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Introduction:

Geralt enters the Master Gwent Tournament. This is a rewrite of a story I wrote previously. It is published in full with 86 pages and 20 fun-filled and explicitly entertaining chapters of fan fiction lore. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Gwent Tournament

In the bustling heart of Novigrad, the briny scent of the sea tangled with the rich aromas of spiced meats, blooming night jasmine, and the faint, sweet smoke of incense drifting from hidden courtyards. Anticipation crackled in the air like the promise of a coming storm. The Grand Masters Gwent Tournament had drawn players from every corner of the Continent to the opulent Passiflora, the city’s most lavish brothel now transformed into a grand hall for three fevered days of cards and coin.

Dawn gilded the narrow streets, but inside the velvet-draped walls, the atmosphere already hummed—soft rasps of shuffling decks, low murmurs of strategy, the occasional husky laugh from silk-clad courtesans weaving between the tables. The prize was legendary: a purse fat enough to buy swift, safe passage across the stormy sea to Skellige. For Geralt, that single fact was everything.

He stood apart from the throng, white hair catching the candlelight like fresh frost on steel. His cat-like eyes—bright, inhuman yellow—swept the room with the calm precision of a predator reading a trail. Scars mapped the line of his jaw and the column of his throat, souvenirs of a life spent between monster fangs and human blades. Whispers followed him as always: the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, a man who hunted beasts for coin and left broken hearts (and sometimes broken bodies) in his wake. Geralt ignored every stare. Fame was meaningless. Only Ciri mattered.

His adopted daughter was running from the Wild Hunt, and the last reliable sighting had placed her in Novigrad before she vanished toward the isles. The uneasy alliance with Emhyr var Emreis—her blood father and Emperor of Nilfgaard—had bought him this one lead and nothing more. Politics chafed against every instinct he possessed, yet here he stood, because the tournament’s winnings were the fastest way to reach Skellige before the trail went cold.

What had begun as tavern games to fund new silver and dimeritium had become something sharper. Villages no longer buzzed only for the monsters he slew; they buzzed for the chance to test their decks against the Witcher who played with a monster hunter’s patience. He had come prepared. His Northern Realms deck was meticulously ordered, every card a weapon.

Geralt approached the registration table. The scribe looked up, ink-stained fingers pausing mid-stroke.

“Name and faction?”

“Geralt of Rivia. Northern Realms.”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction. “The White Wolf. Didn’t expect you to grace us.” He scribbled quickly. “One thousand crowns entry. Marquise Serenity’s rules—no leaving the Passiflora until the final round, or you forfeit. The prize is paid in full to the champion on the third night. Enough to buy half the fleet to Skellige, they say.”

Geralt slid the heavy purse across the polished wood without comment. The coins clinked like distant chains.

As he turned to find his assigned alcove, his gaze caught on a woman across the hall. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in fitted Nilfgaardian midnight silk that clung to every curve with elegant restraint. She stood at one of the side tables, long fingers sliding a card into place with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how the game would unfold. The candlelight caught the sharp line of her cheekbone, the subtle gleam of a silver pendant at her throat, the way her lips curved faintly as she studied her opponent.

Geralt’s eyes lingered a moment too long—on the graceful line of her neck, the quiet authority in her posture, the unmistakable intelligence in the tilt of her head. A beautiful woman who played the game like she was born to it. Respectable. Classy. The kind of opponent who made the tournament suddenly far more interesting than mere coin.

She must have felt the weight of his stare. Her gaze lifted, met his across the crowded hall, and held. A faint, knowing smile touched her mouth—nothing overt, nothing cheap. Just the quiet acknowledgment of one predator recognizing another at the table.

Geralt gave the smallest nod in return, then forced his attention back to the velvet-curtained alcove waiting for him. The first round would begin soon. He had monsters to hunt, a daughter to save, and a boat to Skellige to earn.

But for the first time in a long while, the White Wolf found himself wondering what other games might be played inside these gilded walls before the final card fell.

Chapter 2: Sasha

“Mind if I join you?”

The voice was smooth, confident, carrying just enough edge to cut through the low hum of the Passiflora. Geralt glanced up from his deck and smirked when he saw her. The young woman from across the room was now standing at the edge of his alcove. Her dark hair swept into an elegant bun threaded with pearls and delicate lace; a gown of deep midnight silk that clung and flowed in all the right places. She regarded him with open curiosity, one brow arched as though she already knew the answer.

“I’ve heard you’re quite the formidable player,” she added, her gaze flicking to the neatly fanned Northern Realms cards.

Geralt studied her for a beat—posture straight, movements deliberate, the kind of grace that came from years of holding power quietly. Intriguing. Bold. He gestured to the cushioned seat opposite him.

“I play some,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You know your way around a deck, I assume?”

She settled across from him with fluid ease, crossing one leg over the other so the silk whispered against itself. “We’ll see about that,” she replied, a soft chuckle threading through the words. Her fingers—nails lacquered a deep crimson—began to shuffle her own deck with the effortless precision of someone who had handled cards more often than lovers.

Geralt watched the motion, admiring the control in every flick and cut. “Been at it long?”

Her lips curved, knowing. “Long enough that I don’t lose often.” She paused, amber eyes lifting to meet his cat-like gaze. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see a Witcher here. Is there an evil monster lurking among us?”

He let out a low huff of amusement, nodding toward the crowded hall. “Haven’t scented one yet. But I haven’t ruled out any of these stiffs.”

Her laughter was soft and genuine, pulling an unexpected smile from him. The sound lingered in the air like smoke, warm and inviting.

“Geralt, right?” she said, tilting her head. “I’m Sasha.”

“Nice to meet you, Sasha.” His voice stayed low, gravel-rough. His eyes traced the elegant line of her throat, the subtle gleam of the silver pendant resting just above the swell of her cleavage, then returned to her face. “No ulterior motives. In town for business. Figured I’d test the new cards… and my luck.”

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the small table between them. A delicate perfume drifted across—jasmine and something darker, spiced, intimate. “The game is never just about the cards,” she murmured. “It’s about reading your opponent. Do you know anything about the others in the tournament?”

Geralt shook his head, leaning back against the velvet-padded wall so he could watch her more fully. “Not really. Enlighten me.”

Sasha’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush as she began to catalog the field, each de***********ion delivered with the same measured elegance she brought to her shuffling.

“Bernard Tulle—the halfling who looks like he should be tending cornfields. Don’t let the simple face fool you; there’s something sharp hiding behind those eyes.”

“Finneas, the elf. Moves like he can see your next draw before you do. Almost unnerving.”

She continued, gesturing lightly with one hand, the candlelight catching the faint shimmer of pearl dust on her skin. When she reached Count Tybalt—undefeated, ruthless in his Scoia’tael deck—Geralt found his focus drifting. Not to the words, but to the way her lips shaped them, the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the silk, the subtle heat radiating from her body now that she sat so close.

He caught himself staring and forced his gaze back to her face. She noticed—of course she did. A faint flush touched her cheeks, but her smile only deepened, amused and unflinching.

“You seem to know a great deal about your competition,” he observed, voice dry.

Her eyes sparkled. “It’s wise to know who you’re facing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Before he could answer, the crier’s voice rang out across the hall: Qualifying rounds to begin in ten minutes.

Sasha rose smoothly, smoothing her gown. “Good luck out there, Geralt.”

He stood as well, voice dropping lower. “Hold on. How about a friendly game later? My treat for dinner… if you win.”

She paused, turning back to him with a coy tilt of her head. “Trying to get a feel for your competition, are we?”

“In more ways than one,” he said, the words slipping out raw and deliberate. His gaze dragged slowly down the elegant curve of her waist, over the way the silk hugged her hips and clung to the swell of her breasts, before rising again to lock on her eyes.

The directness hit her like a spark on dry tinder. Her breath caught—just for a heartbeat—before she recovered, cheeks flushing deeper. The coy mask slipped; something hotter, more unguarded flickered behind her amber gaze as she felt the full weight of his dominant presence.

“Dinner is on you regardless,” she countered, voice a little huskier now, playing for time. “But if I win… my prize won’t be so petty and cheap.” She stepped closer, close enough that her perfume wrapped around him like an invitation. “So think very carefully about what you really want, Witcher. It might be the only prize you walk away with from this entire tournament.”

Geralt laughed, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest. His eyes devoured her openly now—slow, hungry, unapologetic—taking in every line and curve as if he were already imagining how she’d feel beneath him.

He said nothing.

Sasha held his stare a moment longer, lips parted, pulse visibly fluttering at her throat. Then she turned and walked away, hips swaying with deliberate grace, the midnight silk shifting and clinging with every step.

Geralt watched the hypnotic roll of her ass until she disappeared into the crowd. He knew exactly what he wanted. He just needed to figure out how to take it.

With a slow exhale, he turned his attention back to the tables. The qualifying rounds began, and Geralt dispatched opponent after opponent with ruthless efficiency—Northern Realms cards cutting through decks like silver through a fiend. Match after match fell to him.

Yet his mind refused to stay on the game.

Every few minutes, his gaze drifted across the hall to where Sasha played. She moved with quiet confidence, fingers dancing over her cards, that same knowing smile flashing as she dismantled her rivals one by one. Each time their eyes met through the haze of candlelight and perfume, the air crackled with the same undeniable tension.

By the end of the three hours, Geralt had secured his place in the upcoming tournament. One step closer to the tournament purse prize and the coin he needed for his trip to Skellige.

But right now, the only prize Geralt could think about was the one walking away in midnight silk.

Chapter 3: The Friendly Match

After a leisurely dinner in one of the Passiflora’s more intimate alcoves—platters of roasted quail, figs drizzled in honey, and a bottle of Toussaintois red that left their lips stained—the two of them migrated to a quieter corner of the grand hall. A low table waited there, flanked by deep velvet chairs and shielded from the main crowd by heavy brocade curtains. Candlelight danced across polished wood and the gleam of their decks as they settled in.

Geralt reclined first, one arm draped casually along the back of his chair, yellow eyes glinting with mischief as he fanned his opening hand. “How about we make this interesting?” he said, voice low and rough. “I win, you join me for a drink upstairs—in my room. You win, I hand over my finest bottle of Est Est. Fair?”

Sasha arched a dark brow, lips curving into that slow, knowing smile that already felt dangerous. “Upping the stakes again, Witcher? I do have a weakness for a truly excellent vintage.” She leaned forward just enough for the candlelight to catch the soft swell of her breasts above the neckline of her gown. “Deal.”

They locked eyes for a long beat—playful challenge on the surface, something far hungrier beneath it—before the cards began to hit the table.

Sasha played Nilfgaard. Precise, calculating, always one step ahead. She opened with a tight Spies line, slipping two of Geralt’s high-value units into her own rows before he could react. Geralt countered with Northern Realms discipline—tight formations, boosted siege engines, the steady grind of Dwarven Skirmishers—but she read him like an open book. Every feint he made, she answered with elegant economy.

Midway through round two, she dropped her signature move: the Impera Enforcers flanked by a well-timed Cantarella. The spy card forced Geralt to discard two of his strongest cards from hand, then she immediately reclaimed them with a perfectly timed Villentretenmerth scorch on her own weakened row—turning his loss into her gain. The high cards he’d been hoarding vanished from his control and reappeared under hers, gleaming like stolen silver.

Geralt’s brows lifted. “Clever,” he murmured, genuine respect threading through the word. “You just turned my own strength against me.”

Sasha’s laughter echoed like a siren’s call, her teasing banter and quick wit keeping Geralt on his toes. “You’re not as tough as they say, Geralt,” she taunted with a sly grin. “Maybe I should take you for a ride.”

Geralt responded with a low, rumbling chuckle. “I didn’t realize that was an option for the winning prize. Sounds like a lot more fun than just a drink in my room.”

Sasha’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but she tilted her chin up, playing coy even as her eyes sparkled. “You are charming, White Wolf, but it takes more than a good hand in cards to claim a prize like that—even for the Great Geralt of Rivia.”

“So you think I’m great, huh?” he teased, the playful edge in his tone sharpening as he watched the flush deepen across her throat. He could see her pulse fluttering, could practically hear her heartbeat quicken under his gaze. She shifted in her seat, thighs pressing together almost imperceptibly as she refocused on arranging her cards. “I see you’ve got some tricks up your sleeve… but I have a feeling I’ll still end up on top when this match is over.”

“On top?” Sasha echoed, her voice dropping to a velvet murmur, one brow arched in mock innocence. “You seem awfully confident that you can take me.”

