock looks nice in his pants. Especially next to his purse."
"Get Saundra to fuck him!" a woman with crooked teeth said excitedly. The woman who he assumed was Saundra ducked her head and hunched in on herself, clearly not agreeing with the idea.
"No way, she's only been here a few weeks. She doesn't get the good'uns til she's ploughed a few uglies."
"I've fucked plenty uglies," Saundra defended, her voice soft and mousy. "You gave me that old limp farmer just yesterday. Couldn't even get it up."
"You're new, you're supposed to take the ones no one wants. That's the rule," the blonde argued.
"What rule's this, eh?"
"So you want to fuck the witcher?"
"I didn't say that," she suddenly stumbled, frowning.
"What're you bitchin' for then?"
"Enough!" the Madame barked. "His balls'll turn blue before you come to an agreement. Saundra, go with him."
"I didn't—"
"Too bad. The others have had their time to talk. Now go."
"He's scary though," she murmured, looking anxious.
"If he's too rough, holler and I'll send Bruno. But for now, go with him. He's got coin and looks like he needs a good fuck. You'll learn a thing or two." The Madame shoved Saundra forward with a firm smack on her behind, who stumbled in front of him.
Geralt stood up, slow so as not to scare her, but she backed up a step anyway. She swallowed, and to her credit, looked him in the eye for a moment before staring back at the floor.
"This way, please sir," she said quietly, motioning to grab his hand. He let her fingers slip into his, slim and tiny in his blunt palm. She pulled him towards a door, producing a key with her free hand and unlocking the handle.
She pushed inside, letting go of his hand the moment they stepped into the bedroom. It was lit with a crackling fire, warm and dim. The bed was large and the sheets dark and inviting. A carafe and wine glasses sat on a table, and flower petals dotted the myriad carpets covering the stone floor. Small details, but significant enough to note. He catalogued this place in his mind, contemplating on whether he'd be a returning customer or not.
He grabbed her arm, and she jerked in his grip, eyes wide.
"Saundra, is it?" he asked calmly.
She nodded. "Yessir."
"I'm not a nobleman. You don't have to call me sir," he said dryly.
"Of course si—" She broke off and looked at the floor.
"Geralt," he offered.
"Geralt," she repeated, nodding. She stuck out her hand. "I'm Saundra."
"I gathered as much."
She blushed deeply. "I'm sorry si—Geralt."
"You're new, are you not?" She nodded again, and he motioned to the table. "Sit down."
Saundra looked surprised but did as he said, sitting down in a chair. He pulled one up beside her, though not too close, and poured them both a glass of wine. She placed her fingers around one slim glass and sipped gratefully, still not meeting his eyes.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he assured her quietly. "I promise I won't hurt you."
She nodded furiously into her glass, drinking more deeply. "Aye," Saundra whispered.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. She was pretty, he had to admit. Perky, smooth breasts filled out her low cut dress, and shapely legs pulled on the material's silky fabric. Freckles dotted her cheeks and nose, and light brown hair spilled in a messy bun around her round face. She was young, flush, and beautiful. His cock throbbed in his pants, urging him to hurry, but he resisted. Although the need was eating at him, having sex with a woman that didn't want him was worse than an unfulfilled erection.
"Have any family, Saundra?" he asked, and she looked up at that.
"Er, not really," she murmured, stunned into talking. "My mother died in birthing and my father hasn't been around much since. Had a brother, but he's off in the South with some elf woman."
Geralt smiled, noting her tone. "Don't like elves?"
"I don't like elves who steal away family," she said flatly. "She ain't even that pretty."
He laughed quietly, and she looked at him. "Why are you asking?"
"Just curious."
"You come into brothels to ask whores about their family members?" she asked, then her eyes widened. "That was rude, I'm sorry sir—"
"Geralt," he said again. "And it's alright. No, I come here for the usual business, but you're afraid and talking about family seems to calm people."
"Oh," she replied, slightly dazed. "Haven't you got family?"
"No."
"Oh," she repeated, though she didn't miss a beat. "What's it like, being a witcher?"
He drank, frowning. He thought about his answer seriously, then replied after a long moment. "Much like a whore's life, I suppose; you deal with uncomely creatures for money and get insults and jeers from people in return."
Saundra snorted, dribbling a bit of wine onto her lip. She looked instantly mortified and wiped her face, swallowing and coughing. He watched her struggle for breath in amused silence, until she regained control of her windpipe and coughed into her sleeve.
"That's—" she coughed again. "I didn't expect that answer."
"I'm more used to your way of life than you might think," he murmured, finishing his glass off with a large pull. His head felt pleasantly swimmy already, and Saundra looked painfully curvy in the warm light of the fire.
She looked at him, cocking her head and completely forgetting her earlier shyness. "No one's ever asked me about my family before. At least, none of my customers."
"It's nice to know at least a little something about the person you're sleeping with," he replied warmly, setting his wine glass down.
Her cheeks went flush at the reminder. "Aye."
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "If you don't want to do this, you can call another girl. I'll understand." The witcher tried not to sounds resigned, but it was hard.
She looked at him. "It doesn't bother you, people being scairt?"
"It can't. I wouldn't get very far otherwise."
She frowned and looked into her wine, her face pensive. "No," she said after a long moment. "No. I won't leave. It's not right."
"It's not about what's right. I don't want to touch a woman who's afraid of me."
"That's what I meant," she said with conviction, standing up. "I shouldn't be afraid. And I don't think I am, not anymore." Saundra tugged on his hand, and he joined her upright position. Tiny hands slid up his chest, touching his jaw and hair.
"There. Better now that I can see you. I like your hair," she murmured, pulling it from its ponytail and letting it fall on his shoulders. "Feels like silk."
