Disclaimer: I own NOTHING when it comes to The Witcher franchise.
A/N1: I wish there were more Fan-fictions about Brigida, such a shame that she had such a minor role in the witcher 2: AotK! I really like her.
Fated to pretend
By your-biohazardous-friend
The man reeked of digested booze and burned lard. If not his signet rings unpleasantly cutting into her tights She might have mistaken the nobleman with a pig. He sniffed her short, curly hair, licked her neck, squeezed her breasts. Too hard, she thought, blinking away the tears from her eyes. She had to play her part – the noblewoman let out a staged sigh.'Yes' she faked a lustful gasp as the man's hand disappeared under her dress.
Lies, why it always had to be lies? The whole world lied to her as well as she lied to the whole world. The nobleman, currently occupying the space between her legs, lied about baron Kimbolt while she lied about liking his little prick. Roche lied that he loved her, while she lied that she didn't. The King lied, Ves lied, even young, sweet Anais had her own, little, innocent lies.
She felt the intrusion, it wasn't unpleasant, yet it wasn't so pleasant either. Her whole world started to rock back and forth. A bed creaked underneath them, the count really needed to loose some weight. She had a life-long experience in lying, especially to herself – so if she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing hard enough, delicate fabric would feel rough and worn out under her fingers, more than one hundred kilos of flabby fat would be like eighty kilos of trained muscles, booze, sweat and burnt lard would turn into scent of leather, polishing oil and spices – pepper, lovage, stuff like that. He always had a small pouch of spices on him, so he could smell of them and make his, personal favourite, lie about being a spice merchant more convincing. She was so close to believing in that sensations, but the count was too loud, rasping offending remarks close to her ear.
Get over it already, you creep! She thought angrily, but forced her voice chords to let out a lustful moan. 'Touch my plums! count Maravel!' She screamed, knowing that he loved that kind of gibberish 'Oh, please! Touch my plums!' As he came, his hands grasped her 'plums' hard enough to leave bruises.
Thank Melitele it is finally over! She thought as the man crawled of off her, immediately falling asleep.
comments, advices, constructive criticism etc. are always welcomed and appreciated!