Geralt leaned forward slightly, his yellow eyes darkening with unmistakable heat. “The real question is… can you take me?”

The air between them crackled. Sasha’s breath caught for a fraction of a second before she recovered, biting her lower lip to hide a smile that was equal parts challenge and invitation. “We’ll see who’s left standing when the cards are down, Witcher.”

The banter continued—sharp, loaded, each line dripping with double meaning—until the final round. Sasha sealed it with ruthless grace: a last-second Emperor of Nilfgaard boosted by her reclaimed high cards, tipping the round and the match in her favor.

She leaned back, victorious smirk curling her lips, eyes sparkling. “Looks like your finest wine is mine. You talk a big game, Geralt.”

Geralt chuckled, low and appreciative, setting his cards down with a deliberate slowness. “I don’t think I’ve ever been outplayed quite so thoroughly. You’re something else, Sasha.”

She tapped one crimson nail against the tabletop, studying him. “You weren’t exactly trying to lose. But you did go easy on me… didn’t you?”

“Maybe I wanted to see what you’d do with the upper hand,” he said, voice dropping to gravel. “Turns out you look damn good wearing it.”

Her smile faltered for a heartbeat—replaced by something rawer, hungrier—before she recovered. “So… about that bottle of wine. When do I collect?”

Geralt stood, offering his hand. “I keep it in my room. Care for a nightcap?”

She eyed his outstretched palm, then lifted her gaze to his face—searching, tempted, a little wary. “You’re being very forward tonight.”

“Bad habit,” he said, not retreating an inch. “But bad can be… very enticing. Come find out.”

The air between them thickened, heavy with the scent of wax, wine, and mutual want. Sasha hesitated only a second longer. Then she placed her hand in his—warm, steady—and let him draw her to her feet.

As they moved toward the staircase, Geralt’s thumb brushed once, deliberately, over the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumped beneath his touch.

Neither of them spoke on the way up.

But the silence said everything.

The hallway to Geralt’s room was narrow and dimly lit, sconces throwing long, wavering shadows across worn floorboards and dark paneling. Every step they took together felt heavier, slower, as though the air itself thickened with anticipation. Sasha walked close—close enough that the silk of her gown brushed his thigh with each stride, close enough that he could smell the jasmine still clinging to her skin, now warmed and deepened by the wine and the rising heat between them.

At the door, he paused, key already in hand, and glanced down at her. Her pupils were wide in the low light, lips parted, chest rising a little faster than before.

“After you,” he murmured, pushing the door open.

The room was modest by Passiflora standards but intimate: a wide bed draped in dark linens, a single armchair by the window, a low table holding a decanter and glasses that still gleamed with the remnants of the dinner wine. A fire crackled in the small hearth, casting amber flickers across everything. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the distant murmur of the hall.

Geralt crossed to the sideboard, retrieved the promised bottle of Est Est—its label worn but elegant—and poured two generous measures. When he returned, he held one glass out to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it; the contact lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Tell me what you think,” he said, voice low.

Sasha swirled the deep ruby liquid, watching the long, lazy legs trail down the inside of the glass. She brought it to her nose first, inhaling, then took a slow sip. The wine was velvet on her tongue—rich, full-bodied, with notes of black cherry and spice that bloomed warm in her chest.

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Mmm. Smooth… decadent.” Her lips curved. “Almost as smooth as your touch, Geralt.”

Their eyes locked.

The space between them vanished.

Geralt set his glass aside untouched. One large hand rose to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the soft line of her jaw. He tilted her face up as he leaned in. The kiss started gently—lips brushing, testing—then deepened with a slow, deliberate hunger. She opened for him immediately, tasting wine and the faint salt of his skin. His other hand settled at the small of her back, pulling her flush against him so she could feel every hard inch of his arousal pressing through leather and silk.

When they parted, both breathing unevenly, Sasha’s gaze was bright with mischief.

“Are witchers any different from regular men?” she asked, voice husky, teasing.

Geralt’s mouth quirked. “Only one way to find out.”

A naughty smile tugged at her lips. She bit down on the lower one, eyes never leaving his, and let her fingers trail down the front of his shirt—over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of old scars beneath the fabric. Lower still, until her palm cupped the thick, straining bulge in his trousers.

“Oh, Geralt,” she breathed against his mouth, stroking him slowly through the leather. “I think I’m about to discover just how different.”

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating where their bodies pressed together.

Her hands moved with purpose now—fingers deftly working the buckles and straps of his studded armor. Piece by piece, it came away, clinking softly to the floor until only his linen undershirt and trousers remained. She tugged the shirt over his head, letting it drop. Candlelight and firelight played across his scarred, muscled torso—broad shoulders, corded arms, the faint silver lines of old wounds that mapped a lifetime of violence and survival.

Sasha’s breath caught. Her fingers traced one jagged scar across his ribs, then lower, following the deep V that disappeared into his waistband.

Geralt watched her face—watched the way her eyes darkened with want, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

She sank slowly to her knees.

Her hands hooked into the waist of his trousers and underwear, dragging both down in one smooth motion. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, already fully hard and flushed dark at the tip. Veins stood out along the shaft, pulsing visibly. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the slit.

Sasha exhaled sharply, a soft sound of pure awe.

She wrapped her fingers around him—barely able to close them fully—and stroked once, slow and firm, feeling him twitch and thicken even more in her grip. Then she leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the underside, tongue flicking out to trace every raised vein. When she reached the head, she swirled around it, tasting salt and heat, before taking him into her mouth.

Geralt’s head tipped back. A rough “Fuck…” escaped him.

She hummed around him in answer, the vibration shooting straight up his spine. Her lips stretched wide as she worked him deeper, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing flat against the underside on every slow pull back. One hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t reach; the other cupped his balls, rolling them gently.

“Mmm, yeah… just like that, Sasha,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough. His fingers threaded into her hair—not forcing, but guiding, encouraging her to take more.

She did. Deeper. Faster. Wet sounds filled the quiet room—her eager sucking, his low groans, the crackle of the fire. Saliva glistened along his shaft; thin strands connected her lips to him each time she pulled back to breathe.

Geralt’s control frayed. His hips rocked once—shallow, instinctive—then stilled as he fought not to thrust too hard.

But she wanted more.

She looked up at him through damp lashes, mouth still full of him, and moaned deliberately around his length.

That was it.

With a primal growl, he tightened his grip in her hair and tugged—gently but firmly—pulling her off him with a wet pop. Strings of saliva stretched and broke between her swollen lips and his glistening cock.

He hauled her to her feet in one smooth motion.

Their mouths crashed together again—messy, desperate, tasting of wine and each other. His hands roamed now: one fisted in her hair, the other sliding down her spine to grip her ass, kneading hard through silk, pulling her tight against his naked arousal so she could feel every throbbing inch pressed to her belly.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rasp against her ear:

“My turn.”

Chapter 4: Unwrapping his prize

Geralt’s mouth left hers with a slow, deliberate drag, tasting the last traces of wine on her tongue before he pulled back just enough to look at her. The firelight painted her in gold and shadow—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing, amber eyes glassy with want. He could hear her heartbeat thundering, could smell the sharp, sweet musk of her arousal rising between them like an invitation no Witcher could ignore.

His hands moved to the thin straps of her midnight gown. He hooked two fingers beneath each one and drew them down her shoulders with agonizing slowness, letting the silk catch for a heartbeat on the stiff peaks of her nipples before sliding free. The fabric whispered over her skin like a lover’s sigh, pooling at her feet in a dark shimmer.

Sasha stood bare before him, save for the delicate silver chain that still rested between her breasts, catching the firelight and drawing his eye downward.

Gods.

Her body was exquisite—soft curves carved from moonlight and silk, skin so pale it almost glowed against the dark sheets behind her. Full breasts rose and fell with every shallow breath, nipples dark and tight from the cool air and his earlier attention. The gentle flare of her hips begged to be gripped; a faint triangle of dark curls framed the glistening pink of her sex, already swollen and slick with need.

Geralt’s cock jerked against his thigh at the sight. Hunger roared through him, raw and primal, but he held it leashed—for now.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, the word torn from somewhere deep. “So fucking beautiful.”

He stepped into her space again, one arm banding around her waist to lift her effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his hips on instinct, arms looping around his neck as he carried her the few steps to the bed. When he laid her down, the dark linens framed her like an offering. She looked up at him with parted lips, chest heaving, thighs already parting in silent plea.

Geralt followed her down, bracing on one forearm so he could watch every flicker of expression on her face. His free hand began its slow exploration—tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, cupping the weight of one breast, thumb circling the nipple until she arched and whimpered. He lowered his head, taking the peak into his mouth—sucking hard, then softer, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp and fist the sheets.

“Geralt…” Her voice was breathy, wrecked already.

He kissed a path down her sternum, over the soft plane of her belly, lingering at the dip of her navel. Then lower.

The scent of her hit him full force—rich, heady, feminine, the unmistakable perfume of a woman drenched in arousal. It wrapped around his senses like smoke, pulling him down, down, until he had no choice but to surrender to it. He couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to.

He hooked his hands under her knees and spread her wide—wide enough to see everything. Her sex was flushed dark pink, folds glistening, clit peeking swollen from its hood. The smell of her pleasure was intoxicating, primal, a siren call that made his mouth water and his cock throb painfully.

With a low growl, he lowered his head and dragged his tongue through her in one long, slow stroke—from entrance to clit—tasting her fully for the first time. She cried out, hips jerking upward. He did it again, firmer, flattening his tongue to lap at her like a man starved.

Then he focused on her clit—circling it with the tip of his tongue, flicking lightly, then pressing flat and sucking gently. At the same time, he slid two thick fingers inside her, curling them upward to stroke that sensitive spot deep within while his thumb joined his tongue in relentless circles over her swollen bud.

Sasha’s hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, pulling him closer as her thighs trembled around his head. “Oh gods—Geralt—yes—right there—”

He devoured her. Tongue lashing her clit in quick, firm strokes, fingers pumping in and out with steady, deep thrusts—curling harder on every withdrawal to drag against her front wall. Her slick coated his chin, his fingers, his palm; the wet sounds of his mouth and hand filled the room, mingling with her rising moans.

Her hips rocked desperately against his face, grinding, chasing. Her breaths came in sharp, broken gasps. “Don’t stop—please—fuck—I’m—”

He didn’t stop.

He sucked her clit harder, fingers thrusting faster, curling relentlessly. Her body tensed—back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his ears, every muscle locking as the wave crashed over her.

She came with a scream—raw, uninhibited, echoing off the walls. Her inner walls spasmed violently around his fingers in rhythmic pulses, fresh slick flooding his hand and mouth as her body convulsed. He kept going—tongue lapping softer now, fingers slowing but still stroking through the aftershocks—drawing every last tremor from her until she was shaking, gasping, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from the corners of her eyes.

Only then did he ease back, lips and chin glistening with her release. He licked his lips deliberately, tasting her again, while she watched through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Gods, you’re hot,” he growled, voice thick with barely-leashed need. His cock throbbed painfully between them, leaking steadily now, veins standing out stark against the flushed length. Every pulse felt like a demand to bury himself inside her, to claim what she’d just offered so beautifully.

Sasha reached for him, fingers trembling as they wrapped around his shaft, stroking once, twice. Her voice was wrecked, husky.

“Oh, Geralt… I need to feel you in me. Please.”

He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss—letting her taste herself on his tongue, letting her feel how hard she’d made him.

“I promise. You will feel me,” he said against her lips, voice dark with promise.

Chapter 5: The White Wolf

Sasha lay back against the dark sheets, the folds of the silk sheets scattered in different directions like rays of light shining on an angel. Her legs were spread wide—knees bent, feet planted on the mattress—so every inch of her was open to him. The firelight licked across her flushed skin, highlighting the sheen of sweat between her breasts, the rapid rise and fall of her ribcage, the glistening pink folds already swollen and parted from his earlier attentions. Her dark curls were damp at the edges; her sex glistened, visibly pulsing with aftershocks and fresh need.

Geralt knelt between her thighs, one hand braced beside her hip, the other wrapped around the thick base of his cock. He stroked himself once—slow, deliberate—letting the head nudge against her entrance, coating himself in her slickness. The contact made her hips twitch upward, seeking more.

He watched her face. Watched her lips part on a shaky breath. Watched her eyes lock on the sight of him—thick, veined, flushed, dark and leaking at the tip—poised to claim her.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Watch how you take me.”

With agonizing slowness, he pressed forward.