The smell of her dulled his concentration, and his hands slid about her waist of their own accord. Soft, round flesh greeted him beneath her gown, and he drew her closer.
Her breasts pressed into his tunic as he undid the laces of her dress at the back, and with only slight hesitation, Saundra moved her lips to his throat and pressed them to his skin, tasting his quick pulse. He breathed loudly through his nose and pulled on her gown's strings, impatience rising up in his chest. He wanted her now, everything else be damned. A lovely mental image of him bending her over the table and driving into her entered his mind, and his breathing quickened, excitement building inside of him.
Saundra pulled on his shirt. He shrugged out of his weapons' leather sheaths, tossing his swords carefully aside and letting his jacket fall to the floor. He let her pull his shirt off, only helping when she could no longer reach his head.
His shirt fell away, and she gasped quietly, eyeing his scars. "You've so many," she whispered, tracing the jagged lines of claw marks on his skin. "How?"
"Fighting," he replied simply.
"They're so… deep," she protested, eyeing his body in fascination. "I've seen pox scars and burns and the like, but none like this." Her fingers moved up to his shoulder, pressing them gently into the indents of old teeth marks left by a creature he no longer remembered fighting. She moved around to his back, leaving him feeling cold with her heat absent from his chest.
"And you've been flogged?" she asked, her breath blowing onto his back.
"Not many people like witchers." He enjoyed her newfound boldness, but her dancing around him was making him antsy. Geralt turned, seeing her eyes widen in surprise before he pulled her close and kissed her. She tasted like wine and potatoes and beef and lipstick, and her lips were wonderfully soft. He pressed his mouth hard into hers for a long moment, trying to relieve some form of tension, before moving to the smooth arch of her neck.
Saundra breathed softly, threading her fingers through her hair. Her arousal seemed genuine—not some overly expressive act whores put on to satisfy the less capable clients—and he backed them into the wall, sliding a hand down her body and beginning to spool her dress up in his fingers. She bared her leg in cooperation, rubbing against him, and he slid his palm up her thigh, massaging the skin.
His heart now beat so hard that the blood vibrated his veins, a steady pulsing motion that was arousing in itself. Saundra pulled down the front of her dress, now mostly undone by earlier meddling with the laces, and exposed soft breasts. His mouth moved from throat to chest, eagerly tasting her warm skin.
He could not wait much longer. He didn't want to hurt the girl, especially after she only just overcame her fear of him, but his body called for it. A primal, instinctive ache that he couldn't control and didn't want to. His cock was painfully hard by now, screaming for any sort of stimulation.
His fingers eventually found what they were looking for, meeting soft, wet folds, and he heard Saundra coo in response to the touch. He pressed a finger inside her, testing her readiness. She was an unbelievably compact fit, but still not ready enough for his liking—once he got inside her, he didn't expect the encounter to last very long, and half the coin he spent was for the pleasure of pleasing a woman, and not just himself.
Another finger found her clitoris, the sudden stimulation making her squirm in his arms. She reached down and undid the fly of his pants, but he grabbed her hand with his free one before she could worm her fingers inside.
"Don't," he said roughly, letting go of her wrist and tasting more of her skin. One touch and he'd be too horny to stop her.
"Why?" she asked, and to his satisfaction she sounded breathless. She didn't wait for a response, and instead busied her hands with undressing him more.
"Not yet," he managed, blinking hard. Good enough, he thought when he felt her body contract around his finger from the stimulation. She seemed ready, and he no longer had the willpower to wait.
Geralt removed his fingers from between her legs, idly wiping them on his trousers before shedding those as well, now completely naked. He tugged on her dress, insistently enough that Saundra let it fall off her body and similarly expose herself. It was at this point that he stopped thinking entirely, and his body moved of its own volition. He grabbed her waist and sat her down on the table, happy that it was so close at hand. She barely made contact with the wood before he slid inside her, and drew a gasp from both of them from the connection.
He was already shaking, and his movements were rough and uneven. As he drove into her, a small part of him hoped he wasn't hurting her, and that the moans echoing in her throat were ones of pleasure.
The encounter barely lasted two minutes, and that was if he was giving himself the benefit of the doubt. The woman was far too good at pleasing him, stroking his arms and shoulders and flexing her legs around his waist, all the while pressing her tongue to his throat. Right before he let himself spill he again reached a hand between her legs, rubbing the skin stretched around him and applying the best pressure he could under the circumstances, in hopes that he'd at least bring her with him over the edge. She tensed up in his arms at the doubling of sensation, and the tightening of her body made him lose control.
He bucked hard in her arms, the flood and burst of euphoria removing all coherent thought. To her eternal credit, something he appreciated more than she knew, Saundra held him softly as he finished, gasping quietly in his ear at his jerking movements.
Finally done, he went lax in her embrace, the warm touch now inviting him to slumber. It took him a moment to restart his brain, and he eventually looked up into her eyes.
"That was lovely," she murmured, petting his shoulder and wiping back damp hair. He frowned at the words, something dawning on him. Dammit.
"Not… for you," he breathed, realising she'd not found her own release. The snug hold her body still had on him was already making him hard again, though it was a slow process. Every nerve was almost painfully sensitive, and the sensation of still being inside her was pleasantly overwhelming.
Shakily picking her up and trying not to disturb their connection at their hips, he brought them over to the bed. Even as loose and wobbly as his body felt, she weighed next to nothing in his arms. Setting them both down, he draped his body over hers, and placed his mouth on her breast.
"What're you doing?" she asked softly, clearly surprised he was even still conscious.
"Returning the favour," he murmured, and promptly got to work. She cried out loudly, and a grin set on his face. It would be a very long night, and he had no plans of sleeping.