The broad head breached her first, stretching her open inch by careful inch. Sasha’s breath hitched sharply; her fingers twisted in the sheets. He felt her walls flutter around him, hot and slick and impossibly tight, yielding reluctantly at first, then greedily welcoming the invasion.

“Ohhh… Geralt…” she whimpered, voice trembling. “You’re so thick… gods, I feel every inch…”

He paused when just the head was inside, letting her adjust, letting her feel the heavy stretch, the burn that quickly melted into pleasure. Then he sank deeper—another slow, deliberate glide—watching her lips part wider around his shaft, watching the way her body opened for him like it had been waiting years for this exact moment.

Halfway in, he stopped again. Her inner walls clenched hard around him, rippling in protest and invitation. A low groan rumbled from his chest.

“Fuck… you’re gripping me like you never want to let go.”

Sasha’s head tipped back, throat exposed, a long moan spilling out. “Don’t stop… please… more…”

He gave her another inch. Then another. Each slow thrust drew a fresh gasp from her lips, each withdrawal a slick, obscene sound that filled the quiet room. He watched—mesmerized—as his cock disappeared into her, stretching her pink folds taut around his girth, veins disappearing into wet heat.

When he was buried to the hilt—hips flush against hers, balls pressed to her ass—he held still. Let her feel him throbbing deep inside, filling her completely, pressing against every sensitive place.

Sasha’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and wide. “Oh gods… you’re so deep… I can feel you everywhere…”

Geralt leaned down, forearms bracketing her head, caging her beneath him. His mouth found hers in a slow, filthy kiss—tongues sliding, tasting the salt of sweat and the lingering sweetness of wine. When he pulled back, his voice was gravelly.

“You ready for me to fuck you properly?”

Her answer was a desperate nod, hips rocking up in tiny, needy circles. “Yes… please… fuck me, Geralt… hard…”

He started slow—long, deep rolls of his hips that dragged every ridge along her walls, grinding against her clit with each forward press. Sasha’s moans grew louder, breathier, her nails raking down his back. The pace quickened—thrusts turning sharper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder with every stroke.

He hooked one of her knees over his elbow, spreading her even wider so he could watch—really watch—his cock plunging in and out of her, slick and shining with her arousal, stretching her open again and again.

“Look,” he growled. “Look how you take every fucking inch.”

She did. Her gaze dropped to where they joined, lips parting on a broken whimper at the sight of him splitting her open, disappearing completely, then reappearing coated in her wetness.

“Fuck… yes… harder…” she begged, voice cracking. “I need it harder—please—”

He obliged.

His rhythm turned punishing—hips snapping forward, driving deep, relentless. The bed creaked beneath them; the headboard thumped against the wall. Each thrust punched a cry from her throat—sharp, needy, desperate.

“You love this cock, don’t you?” he rasped, one hand sliding up to wrap lightly around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. “Love how full I make you?”

“Yes—gods, yes—” Her words dissolved into moans as he angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside her over and over. “Right there—fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He fucked her faster, deeper, the pace brutal now. Her breasts bounced with every impact; her thighs trembled around him. Sweat slicked their skin, bodies sliding together in perfect, filthy rhythm.

Sasha’s hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in. “Geralt—I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice dark and rough. “Come all over this cock. Let me feel you.”

Her body obeyed instantly.

She shattered—back arching off the bed, a raw scream tearing from her throat as her walls clamped down hard around him in violent, rhythmic pulses. Fresh slick flooded between them; her thighs shook uncontrollably. Wave after wave crashed through her, leaving her gasping, trembling, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes.

Geralt kept thrusting through it—drawing it out, making her ride every aftershock—until her cries turned hoarse and broken.

Only then did he let himself go.

With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt one last time, hips grinding deep as he came—hot, thick pulses flooding her, marking her from the inside. His whole body tensed, muscles locking as pleasure ripped through him in white-hot waves. He shuddered, spilling everything he had, until he was spent.

He collapsed over her—careful not to crush her—forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard. Their hearts hammered in tandem, sweat-slick skin pressed together, the room thick with the scent of sex and spent desire.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, a lazy, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

“Told you I’d be on top.”

Sasha laughed—breathless, wrecked, beautiful—her voice still hoarse from screaming his name. She reached up, threading trembling fingers through his white hair, and pulled him down into a slow, lingering kiss. When their lips parted, she stayed close, nose brushing his, amber eyes glinting with mischief even through the haze of afterglow.

“I don’t know how you’re going to top that performance, Witcher,” she murmured, lips curving into a wicked, teasing smile. “But I look forward to watching you try… and seeing just how much harder you can make me beg next time.”

Geralt’s smirk deepened into something darker, hungrier. His hand slid possessively down her side, fingers digging lightly into the curve of her hip as if already planning the next round.

“Careful what you wish for, Sasha,” he rasped, voice low and rough with promise. “I haven’t even started breaking you in yet.”

She shivered beneath him—half laugh, half moan—her body already responding to the threat laced in his words.

Chapter 6: The Grand Tournament

Dawn crept through the narrow window of Geralt’s room at the Passiflora, soft golden rays slicing across the rumpled sheets where Sasha had lain only hours before. The air still carried the faint, intoxicating trace of her perfume—jasmine laced with something darker, warmer, unmistakably her. Geralt’s hand reached instinctively across the empty space beside him, finding only cool linen.

He sat up slowly, muscles pleasantly sore in ways that had nothing to do with combat. On the nightstand lay a folded note in elegant, looping ***********. He unfolded it.

“Dawn came too soon. I left quietly—my legs still aren’t quite steady, thanks to you. Better no one sees the evidence of last night. Win for me, Witcher. I don’t want our fun to end just yet. I’ll be watching.

—S”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. Promises wrapped in teasing, just like her.

He rose, crossed to the washroom, and let cold water cascade over his shoulders. The chill sharpened his senses, washing away the lingering heat of her skin, the taste of her on his tongue, the memory of how she’d clenched around him when she came. He dressed methodically—linen shirt, leather jerkin, the familiar weight of his studded armor settling over him like armor for a different kind of battle. Swords strapped to his back, medallion resting against his chest. The scent of oiled steel mingled with the ghost of her perfume that still clung to his hair.

As he buckled the last strap, his gaze drifted to the small table where he kept his notebook and bestiary. The journal was angled slightly wrong; the bestiary’s spine sat a fraction too far from the edge. Geralt’s eyes narrowed. He lifted the book, flipped through the pages—nothing missing, nothing added. Still, the prickle at the base of his skull remained: someone had been here.

He exhaled through his nose, shook off the unease. Paranoia was an old friend; he’d deal with it later. Right now, the tournament—and the purse that would buy his passage to Skellige—demanded his focus.

The grand hall of the Passiflora buzzed with renewed energy as the day’s rounds began. Velvet curtains parted, tables reset, the air thick with the scent of fresh ink, polished wood, and nervous sweat. Geralt took his seat for the first match against Bernard Tulle.

The halfling played like a man more interested in conversation than victory. Low-value cards dropped carelessly, baiting reactions; he grinned the whole time, eyes bright and chatty.

“So, a witcher in the tournament, eh?” Bernard said, sliding a weak Scoia’tael skirmisher onto the board. “What brings the White Wolf to a card table instead of a monster den?”

Geralt placed a Dwarven Skirmisher in response, voice flat. “Money. Sport. Same as everyone else.”

“Not everyone.” Bernard chuckled, playing a healing card and then—casually—pulling a rare double-point leader from his deck, spiking his score. “Take that woman you were with last night. Lovely company. Dangerous, too, maybe.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Be careful who you keep close, Geralt. Other games are being played here… and some of us are just pawns.”

Geralt didn’t answer. He shifted to a tight Northern Realms siege line, burned through Bernard’s row with a well-timed Scorch, and closed out both rounds in quick succession. The halfling took the loss with good humor, tipping an imaginary hat.

Geralt watched him go, mind turning over the words. Truthful tone, no malice—just a warning. The puzzle of Sasha sharpened another degree.

The day wore on. Match after match, Geralt carved through opponents with ruthless precision, his deck a honed weapon. Yet every time he glanced up, his eyes found her.

Sasha moved through the hall like she owned it—graceful, composed, dark hair catching the chandelier light as she laughed softly with another player, placed a winning card with a flick of crimson nails, or simply watched him. When their gazes met across the crowded tables, the air between them crackled. A subtle tilt of her head, a slow sweep of her lashes, the barest curve of her lips—silent promises of what waited after the final round.

The last match of the day pitted him against Finneas, the elf whose reputation for clairvoyant plays had already felled half the field.

Finneas opened aggressively—Scoia’tael ambush tactics, spies slipping into Geralt’s rows, points multiplying like wildfire. Geralt found himself on the back foot, his formations crumbling under the elf’s relentless pressure. The crowd murmured; tension coiled tighter with every card.

Then Geralt played his counter.

A single Scorch card dropped onto Finneas’s overloaded infantry row. Flames roared across the table—in metaphor and in the sudden hush of the hall—as the elf’s points burned away. Finneas’s calm cracked for the first time; his next play faltered. Geralt pressed the advantage—tight Dwarven buffs, a leader ability that doubled his siege engines—and turned the tide.

The final card fell. Geralt’s points held.

The crowd erupted in scattered applause. Finneas inclined his head with cool respect before retreating.

Geralt exhaled, adrenaline still thrumming. Across the hall, Sasha stood near a pillar, arms crossed beneath her breasts, watching him with unmistakable heat in her eyes. When he met her gaze, she lifted one brow—a silent *well done* laced with something far more intimate. Her lips curved in that slow, knowing smile that made his blood heat all over again.

The day’s battles ended. Only a handful of players remained for tomorrow’s final rounds. Geralt rose, rolling his shoulders, feeling the pull of exhaustion and anticipation in equal measure.

The tournament wasn’t the only game being played.

And Geralt intended to win them both.

Chapter 7: The Pact

The crowd’s applause faded into a low, satisfied hum as the day’s rounds concluded. Only a handful of players remained for tomorrow’s finals. Geralt rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar ache of long hours at the table, the adrenaline still simmering beneath his skin.

Across the hall, Sasha lingered near a gilded pillar, her dark gown catching the chandelier light like liquid night. She hadn’t approached yet—hadn’t needed to. Their eyes met through the thinning crowd, and the connection was immediate: heat, challenge, unspoken promise. She lifted her chin in a subtle acknowledgment, lips curving into that slow, knowing smile that always made his pulse kick harder.

The hall began to empty, players drifting toward the grand staircase and the celebration already spilling into the lower salons. Geralt moved through the space with deliberate calm, senses attuned to every shift in the room. He felt her before he saw her fully—her perfume cutting through the mix of wax, wine, and polished wood.

She stepped into his path with graceful inevitability, hips swaying just enough to draw his gaze downward before it snapped back to her face.

“Impressive work today, Witcher.” Her eyes flicked down his body, then back up—lingering. “You play like a man with something to prove.”

“Or someone to impress,” he replied, stepping into her space until the heat of her body brushed his.

She laughed softly, breath warm against his jaw. “I am more than impressed, Geralt,” she murmured, voice low and intimate amid the fading din. “You certainly know how to handle a big deck.”

Her hand glided down his chest—slow, deliberate—fingers tracing the line of his jerkin before settling low on his belt. The touch sent a sharp shiver racing along his spine.

Geralt caught her wrist gently but didn’t pull her away. “I seem to get lucky when you’re around, Sasha. Hoping to get lucky in your company tonight as well.”

“Mmm,” she purred, leaning in until her lips nearly brushed his ear. “If you play your cards right, it’s almost ensured.”

Her eyes burned with sensual hunger, pupils dark and dilated in the low light.

She tilted her head toward the wide balcony doors at the far end of the hall. “Come. A celebratory toast. Just us.”

Geralt followed without hesitation.

The balcony overlooked Novigrad’s glittering harbor, the night breeze cool against heated skin. Sasha already held two champagne flutes, the golden liquid fizzing softly. She passed one to him, her fingers lingering against his as she took a slow sip. Her lips glistened; she licked a stray droplet away with deliberate care.

They stood close—close enough that the rustle of her gown against his leather was the only sound besides the distant murmur of the celebration below. The world narrowed to the space between them.

Geralt sipped once, eyes never leaving hers. “Something tells me this isn’t just about Gwent for you.”

Sasha’s smile was cryptic, playful, edged with something deeper. “Let’s just say there’s more than one prize at stake.”

She leaned against him, head resting briefly on his chest, his arms coming around her instinctively—like a shield she hadn’t asked for but clearly welcomed. For a heartbeat, they simply stood like that, breathing in sync, the city lights flickering far below.

Then she stepped back, breaking the embrace but keeping her gaze locked on his.

“I… need to ask you a favor, Geralt,” she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading beneath the polished confidence. “If you lose tomorrow… stick around until after the tournament. Will you wait for me? Just until I can leave the city.”

Geralt studied her—yellow eyes narrowing, searching for tells. He found only sincerity laced with something guarded, something that looked very much like fear.

“What’s your angle here, Sasha?”

She exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the distant hum of the celebration below. Her fingers tightened around the champagne flute, knuckles paling.

“I need this money,” she said quietly. “More than most people here realize. But even if I win it… I’m not certain I’ll be allowed to walk away with it.” She paused, glancing briefly toward the darkened city beyond the balcony railing, as though expecting to see shadows moving among the rooftops. “There are forces in Novigrad—sinister ones—who don’t take kindly to a woman like me claiming a prize this large. Or to her leaving the city afterward. Alive.”

The word hung between them, heavy and deliberate.

Vulnerability flickered across her face—brief, unguarded—before she masked it again with a small, wry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I may also need your… protection,” she continued, voice steadying. “You’re not like the others here. You’ve faced worse than greedy merchants or jealous players. If things turn ugly, I’d rather have the White Wolf at my back than anyone else.” She met his gaze directly. “I promise to split the prize evenly with you. Fifty-fifty. No tricks.”

Geralt let the silence stretch, weighing her words against the morning’s unease—the misplaced bestiary, Bernard’s cryptic warning, the way she always seemed to know more than she let on. He took a slow sip of champagne, then set the glass aside.

“Sure,” he said finally, voice low. “I’ll wait. If I lose.”

Relief softened the tension around her eyes, though the guarded edge remained. A flicker of her usual mischief returned as she tilted her head.

“But what if I win?” he asked, voice low.

Sasha’s smile deepened, eyes glinting with promise. “If you win… we can discuss an arrangement for me to earn my share of the prize money from you.”

Geralt’s grin was slow, predatory. “How can I say no to such a tempting offer? Let’s discuss possible forms of payment… tonight.”

Sasha nodded, her sensual tone carrying every tantalizing implication.

“Tonight,” she agreed, stepping closer until her body brushed his again. “I promise to give you a down payment you won’t easily forget.”

The balcony doors closed softly behind them as they slipped back into the shadowed corridors of the Passiflora—two predators circling the same prize, bound now by a pact that felt as dangerous as it was inevitable.

Chapter 8: The Debt

The anticipation coiled thick in the corridor outside Geralt’s room, heavier than the perfume still clinging to Sasha’s skin. When they reached the door, he paused, turning to face her fully. His fingers brushed hers—deliberate, slow, a spark that raced up her arm and settled low in her belly. The door creaked open on well-oiled hinges, revealing the familiar dim glow of candlelight and the rumpled bed that still carried the faint musk of their last encounter.

Geralt guided her inside with a hand at the small of her back, then leaned down to claim her mouth in a kiss that started gentle—lips brushing, tasting—and deepened into something possessive. The soft click of the lock behind them sealed the world outside.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, yellow gaze burning in the low light. “I prepared something special for you tonight,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and low. His thumb traced lazy circles over the silk at her waist. “A rare cocktail… a little experimental. How do you feel about taking risks, Sasha?”

A playful glint sparked in her amber eyes as she leaned into his touch, letting her body press lightly against his. “I don’t mind a risk,” she teased, voice edged with velvet seduction, “as long as I know the reward at the end is worth it.”

Geralt’s grin was slow, predatory. “Get comfortable,” he commanded softly. “I’ll fetch your… cocktail.”

He disappeared into the small adjoining washroom. Sasha moved to the bed, shedding her gown in slow, deliberate motions until it pooled at her feet like spilled ink. She stood naked in the doorway when he returned, silhouette framed by the warm lamplight that gilded her milky skin and cast long shadows across every curve. The gentle swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips—all of it caught the glow, turning her into something almost otherworldly.

Geralt had already stripped down to nothing. Shadows danced over the hard planes of his back, tracing the jagged map of old scars that crisscrossed muscle and sinew. His white hair fell loose between his shoulder blades, catching flickers of firelight. The firm curve of his ass flexed as he turned, strong legs planted wide, every inch of him radiating raw, honed power.

He faced her fully now, cock already half-hard and thickening under her gaze. “Sasha,” he said, voice rough with appreciation, “you are gorgeous.”

Her cheeks flushed—unaccustomed to a man who noticed her so completely, who seemed to anticipate every shiver before she felt it herself.

The air between them crackled as he closed the distance. He held out a small crystal vial, the liquid inside shimmering faintly violet in the candlelight. Their fingers brushed as she took it; the contact lingered, electric.

“Take this,” he said. “I promise it will make the night even better.”

She tilted her head, studying the vial, then him. “What is it?”

Geralt met her gaze with a knowing, almost dangerous smile. “A love potion, of sorts. Distilled from succubus mutagen.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “It doesn’t force anything. It simply… enhances. The more you desire, the more your pleasure intensifies. It opens every floodgate, lets every hidden craving rise to the surface. You’ll feel everything deeper, sharper, more completely. No holding back.”

Sasha’s breath caught. She looked from the vial to his face—searching for deceit, finding only dark promise. The idea sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her thighs.

She uncorked the vial. The scent that rose was sweet, heady, faintly metallic—like ripe berries crushed with iron and smoke. She raised it to her lips.

Geralt lifted his own identical vial in a silent toast. “To debts,” he murmured, “and how we pay them.”

They drank together.

The liquid slid down her throat, cool at first, then blooming into liquid fire that spread through her veins like molten honey. Warmth bloomed in her chest, then lower—deeper—until every nerve felt alive, humming. Her skin flushed hot; her nipples tightened painfully; her sex clenched on nothing, already slick and aching.

She exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Gods… Geralt…”

He set the empty vial aside and stepped into her space, hands sliding up her arms to cup her face. “Feel it yet?” he asked, voice low and rough.

She nodded, lips parted. “Everything… everything feels more.”

His thumb traced her lower lip. “Good. Because tonight, Sasha… you’re going to give me everything. Every moan. Every plea. Every last piece of you.”

He kissed her then—harder this time, claiming—and she melted into it, hands fisting in his hair, body pressing flush against his as the potion ignited every hidden want she’d ever buried.

At that moment, Geralt reached out and pulled Sasha into his embrace, his strong arms wrapping around her with possessive, unyielding intensity. The motion lifted her slightly off the floor; her bare feet left the rug as he crushed her against his chest. Their lips collided in a kiss that was anything but gentle—raw, devouring, tongues tangling with immediate, feral hunger. He tasted the potion on her breath, sweet and smoky, and felt her melt into him like wax under flame.

The succubus mutagen hit her bloodstream like wildfire. Every nerve ignited at once. The faint draft from the window became a lover’s caress against her skin; the candlelight felt like warm hands stroking her; even the brush of his chest hair against her nipples sent sharp, electric jolts straight to her clit. Her senses sharpened to an almost painful degree—his scent (leather, steel, smoke, and raw masculinity) flooded her lungs, making her head spin. Between her thighs, her pussy throbbed with sudden, vicious need, already dripping, lips swollen and aching to be filled.

Sasha whimpered into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as if anchoring herself against the storm inside her body.

Geralt’s hands roamed with deliberate ownership—down the elegant line of her spine, over the flare of her hips, then gripping her ass hard enough to leave faint red marks. He squeezed, kneaded, pulled her tighter until the thick ridge of his cock pressed flush against her slick folds. The contact made her gasp; she ground against him instinctively, coating his shaft with her wetness in desperate little rolls of her hips.

“Feel that?” he growled against her lips. “That’s what you do to me. Now tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“Everything,” she breathed, voice trembling. “I feel… everything. Too much. Not enough. Geralt—please—”

He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist like vines. The position aligned her dripping core perfectly over his cock; the head nudged her entrance, teasing without entering. She whined, hips jerking, trying to impale herself, but his grip on her ass held her suspended—controlled.

“Beg properly,” he ordered, voice dark velvet.

“Please,” she gasped, nails raking his back. “I need you inside me. I need your cock stretching me, filling me, claiming me. I can’t think—can’t breathe. Please, Geralt… take me. Own me.”

His control snapped.

With one powerful upward thrust, he buried himself inside her in a single, brutal stroke. Sasha’s head flew back on a raw scream—half pleasure, half shock—as her walls stretched wide around his girth. The potion amplified every sensation: the burn of the stretch, the heavy throb of his veins pulsing against her inner walls, the blunt pressure of his cockhead kissing her cervix. She felt split open, remade, utterly filled.

“Fuck—yes!” she cried, legs locking tighter around him. “So deep—so thick—gods, you’re splitting me apart!”

Geralt didn’t give her time to adjust. He began to fuck her standing—lifting her up and slamming her back down onto his cock with punishing rhythm. Each descent drove him deeper; each lift dragged every ridge along her fluttering walls. Her breasts bounced against his chest; her clit ground against his pubic bone with every brutal plunge. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room—the slick slap of flesh, her gasping cries, his low grunts.

“You’re so tight,” he snarled, teeth grazing her throat. “Every inch of this tight little cunt belongs to me. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she sobbed, voice breaking on a moan as another wave of potion-fueled pleasure crashed through her. “All yours—fuck me—make me yours!”

He spun them, pinning her back against the nearest wall without missing a thrust. The impact jolted a fresh cry from her lips. Now he could drive even harder—hips snapping forward, cock pistoning in and out with relentless force. Her head thumped softly against the wood with each stroke; her nails scored red lines down his shoulders.

The potion turned her orgasms into a continuous, rolling storm. The first one hit within minutes—her walls clamping down like a vise, milking him as she screamed his name. He didn’t slow. He fucked her through it, drawing out the spasms until a second climax chased the first. Then a third. Her body shook uncontrollably; slick gushed down his shaft, dripping onto the floorboards.

“Again,” he commanded, voice rough with strain. “Come again. Show me how completely you surrender.”

She did—screaming, sobbing, body convulsing as pleasure ripped through her in endless waves. Tears streamed down her cheeks; her voice grew hoarse. Yet still she begged—wordless pleas, broken phrases: “More—harder—don’t stop—you feel so good—”

Geralt carried her to the bed and threw her down onto the silk sheets. He followed immediately, hooking her legs over his shoulders and folding her nearly in half. The new angle let him plunge impossibly deeper. He watched his cock disappear into her—glistening, veined, stretching her pink folds wide—then reappear coated in her cream.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. Look how your greedy cunt grips me—how it begs for my seed.”

Sasha’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and wild. “Geralt—I feel you everywhere—oh god—cum with me—”

With a guttural roar, he slammed home one final time, burying himself to the root. His cock pulsed violently as he came—thick, hot ropes flooding her depths, painting her womb with his release. The sensation triggered her most powerful orgasm yet: her back arched off the bed, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her walls convulsed around him, milking every drop.

They stayed locked together, trembling, breathing ragged. Geralt collapsed over her, still buried deep, his weight pinning her to the mattress in a final act of possession.

Sasha’s arms wrapped around him weakly, fingers tracing lazy patterns across his scarred back. Her voice was a wrecked whisper against his ear.

“What have you done to me, Geralt… I… I want more.”

Geralt pressed a slow, possessive kiss to her throat, teeth grazing the pulse that still raced beneath her skin.

“Show me,” he murmured. “Show me how much you want to feed me inside of you.”

Chapter 9: The Taste of Victory

Shuddering through the final pulses of his release, Geralt locked eyes with Sasha as the last hot spurts painted her depths. His groan was low and ragged, satisfaction etched into every line of his face. But Sasha’s hunger didn’t fade—it sharpened. The succubus mutagen still burned in her veins like liquid fire, turning every aftershock into fresh craving. She could feel his seed deep inside her, warm and thick, and suddenly the need to taste him—to consume every trace of their union—overwhelmed her.

With a soft, desperate whimper she slid down his body, her slick thighs dragging along his hips, leaving glistening trails. Geralt watched her descend, yellow eyes dark with renewed heat, one hand still tangled loosely in her hair.

Sasha settled between his legs on her knees, palms braced on his powerful thighs. His cock—still semi-hard, glistening with their combined release—twitched at the sight of her. She wrapped slender fingers around the base, feeling the heat, the residual throb, the slick mix of her cream and his cum coating every inch.

She leaned in and dragged her tongue slowly along the underside from root to tip, savoring the salty, musky taste of him—of them. The flavor exploded across her tongue: rich, primal, intoxicating. She moaned low in her throat, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the potion amplified the sensation until it felt like she was drinking him straight into her soul.

“Oh, Geralt… what have you done to me?” she whispered, voice trembling with awe and need.

He reached down, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. “I set you free,” he rasped. “Let every filthy desire out. No shame. No restraint. Just you… taking what you want.”

A wicked, almost feral smile curved her lips. “You made me a cock-hungry whore, Geralt.” She licked a slow circle around the head, collecting another bead of his spend. “I hope you can handle what you’ve unleashed.”

Before he could answer, she took him into her mouth—slow at first, lips stretching wide around his thickening girth. The taste of their sex flooded her senses again, and she groaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. Her tongue swirled, tracing every vein, every ridge, cleaning him with reverent hunger.

Geralt’s hand tightened in her hair—not forcing, but guiding. “That’s it, Sasha. Show me how much you need this cock in your mouth.”

She hummed in agreement, cheeks hollowing as she sucked harder, taking him deeper with each bob of her head. Her hands stroked what her lips couldn’t reach—slick, twisting motions that matched the rhythm of her mouth. Spit and remnants of their release dripped down his shaft, pooling at the base; she chased every drop, greedy and shameless.

The potion turned the act into something transcendent. Every slide of him over her tongue sent sparks through her own body—her clit throbbed in time with her sucking, her pussy clenching on nothing, still leaking his cum down her thighs. She was dripping, aching, utterly consumed by the need to please him, to worship the cock that had just claimed her so completely.

Geralt’s control frayed. His hips began to rock—shallow at first, then deeper, fucking her mouth with measured thrusts. “Fuck… look at you,” he growled. “Taking me like you were born for it. Throat so tight, so eager. You love this, don’t you? Love being used.”

She moaned around him—muffled, desperate—nodding frantically as tears pricked her eyes from the depth. He pushed further, hitting the back of her throat; she gagged softly, throat fluttering around him, but she didn’t pull away.

Ropes of spit connected her lips to his shaft each time she pulled back for air—glistening, obscene, catching the candlelight. Her jaw ached, her throat burned, but the potion turned discomfort into ecstasy. She was lost in it—lost in him.

Geralt’s fingers tightened, hips snapping forward in short, controlled thrusts. “Good girl, Sasha,” he praised, voice rough. “Take it all. Show me how completely you belong to me.”

Sasha’s mouth worked him with desperate, worshipful hunger—lips stretched wide, throat relaxing inch by inch as she took him deeper. The potion had turned her into pure need: every glide of his thick shaft over her tongue sent fresh sparks straight to her clit; every time he hit the back of her throat she moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. Spit dripped from her chin in glistening ropes, mixing with the remnants of their earlier release, pooling on the sheets beneath her knees.

Geralt’s fingers tightened in her hair—not cruel, but firm, possessive. He guided her rhythm, rocking his hips in shallow, controlled thrusts that pushed him deeper each time. Her eyes watered; she gagged softly on the thickest part of him, but she never pulled away. Instead, she opened wider, throat fluttering around his length, taking him until her nose pressed against his pubic bone and her lips kissed the base.

“Fuck,” he growled low, voice rough with awe. “Look at you… sucking me like my trained little slut. So eager, so perfect.”

She whimpered around his cock—muffled, needy—the sound vibrating straight through him. Her thighs trembled; one hand slipped between her legs, fingers circling her swollen clit, slick with her own arousal and the cum still leaking from her well-fucked pussy. She was dripping, soaking her hand, the sheets, utterly lost in the act of serving him.

Geralt watched her—watched the way her cheeks hollowed, the way tears streaked her flushed face, the way her hips rocked helplessly against her own fingers—and felt his cock swell impossibly harder in her throat. The sight of her submission—total, shameless, beautiful—pushed him right to the edge.

But he wasn’t ready to finish there.

With a guttural groan, he pulled out slowly, inch by glistening inch, letting her feel every ridge drag along her tongue until the head popped free with a wet sound. A thick strand of spit and pre-cum stretched between her swollen lips and his throbbing tip before snapping.

Sasha whimpered at the loss—high, desperate—her mouth chasing after him instinctively, tongue flicking out for one last taste. Her fingers worked faster between her thighs, slick sounds filling the quiet room as she teetered on the brink.

Geralt’s cock stood fully erect now—veins pulsing, flushed dark, slick and shining from her devotion. He looked down at her: wrecked, panting, eyes glassy with need, fingers buried in her dripping cunt, body trembling with unspent orgasms.

“Come here, Sasha,” Geralt growled, the command low and magnetic, vibrating through her bones like a physical touch, “It’s time to claim your reward for making me hard again,” he said with a grin.

Sasha obeyed instantly—crawling up his body like she’d been waiting her whole life for that single order. Her hips swayed with feline grace, heavy breasts swaying beneath her, nipples hard and dark against pale skin. The potion made every movement feel electric—her skin hypersensitive, the air itself caressing her like teasing fingers.

She straddled his hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him, hovering just above his chest. Her dripping pussy brushed the underside of his shaft, coating him anew in her slickness. She leaned down, breasts dragging across his chest, nipples scraping over scarred skin, and captured his mouth in a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Tongues tangled, tasting salt and sex and the lingering sweetness of the mutagen.

Her hips rolled instinctively, grinding her soaked folds along his length in slow, teasing slides. “Gods, Geralt… your cock is so fucking hard,” she moaned into his mouth, voice wrecked and needy. “I can feel it throbbing against me… oh god, it feels so good.”

Geralt’s hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Fuck! You look so beautiful, Sasha,” he rasped. “Ride me. Show me how badly you want to be filled.”

Sasha lifted herself just enough, aligning the thick head with her entrance. She sank down slowly—agonizingly slowly—savoring every inch as he stretched her open again. The potion turned the penetration into something almost hallucinatory: she felt every vein, every ridge, the blunt pressure of his cockhead parting her walls, the delicious burn of being filled to the absolute limit.

“Oh fuck—yes—” she gasped, head falling back, eyes rolling as she bottomed out. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around him, already fluttering toward another peak. “You’re so deep… splitting me open… claiming every inch of me…”

Geralt sat up abruptly, arms banding around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Her legs locked around his back; her arms wound around his neck, fingers knotting in his white hair. Their mouths crashed together again—messy, desperate—as he began to thrust upward into her. Each powerful stroke lifted her body, then slammed her back down onto his cock, the wet slap of their bodies filling the room.

She rode him with abandon—hips rolling, grinding, bucking—chasing the friction against her clit while his thick shaft dragged over every sensitive spot inside her. Her breasts bounced against his chest; her moans grew louder, more broken.

“You are so hard, Geralt!” she begged, nails raking down his back. “I feel your thick cock pulsating inside of me—waiting to ruin me—”

He loved how submissive she was becoming. He growled, flipped them in one fluid motion, and pinned her beneath him. Then he lifted her again—effortlessly—pressing her back against the cool stone wall. The sudden chill against her overheated skin made her gasp; the contrast only sharpened every sensation.

Geralt hooked her legs over his forearms, spreading her wide, and drove into her with brutal, punishing thrusts. The wall thumped rhythmically behind her with each slam of his hips. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat; he latched onto it with teeth and tongue, marking her while he fucked her senseless.

“Is this what you want?” he snarled against her skin. “To be ruined! To be fucked like my personal whore—pinned, filled, and shaped by cock?”

“Yes—gods, yes!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Ruin me—make me yours—make me come until I can’t think—”

He obliged. His pace turned feral—hips snapping forward with bone-jarring force, cock pistoning in and out, stretching her mercilessly. The potion amplified everything: each thrust felt like lightning, each grind against her clit like fire. Orgasms rolled through her in relentless waves—one crashing into the next before she could catch her breath.

“Geralt—fuck—I’m coming again—don’t stop—oh my god! Yes! Yes! Yes!—”

Her body convulsed, walls clamping down like a vise around him, milking him as she screamed his name. Slick gushed down his shaft, dripping onto the floor. He fucked her through it—through the next climax, and the one after—until her cries turned hoarse, her body shaking uncontrollably.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice raw. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down her cheeks. “Completely—utterly—yours. I have never felt so completely claimed—”

With a primal roar, he buried himself to the hilt one last time. His cock pulsed violently as he came—thick, hot ropes flooding her depths, painting her insides with his release. The sensation triggered her most violent orgasm yet: her back arched off the wall, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her pussy spasmed around him, milking every drop in rhythmic, desperate pulses.

They stayed locked together, trembling, breathing ragged. Geralt eased her down slowly, legs still wrapped around him, until they collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He stayed inside her—softening but not withdrawing—holding her close, one hand stroking possessively down her spine.

Sasha nuzzled into his chest, breath still hitching, body quivering with aftershocks. “I’m yours,” she whispered again, voice soft and reverent now. “I want this… not just for tonight. Always. I don’t ever want this to end.”

Geralt pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her lips—gentle this time, but no less claiming.

“Good,” he murmured against her skin. “Because I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

The room settled into quiet—only their slowing breaths and the faint crackle of dying candles. The potion still hummed faintly in her veins, but the hunger had shifted: from frantic need to a deep, bone-level satisfaction. She belonged to him now.

And he intended to keep proving it—every night, every touch, every whispered command—until the end of the tournament… and long beyond.

Chapter 10: The Mystery

The first pale threads of dawn barely slipped between the heavy curtains, turning the room into a soft gray hush. Outside, Novigrad slept under a thin blanket of morning mist; inside, the air still carried the thick, heady perfume of sex—sweat, musk, the faint metallic sweetness of the succubus mutagen, and the lingering jasmine of Sasha’s skin. The blankets lay tangled around Geralt’s hips, their warmth a protective cocoon against the creeping chill that seeped through the stone walls.

He woke slowly, senses sharpening before his eyes fully opened. A subtle shift in the air—fabric rustling, the soft pad of bare feet on wood—pulled him from sleep. He kept his breathing even, lashes barely parted, watching through the narrow slits.

Sasha moved like a shadow through the dim room. She wasn’t reaching for her discarded gown. Instead, her fingers ghosted over his small table—pausing at the worn leather cover of his bestiary, flipping it open just enough to scan a page, then closing it with careful precision. Next, his discarded trousers. She lifted them, felt the pockets, thumbed through the contents with practiced quiet.

Geralt’s pulse kicked up a notch. Bernard’s warning echoed in his skull: *Be careful of the company you keep… other games are being played here… some of us are just pawns.*

She turned suddenly, eyes flicking toward the bed.

Geralt stirred—slow, deliberate—rolling one shoulder, letting out a low, sleepy yawn as his eyes fluttered open. He stretched, muscles flexing under scarred skin, and propped himself on one elbow.

“Good morning, lover,” Sasha whispered, voice already husky. She crossed the room in three graceful steps and climbed onto the bed, straddling his waist without hesitation. Her skin was flushed a deep rose, pulse hammering visibly at her throat. She leaned down, hands sliding up his chest, and kissed him—slow, deep, greedy—tongue sliding against his like she was starving.

When she rocked her hips, the slick heat of her pussy dragged along his morning-hard cock, coating him instantly. A needy little whimper escaped her throat. She did it again, harder, grinding her swollen clit against his shaft as if she couldn’t help herself.

The succubus potion was still flowing through her human veins, Geralt thought, the corner of his mouth twitching into a private smirk. Two, maybe three more days before it fades. And I’m not telling her a damn thing. Keeping her like this—wet, aching, desperate—all day long would make tonight’s claiming so much sweeter. “You look so beautiful, Sasha,” he said.

“I don’t know what you did to me last night,” she breathed against his lips, hips rolling in shallow, frantic circles, “but I’m already so fucking horny for you again. I need you inside me, Geralt… please…”

He let his hands settle on her hips, fingers digging in just enough to still her desperate grinding. His smirk deepened—slow, predatory, knowing.

“Your desires are insatiable, Sasha,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and restrained hunger. “And I’d like nothing more than to fuck you senseless all day… but it’ll have to wait.”

He sat up slowly, bringing their bodies flush, her breasts pressing against his chest, her heartbeat thundering so hard he could feel it against his own skin. Her flush deepened; a fresh rush of wetness slicked his cock where she still rocked helplessly.

“It’s a big day.”

Sasha’s expression flickered—frustrated need mixing with something softer. She traced a fingertip along his jaw, breath shaky.

“Geralt… you’re such a tease.” She leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice trembling with want. “We’ll get together after the tournament, then?”

The weight of her words settled between them. Geralt held her gaze—searching, steady—while his mind turned over every piece: Bernard’s warning, the moved bookmark, her subtle rifling of his belongings just minutes ago.

“I’ll be there,” he said, voice low and certain. “And when I win, I plan on claiming more than just the purse.”

Sasha shivered visibly, a fresh wave of slick coating him as her body reacted to the promise. “If you win…mmm… but even if you lose, I can’t wait for you to claim what’s yours, Geralt,” she purred, though the words came out breathy, edged with frustration.

She slid off him reluctantly, legs trembling as she stood. The weak morning light slipped through the curtains in thin golden bars, painting her flushed skin in soft stripes—highlighting the sheen of sweat between her breasts, the faint red marks his fingers had left on her hips, the glistening trail still shining between her thighs.

Geralt watched every movement as she dressed—slipping into her midnight gown, fastening the clasps with fingers that shook slightly. Each motion felt deliberate, almost pleading, like she was fighting the urge to crawl back onto him and beg.

When she finished, she leaned down for one last kiss—slow, deep, hungry—then straightened.

“Don’t forget,” she whispered, voice thick with unmet need. “We wait for each other, regardless of who wins… to celebrate.”

Geralt nodded with a grin.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence returned.

Geralt lay still for a long moment, listening to her footsteps fade down the corridor. Then he rose, blankets falling away, and crossed to the table.

The bestiary sat exactly as he’d left it—except the ribbon bookmark had moved two pages forward. His trousers were folded neatly, but the inner pocket felt slightly disturbed.

He opened his Gwent deck case. The cards were untouched.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.

She hadn’t taken anything.

She’d looked.

And that was far more interesting.

He dressed quickly—armor settling over his skin like a second self—mind already turning over the pieces. The tournament finals waited. The purse that would buy his passage to Skellige waited. Ciri waited.

But so did Sasha.

And Geralt of Rivia never walked away from a mystery he intended to unravel—especially when the mystery was still dripping wet and aching for him.

He strapped his swords across his back, rolled his shoulders, and headed for the door.

First, he would win the tournament.

Then he would win her—body, secrets, and all.

The cat-and-mouse game had only just begun.

Chapter 11: Tournament Finale

Geralt stepped into the grand hall of the Passiflora for the final day with the quiet, coiled confidence of a predator who already scented blood. Only two challengers remained between him and the purse that would buy swift passage to Skellige. The air thrummed with anticipation—cards shuffling, low murmurs, the faint clink of coin changing hands. Eyes followed him: some wary, some admiring, all recognizing the White Wolf among them.

The announcer’s voice rang out.

“Geralt of Rivia versus Sasha.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd. Geralt’s gaze snapped to the table where she already sat—dark hair swept into an elegant knot, midnight gown clinging to every curve, amber eyes locked on him with that familiar, dangerous glint.

He took his seat opposite her. The nagging thought from dawn resurfaced: had last night’s relentless claiming been a calculated distraction? Her stealthy search of his belongings, Bernard’s warning—all of it lingered. Yet here she was, opponent and enigma, smiling as if the only thing on her mind was how he’d fucked her senseless.

The first round began.

Sasha played Nilfgaard with surgical precision—spies slipping into his rows, Cantarella forcing discards, Impera Enforcers punishing his aggression. She read him like an open book, turning his Northern Realms siege engines against him exactly as she had the night before. Between plays, her fingers brushed his across the table—deliberate, lingering. “Focus, Witcher,” she murmured, voice low enough for only him to hear. “Wouldn’t want you distracted… again.”

He smirked, but the second round slipped away from him. She closed it out with ruthless efficiency: a perfectly timed Villentretenmerth scorch that wiped his boosted row, followed by Emperor of Nilfgaard sealing the win.

The crowd murmured.

Geralt leaned back, eyes never leaving hers. In the decisive third round, he shifted strategy—mirroring the patience she had taught him. He let her overextend, baited her into committing high-value units early, then answered with tight Dwarven formations and a Scorch of his own that burned her overloaded infantry to ash.

The tide turned.

He clinched the match with a final leader ability that doubled his siege engines and overwhelmed her remaining points.

The hall erupted in cheers.

Sasha rose gracefully. Instead of congratulating him publicly, she slipped around the table and drew him into a shadowed alcove behind a velvet curtain—away from prying eyes. The moment the fabric fell closed, their mouths crashed together in a private, searing kiss—hungry, possessive, tongues sliding hot and deep.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Sasha pressed a single card into his palm. Her fingers lingered, tracing the inside of his wrist as she leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Looking forward to my reward tonight,” she whispered, voice velvet and sin. “Here’s a little something to ensure your victory against the Count. Use it well, Witcher… and think of me when you slide it in.”

The innuendo hit low and hot. Geralt’s grip tightened on the card—a rare Northern Realms leader with a devastating doubling ability she had clearly held back from her own deck.

He caught her chin, tilting her face up so their eyes locked. “Stick around and watch me win,” he murmured, voice rough with promise. “I want you wet and waiting when I collect everything that’s mine.”

Sasha shivered visibly, lips parting on a soft exhale. She gave a single, sultry nod before slipping back into the crowd.

After a short break, the final match was called.

Geralt versus Count Tybalt.

The Count played Scoia’tael with aristocratic arrogance—unique, dangerous cards forming impenetrable walls of offense and defense. He flooded the board early with high-point units, daring Geralt to overcommit. The first round was brutal. Tybalt’s ambush tactics shredded Geralt’s formations; every counter Geralt attempted was met with precise, punishing blocks. The Count smirked across the table as he took the round by a narrow margin.

Geralt surrendered the second round deliberately—playing conservatively, letting Tybalt overextend and commit his heaviest hitters up front. He recycled a handful of his strongest used cards, setting the trap exactly as Sasha had taught him the night before: turn your opponent’s aggression into your own weapon.

The Count took the bait.

In the third and decisive round, Geralt changed styles completely—switching from tight Northern Realms discipline to aggressive, fast-paced siege pressure. When Tybalt committed his final wave of high-value units, Geralt dropped Sasha’s gifted leader card.

Its ability triggered instantly: every recycled unit in his row doubled in strength. The board exploded with points. Tybalt’s carefully constructed wall crumbled under the sudden, overwhelming barrage. The Count’s aristocratic composure cracked for the first time; he stared at the table in disbelief as Geralt’s final siege engines crushed his remaining forces.

The last card fell.

Geralt’s points held.

The hall exploded in thunderous applause and cheers.

Geralt rose slowly, gaze sweeping the room until it found Sasha near the back. She stood with arms crossed beneath her breasts, lips curved in that knowing, satisfied smile. Their eyes locked. She gave the smallest nod—acknowledgment, pride, and a promise of everything still to come.

He’d won the tournament.

He’d won the purse.

And tonight… he would claim the only prize that truly mattered.

Completely.

(old)

Geralt stepped into the grand hall of the Passiflora for the final day with the quiet, coiled confidence of a predator who already scented blood. Only two challengers remained between him and the purse that would buy swift passage to Skellige. The air thrummed with anticipation—cards shuffling, low murmurs, the faint clink of coin changing hands. Eyes followed him: some wary, some admiring, all recognizing the White Wolf among them.

The announcer’s voice rang out, crisp and formal.

“Geralt of Rivia versus Sasha.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd. Geralt’s gaze snapped to the table where she already sat—dark hair swept into an elegant knot, midnight gown clinging to every curve, amber eyes locked on him with that familiar, dangerous glint.

He took his seat opposite her, rolling his shoulders once. The nagging thought from earlier resurfaced: had last night’s hours of relentless claiming been a calculated distraction? Her stealthy search of his belongings at dawn, Bernard’s warning, the subtle rifling of his bestiary—all of it circled in his mind like a storm cloud. Yet here she was, opponent and enigma, smiling as if the only thing on her mind was how he’d fucked her senseless.

The first round began.

Sasha played Nilfgaard with surgical precision—spies slipping into his rows, Cantarella forcing discards, Impera Enforcers punishing his aggression. She read him like an open book, turning his Northern Realms siege engines against him with elegant counters. Geralt felt the pressure immediately; her every move carried the echo of their private game the night before—methodical, relentless, always one step ahead.

Between plays, her fingers brushed his across the table—deliberate, lingering. “Focus, Witcher,” she murmured, voice low enough for only him to hear. “Wouldn’t want you distracted… again.”

He smirked, but the second round slipped away from him. She closed it out with ruthless efficiency: a perfectly timed Villentretenmerth scorch that wiped his boosted row, followed by Emperor of Nilfgaard sealing the win.

The crowd murmured. Geralt leaned back, eyes never leaving hers. She tilted her head, lips curving in silent challenge.

*She’s good,* he thought. *Too good.*

But he’d learned from her.

In the decisive third round, Geralt shifted strategy. He mirrored the patience she’d shown him the night before—letting her overextend, baiting her into committing high-value units early. When she played her signature Cantarella to force another discard, he was ready. He answered with a tight Dwarven Skirmisher line, then dropped a Scorch of his own—burning her overloaded infantry row to ash.

The tide turned.

Sasha’s eyes narrowed fractionally—admiration flickering beneath the competitive fire. She pushed harder, but Geralt had internalized her lesson: turn offense into defense, wait for the opening, strike when the board is vulnerable.

He clinched the match with a final, perfectly timed leader ability that doubled his siege engines and overwhelmed her remaining points.

The hall erupted in cheers.

Sasha leaned across the table, voice soft amid the noise. “Well played, Geralt. I must say… your Gwent skills are almost as impressive as your other talents.”

He met her gaze, smirk slow and knowing. “You taught me well last night. I find you equally impressive… in more ways than just cards. Looking forward to exploring those other skills again—where the stakes are a bit more… intimate.”

Their lips met in a brief, searing kiss—charged, possessive—right there in front of the stunned crowd. Whispers rippled outward. When they parted, Sasha slipped a single card into his palm, fingers grazing his in a slow caress.

“Looking forward to that,” she whispered, breath warm against his ear. “Here’s a little something to ensure your victory against the Count. Use it well, Witcher.”

She slipped away into the crowd, leaving him holding the card—a rare, high-value Northern Realms leader card she’d clearly held back from her own deck. A gift. A gamble. A reminder that she was playing multiple games at once.

After a short break, the final match was called.

Geralt versus Count Tybalt.

The Count played Scoia’tael with aristocratic arrogance—unique, dangerous cards forming impenetrable walls of offense and defense. He flooded the board with high-point units, daring Geralt to overcommit. The first round went to the Count; Geralt surrendered it deliberately, collecting a handful of his strongest used cards to recycle in the next round.

The crowd murmured. Tybalt smirked.

But Geralt had Sasha’s card now.

In the second round, he played conservatively—tight formations, baiting the Count into overextending. When Tybalt committed his heaviest hitters, Geralt dropped the gifted leader card. Its ability doubled his recycled units’ strength, turning a modest row into an overwhelming siege line that shattered the Count’s defenses.

The final round was a rout.

The last card fell. Geralt’s points held.

The hall exploded in applause.

Geralt rose slowly, gaze sweeping the room until it found Sasha near the back. She stood with arms crossed, lips curved in that knowing, satisfied smile. Their eyes locked. She gave the smallest nod—acknowledgment, pride, promise.

He’d won the tournament.

He’d won the purse.

And tonight… he’d win her.

Completely.

The White Wolf had claimed his prize.

Now it was time to collect.

Chapter 12: The Clues

The final round had barely ended, applause still echoing through the grand hall, when the organizer burst through the double doors flanked by three heavily armed guards. His face was ashen.

“It’s been stolen!” he shouted, voice cracking. “The prize money—the entire purse—has been stolen!”

Chaos erupted. Accusations flew like arrows. Players shouted, spectators surged forward, and guards began cordoning off exits. The festive atmosphere shattered in seconds.

Geralt’s gaze cut through the panic and locked on Sasha. She stood near the edge of the crowd, expression perfectly composed—concern mixed with urgency. When she felt his stare, she turned, meeting his eyes without flinching.

“It… it wasn’t me, I promise,” she said softly, stepping close enough that only he could hear. Her voice carried genuine sincerity.

He nodded once. Her heartbeat—steady, calm, not a single skipped beat—confirmed it. She wasn’t lying.

“I need you to get me into the room where the money was kept,” he said quietly. “Now.”

Sasha didn’t hesitate.

She wove through the frantic crowd with effortless grace, Geralt a step behind. Two guards blocked the corridor leading to the secure counting room. One raised a hand.

“No one goes in. Orders from the organizer.”

Sasha stepped forward, chin lifted, every inch the elegant noblewoman. Her voice was smooth, laced with just the right amount of aristocratic authority.

“Captain,” she said, placing a gentle hand on the older guard’s arm, “I understand your orders completely. But this man—” she gestured to Geralt with a graceful flick of her wrist “—is Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher who just won the entire tournament. The prize was his by right. If the thieves left any trace—any scent, any mark—he is the only one in Novigrad who can track them before the trail goes cold.”

The guard hesitated, glancing at his companion.

Sasha leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a confidential murmur, eyes wide with feigned worry. “Think of the scandal if the champion’s rightful winnings are lost forever because we delayed even five minutes. The Passiflora’s reputation… the Marquise’s personal investment… not to mention the Emperor’s spies who are always watching how Novigrad handles its affairs.” She let the implication hang, then smiled warmly. “I was with the champion all evening. I can vouch for him. Let us through—just long enough for him to read the scene. You’ll be the guard who helped recover the city’s honor.”

Her heartbeat never wavered. Not once.

Geralt listened, impressed despite himself. No elevated pulse, no nervous hitch in her breathing. She was in her element—lying with the effortless confidence of someone who had done it many times before.

*Who exactly are you, Sasha?* he thought, the question burning hotter than ever.

The guard swallowed, glanced at his partner, then stepped aside. “Five minutes. No more.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Sasha purred, brushing past him with a grateful smile that could have melted steel.

The moment the door closed behind them, Geralt gave her a sidelong look. “You’re very good at that.”

She shrugged, the picture of innocence. “I simply hate to see a champion robbed of his due.”

The room was a mess. A lifeless guard lay slumped against the wall, a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. Geralt knelt, inspecting the bolt.

“This isn’t an ordinary crossbow bolt,” he muttered. “It’s tainted with a substance—magical, noon wraith-derived poison. That explains why no one heard a scuffle. It paralyzed and blinded him instantly.”

Sasha’s eyes widened. “Magic? I thought all the mages in Novigrad had been hunted down or fled the city?”

“This wasn’t done by a mage,” Geralt said, brow furrowed. “A mage wouldn’t have needed a bolt to paralyze the guard. No… this is the work of another Witcher.”

He rose, gaze shifting to the balcony where the thieves had escaped. Faint scuff marks led to the railing—two deep indentations where a grappling hook had bitten into the wood.

“The thief scaled the three-story wall using a grappling hook and rope,” he observed. “Let’s follow the trail. We might find more clues outside.”

As they descended the stairs and stepped into the cool evening air, Geralt tracked the footprints with ease. Sasha watched him, clearly impressed by how he picked up the slightest traces others would miss.

“The tracks stop here,” he noted, pointing. On a nearby road, several hundred feet from the Passiflora, they found a broken box with a distinct logo stamped on the side.

Sasha studied it, pacing for a moment before the answer clicked. “I know that mark. It’s the logo of the Qulliq lamp oil company. They store seal oil in a warehouse near the harbor.”

“Lead the way.”

The path took them to the edge of town, past abandoned buildings and vagrants huddled against the cold. In the distance, dim lights flickered from a warehouse that looked far more active than the rest.

“Let’s investigate,” Geralt said.

They approached cautiously, slipping through shadows until they could see the scene clearly: heavily armed guards, workers hauling crates to a large vessel at the dock.

“That seems odd for a lamp oil company, doesn’t it?” Geralt muttered.

Sasha nodded. The whole operation looked wrong.

Geralt motioned to the far end of the building, protected by only a single guard. “We enter from there. Less protection, better surprise.”

“Shouldn’t we get help?” Sasha asked, concern flickering across her face.

In the dim light, Geralt uncorked a vial of mutagen and drank deeply. The change was swift—muscles swelling, veins glowing black beneath pale skin, stature growing more imposing.

“We don’t have time,” he said, voice now gravelly and monstrous. “I can do this alone.”

“I am going with you,” Sasha replied firmly. She pulled two daggers from her thigh sheath and cut a long slit up the back of her gown so she could move freely.

“Sasha, be on your guard,” Geralt whispered, hand on the hilt of his sword. “We don’t know what we might find here.”

They crept around to the back of the warehouse, hugging the shadows where the lamplight didn’t reach. The gap between their hiding spot and the lone guard at the far door was over a hundred feet of open, well-lit ground—too far to rush without giving him time to shout or raise an alarm.

Geralt crouched low, eyes narrowed on the guard’s silhouette. The man paced lazily, lantern swinging, oblivious for now.

“Only way to the door is a straight rush,” Geralt muttered, mostly to himself, voice low and rough. “If he signals before we reach him…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The thought of Sasha caught in crossfire—outnumbered, exposed—tightened something in his chest. He wasn’t used to worrying about anyone else in a fight. “Too risky. He’ll have time to call out.”

Beside him, Sasha shifted. When he glanced over, she was already smirking—small, confident, almost amused. Without a word, she reached down, pulled two slim daggers from the thigh sheath hidden beneath her slit gown, and flipped them once in her palm with practiced, effortless ease. The blades caught the faint moonlight, gleaming like silver teeth.

Geralt’s brows lifted slightly. Certainly more than a debutante.

She didn’t wait for his approval. She rose just enough to clear the shadows, sighted once—quick, precise—and threw.

Both daggers flew true.

The first struck the guard’s throat mid-step, silencing any cry before it could form. The second buried itself in his stomach a heartbeat later. The man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, lantern clattering to the ground and rolling harmlessly into the dirt. The thud of his body was swallowed by the rhythmic lap of waves against the dock.

The duo rushed to the door. Sasha exhaled softly, already moving forward to retrieve her blades. She wiped them clean on the guard’s cloak with clinical efficiency, then tucked them back into their sheaths. Meanwhile, Geralt dragged the body into the shadows.

Geralt watched her the whole time, a new layer of the mystery slotting into place. The way she handled those daggers—grip, balance, release—spoke of training, repetition, intent. Not a panicked throw. Not beginner’s luck. She was something more. Something dangerous.

And it excited him as much as it unsettled him.

But there wasn’t time to ponder it now.

He dragged the body into the deepest shadow while Sasha scanned the door for traps or additional eyes. When he rejoined her, she met his gaze without apology or explanation—just a faint, knowing curve of her lips.

“Ready?” she whispered.

Geralt nodded once, hand already on the hilt of his steel sword.

Geralt pushed the door open. A musty scent greeted them as they slipped inside the dimly lit warehouse. Barrels lined the walls—highly flammable seal oil that would turn the whole place into an inferno if a stray spark hit. Caution would be needed.

As they moved from storage to the main floor, hushed voices and the clink of metal reached them. Peering around a corner, they saw the thieves’ operation in full swing: armed guards, workers boxing explosives and weapons, the Passiflora loot already loaded onto a cart.

“We have the cash from the Passiflora, boss,” one man said.

“Good,” the other replied. “The rest of the shipment should be here shortly. Once they arrive, we can set sail for Nilfgaard. Those bastards will pay for destroying Temeria.”

Geralt couldn’t place the voice, but it was familiar.

“It’s them,” he growled.

Geralt drew his steel sword. Sasha’s daggers appeared in her hands.

They exchanged a single, determined glance.

“If I take out the archers on the catwalk,” Sasha whispered, breath warm against Geralt’s ear, “do you think you can clear the floor?”

Geralt’s eyes flicked across the warehouse—ten guards visible, armed and alert, plus workers still loading crates. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he murmured. “Even without Igni.”

Sasha gave a small, fierce nod. Then she moved.

She slithered up the narrow metal stairs like a shadow—silent, weightless, every step placed with predatory grace. Geralt watched her disappear onto the catwalk, heart rate steady, no tremor of fear. The woman was built for this.

He waited three heartbeats.

Then he rounded the corner like a storm breaking.

Two guards spun toward the sudden silver flash of his blade. The first had time only to widen his eyes before Geralt’s steel sheared through leather, muscle, and bone in a single, brutal diagonal. Blood sprayed in a hot arc; the man collapsed mid-scream.

The second soldier lunged, sword arcing down toward Geralt’s unprotected back. Geralt spun—fluid, almost lazy—blade whipping around in a wide, lethal crescent. Steel met steel with a ringing clang that echoed off the rafters. He twisted his wrists, redirecting the blow, then drove forward. The soldier’s head left his shoulders before the body realized it was dead; it hit the floor with a wet thud and rolled several feet, eyes still open in shock.

Three more guards burst through a side door, weapons drawn, splitting to flank him. The largest charged straight on, sword high; the other two circled left and right. Above, Geralt felt the subtle shift of weight—an archer drawing on the catwalk.

He dropped into a low defensive stance, blade angled, timing the rush.

Sasha was already moving.

She reached the nearest archer in three silent strides. One hand clamped over his mouth; the other drove her dagger up under his jaw in a clean, practiced thrust. The man gurgled once, eyes rolling back, and slumped against the railing. She lowered him without a sound.

The second archer turned at the faint scuff—too late. Sasha was on him in a blur. She slammed her shoulder into his bow arm, pinning it against the rail, then drove three rapid stabs into his chest—precise, merciless. He slid down the wall in a spray of red.

Below, the flanking guards closed on Geralt.

He parried the big one’s overhead chop—sparks flying—then sidestepped the left attacker’s thrust. His blade flicked out in a short, vicious arc, opening the man’s throat. Blood fountained. The guard dropped, gurgling.

The big soldier roared and swung again. Geralt met the blow, steel screaming on steel, then stepped inside the arc and drove his pommel into the man’s nose. Cartilage crunched. The guard staggered. Geralt spun, sword whipping low—severing hamstrings. The man collapsed, screaming. Geralt finished him with a downward thrust through the heart.

The last guard hesitated—then charged anyway.

Geralt flicked his wrist; Axii rippled outward in a shimmering wave. The man froze mid-step, eyes glazing. Geralt closed the distance in two strides and drove steel through his chest. The body slumped to its knees, then toppled.

For a heartbeat, silence—only dripping blood and the distant lap of waves.

Then the air shifted.

A glowing Aard sign flared in the shadows across the warehouse.

Geralt felt the telekinetic wave a split-second before it hit—not aimed at him.

At Sasha.

She had just reached the last archer when the invisible force slammed into her chest. Her feet left the catwalk. She flew backward, slamming into a stack of barrels with bone-jarring force. Wood splintered; she tumbled to the floor in a sprawl of silk and blood, dazed.

Before she could rise, a soldier stepped from the shadows behind her and brought the hilt of his sword crashing down on the back of her skull. She crumpled, unconscious.

“Surrender, Geralt,” a voice called from the darkness. “Or the woman dies.”

A figure stepped into the dim lantern light.

Bernard Tulle—the halfling from the tournament—smiled up at him, crossbow leveled at Sasha’s temple.

Geralt’s sword lowered slowly. His gaze flicked from Bernard to the shadows beyond—where another silhouette waited, taller, cloaked, the faint glow of a Witcher medallion glinting at his throat.

He was outnumbered. And far too attached.

Geralt let his blade fall to the floor with a dull clang.

He raised his hands.

The odds had turned.

But the game wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Chapter 13: Captured

Sasha’s consciousness clawed its way back through layers of darkness and pain. A dull throb pulsed at the base of her skull where the hilt had struck. Cold stone pressed against her bare knees. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back with coarse rope that bit into skin; her ankles were lashed to the legs of the chair she sat on. A rag gag had been stuffed in her mouth, tasting of old sweat and dust.

Captured. Again. The thought was calm, almost detached. She’d known the risks when she took the assignment. Suicide wasn’t an option—not yet. All she could do was wait, assess, and survive.

The room was small, windowless, lit only by two sputtering candles on a scarred wooden desk. Cracked plaster walls wept damp; cobwebs draped the corners like gray lace. A single iron ring bolted into the floor suggested this place had seen many interrogations. The air was thick with mold, oil, and the faint copper tang of old blood.

The door creaked open. Candlelight flooded in, harsh after so long in shadow. Three figures entered: two tall guards carrying lanterns, and between them a small, familiar silhouette.

The room came into focus: an old wooden desk scarred with years of use, peeling plaster walls, cobwebs heavy in the corners. A neglected interrogation chamber, probably beneath one of Novigrad’s older warehouses.

Bernard Tulle—the halfling from the tournament—stepped forward, a long, flat wooden paddle dangling casually from one hand. Holes drilled through its surface caught the flame, promising speed and sting. His grin was wide, almost cheerful.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice dripping with mock delight. “Our precious Sasha has awakened from her nap… or should I say, Cantarella?”

Sasha’s real name hit like a slap. She didn’t flinch—didn’t give him the satisfaction—but her pulse kicked up a notch. Bernard circled her slowly, paddle tapping against his palm.

Bernard circled her slowly, paddle tapping against his thigh. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Cantarella. Raiding my warehouse. Disrupting my shipment. All while playing the wide-eyed debutante at the tournament.”

“We need answers, Cantarella,” Bernard continued, stopping in front of her. “And your cooperation. Give us both, and you may survive. Do you understand?”

She nodded once, eyes locked on his—steady, defiant.

“Good.” He gestured to the guards. “Remove her gag. But be careful—this Nilfgaardian bitch is dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.”

One guard stepped behind her, fingers rough as he untied the cloth. Sasha drew a deep breath the moment it fell away. Before she could react, the second guard yanked her head back by the hair, forcing her mouth open, then pinched her nose shut. A wooden stick was wedged between her molars—horizontal, keeping her jaw pried wide.

Bernard produced a small vial of glowing yellow liquid. “This little concoction should help loosen your lips.” Bernard uncorked the vial and poured.

The serum was cold, bitter, sliding down her throat in a slow burn. She tried to spit, to resist, but gravity and the stick defeated her. She swallowed involuntarily.

Bernard removed the stick. She coughed once, then steadied.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said with a grin. “This truth serum is harmless. It only takes a few moments to take effect.”

The change was subtle at first—a wave of tranquility washing through her, loosening the knots of fear and calculation. Her mind felt… unburdened. Motivated to speak. Truth wanted out.

But it wasn’t just truth serum at work.

The succubus mutagen, still simmering from the night before, reacted violently with the new elixir. Warmth bloomed low in her belly, then spread—rapid, insistent. Her skin flushed hot; her nipples tightened painfully against the torn remnants of her gown; between her thighs, fresh slick gathered, soaking through what was left of her underthings. Every breath made her breasts ache; every shift of her bound wrists sent sparks along her nerves.

Bernard watched the shift in her expression; the truth serum is working. His grin widened.

“So, Cantarella,” he began, stepping closer, paddle tapping his leg, “what is the head of the secret service for Nilfgaard doing here in Novigrad?”

She could have lied. The words were already forming. But the truth serum—whatever glowing yellow filth he’d forced down her throat—had loosened something inside her. Not just truth, something crueler, hotter.

“I was tracking Geralt of Rivia,” she said, voice steady despite the flush creeping up her chest. “But when I discovered your operation—your explosives, your weapons, your plan to sail for Nilfgaard—I made ruining you a secondary mission.”

Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you about my operation? You expect me to believe you just stumbled into my business while chasing a Witcher?”

“I didn’t stumble,” she said. “You leave bread crumbs like a child lost in the forest, hoping to make your way back home.”

The halfling studied her for a long moment. Then, without warning, he slapped her—hard. The crack echoed off the stone. Her head snapped to the side; pain bloomed bright across her cheek.

“Don’t toy with me!” he snarled, grabbing her jaw and forcing her to look at him. “You knew exactly what I was doing. Is Emhyr expecting me?”

“Liar.”

He grabbed the neckline of her gown and tore downward. Fabric ripped; buttons popped and scattered across the floor. The bodice fell open, exposing her breasts to the cold air. He yanked harder; the gown tore completely down the front. She landed on her knees as he pulled her off the chair, breasts swaying free, nipples pebbled from chill and the potion’s relentless heat.

Bernard circled her again, paddle tapping his leg.

“You Nilfgaardian spies think you’re untouchable,” he said softly. “Think your Emperor’s gold and your pretty lies will protect you. But here, in my house, you’re just another whore who got caught.”

He stopped in front of her, tilting her chin up with the paddle’s edge.

“Tell me everything,” he said. “Every contact. Every order. Every plan. Or I start with this—” he tapped the paddle against her breast, hard enough to sting.

Cantarella’s pulse thundered, but not from fear. The serum compelled truth; the potion compelled want. She felt the humiliating rush of wetness between her thighs, the ache in her core, the way her body betrayed her even as her mind screamed to resist.

His eyes raked over her compromising position—hands bound behind her back, face pressed to the cold stone floor, knees spread wide, firm round ass lifted high and presented like an offering. The purposefully ripped fabric of her dress climbed her toned calves and trailed off between her thighs, leaving her nearly exposed.

He stepped between her spread legs. With deliberate cruelty, he gripped the remaining silk and yanked—once, twice, three times. The sound of tearing fabric echoed off the cracked walls. The gown parted completely, sliding away to reveal smooth, milky thighs and the delicate white lace panties that clung to her damp skin like a second, useless shield. The thin material was soaked through, outlining every swollen fold, the engorged lips of her pussy visibly pressing against the lace, begging for release.

Cantarella’s breath hitched. She hated how her body responded—how the exposure only made the ache between her legs sharper, how her clit throbbed visibly beneath the fabric. The potion had turned shame into fuel.

Bernard twirled the paddle once more, eyes gleaming. “Look at you,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Nilfgaard’s deadliest seductress… dripping like a tavern slut because I tore your dress.”

He knelt behind her, paddle tracing the curve of one ass cheek—light, teasing—then drew back and brought it down hard.

Crack.

The sting exploded across her flesh, bright and immediate. Cantarella cried out—sharp, involuntary—but the sound twisted halfway into a moan. Heat bloomed instantly, chasing the pain straight to her core. Her hips jerked forward; a fresh rush of wetness soaked the lace.

Bernard paused. He heard it—the needy, breathy edge to her cry.

His grin widened.

“Well, well,” he said softly. “Someone’s enjoying this more than she should.”

He rubbed the paddle gently over the reddening mark, almost soothing—then cracked it down again, harder.

Cantarella’s body lurched. Another cry escaped—higher, more desperate. Her thighs trembled; she pressed them together instinctively, but the motion only rubbed her swollen clit against the soaked lace, sending sparks up her spine.

Bernard laughed—low, delighted. “Oh, this is too good. The great Cantarella… whimpering for a halfling’s paddle.”

He set the paddle aside and gripped the waistband of her panties. With one sharp tug, he ripped them away. Cool air hit her exposed pussy; she gasped, hips twitching. Her labia were flushed dark pink, glistening, swollen, and parted slightly—clit peeking out, begging for touch.

Bernard’s fingers traced her slit—slow, deliberate—spreading her open. She moaned again, hips rocking back despite herself.

“Tell me about Geralt’s mission,” he said, voice deceptively soft. “Everything. And maybe I’ll reward you for being a good little girl.”

Cantarella bit her lip, fighting the words, but the serum and potion were merciless. Her body was on fire; every touch felt like lightning.

“He… he’s looking for a key,” she gasped, voice trembling. “Emhyr needs it… for something bigger.”

Bernard’s thumb circled her clit—once, twice. She whimpered, hips bucking.

“Good girl,” he purred. “Do you have the key now?”

“Mmm… no… uh…” She panted, overwhelmed, hips rolling shamelessly into his hand. “He… he doesn’t have it yet…”

Bernard leaned closer, breath hot against her exposed flesh. His tongue flicked out—slow, deliberate—tracing her slit from entrance to clit in one long, wet stroke.

Cantarella’s back arched, a long, broken moan tearing from her throat. “Ohhh… gods, that feels so good…”

He sucked her clit gently, then harder, tongue lashing in tight circles. Her thighs shook; fresh slick coated his chin. She hated him—hated how easily he unraveled her—but her body didn’t care. The potion had turned every touch into ecstasy.

Bernard pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing her throbbing flesh. “Tell me, kitten… what did Emhyr need the key for?”

She tried to resist—tried to cling to silence—but another slow lick dragged the truth out of her.

“He… he wants to open something… something ancient… something that could turn the war…”

Bernard hummed approval against her, vibrations sending fresh shocks through her core.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Keep talking… and I’ll keep rewarding you.”

His fingers slid inside her—two, then three—curling against that perfect, swollen spot with ruthless accuracy. Cantarella’s back arched off the floor, a sharp, involuntary cry tearing from her throat as pleasure lanced through her core like lightning. The potion turned every touch into fire: her inner walls fluttered desperately around his fingers, slick and greedy, clenching hard as if trying to pull him deeper. Her hips rocked back shamelessly, chasing the rhythm, thighs trembling with the effort to hold herself together.

Bernard watched her unravel with dark satisfaction, thumb circling her clit in slow, deliberate strokes while his fingers pumped steadily—deep, curling, relentless. “Damn, Cantarella,” he growled, voice thick with amusement and lust, “you’re such a horny little slut, aren’t you? Soaking my hand like you were born for this.”

She clenched her jaw, trying to summon venom through the haze. “You’re… half a man,” she spat, voice trembling but sharp. “I wouldn’t feel shit if you did.”

The words were meant to cut. Instead, they backfired spectacularly.

Bernard’s pants hit the floor with a soft thud. His cock sprang free—narrow at the base, thickening dramatically toward the fat, bulbous head, flushed dark and already leaking. It stood proud, heavy, far larger than she’d expected from his stature. Cantarella’s breath caught; her eyes widened despite herself.

He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad tip grazing her yearning, swollen folds. Her body quivered in response—inner muscles fluttering, a fresh rush of slick coating him instantly.

Inch by inch, he pushed inside.

Cantarella’s nerves ignited in pleasurable shockwaves. The fat head stretched her open, parting her tight walls with slow, deliberate pressure. Every ridge, every vein dragged along her sensitive flesh, sending sparks racing up her spine. She released an audible moan—“Ohhh!”—as he sank deeper, filling her completely, the thickest part pressing against places she hadn’t known could feel so much.

Shame flooded her, hot and vicious. I’m Nilfgaard’s greatest spy. I’ve seduced kings. Ruined empires. And now I’m moaning for this creature like a common whore.

Bernard began to pump—slow at first, letting her feel every dragging inch—then harder, faster, the wet slap of flesh echoing obscenely. Her breasts swayed heavily with each brutal thrust; her bound arms strained uselessly behind her as her hips rocked back to meet him despite the screaming voice in her head.

“Fuck—oh god!” she gasped, hating the words the moment they left her mouth. Stop talking. Stop moaning. Fight it—

Bernard groaned low in his throat. “Cantarella… how does my key fit in your box?” he taunted, hips rolling once, grinding deep. “Still think I’m half a man?”

She screamed, voice breaking on pleasure. “Oh gods—you’re so thick!” The stretch was exquisite—painful in the best way, every inch forcing her walls to yield, hugging him like velvet heat. She’d imagined a halfling cock would be half the size of a man’s; instead it filled, pressing against every sensitive spot inside her at once.

Bernard began to pump—slow at first, letting her feel every drag and thrust—then harder, faster. Her breasts swayed with each impact; her bound arms strained against the ropes as she tried to brace herself. Moans poured from her lips—raw, helpless—each one louder than the last.

“Fuck—you feel so good!” she gasped, hips rocking back to meet him despite herself. “So deep—so fucking deep—”

He gripped her bound wrists like reins, pulling her back onto his cock with every thrust. “Tell me about the key Emhyr is looking for!”

Her body lurched forward with each powerful stroke, breasts bouncing, breath coming in short, desperate pants. “It’s… it’s a girl—ah yes—uh, uh, uh… gods—the girl is the key—oh yes—”

The guards exchanged stunned glances. Cantarella—once proud, untouchable—now writhed beneath the halfling, moaning like a wanton, hips chasing his rhythm.

Bernard’s fingers dug into her hips. “Why does Emhyr want this key, my dear?”

She could barely form words. “She… she can… mmm—become a weapon—oh fuck—”

He chuckled darkly, pace quickening. “Well, my dear Cantarella… how do you like being fucked by a halfling?”

“Uh… uh… Bernard—I’m so close—please!” she pleaded, voice desperate, broken.

His palm cracked against her ass—hard, echoing. The sting bloomed into heat that shot straight to her core. She moaned louder, walls fluttering wildly around him.

“Does Emhyr know I’m coming?” he demanded, pounding harder.

“No—oh fuck—no he doesn’t know—” she screamed, breath hitching with every brutal thrust.

“Why not?”

“Mmm—I can’t… can’t get communications out of Novigrad—uh… uh… it’s too hard—lines are too tight—”

Bernard grinned, feeling her clench tighter around him. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Tight as a vice… dripping like a whore.”

“Yes, oh god yes!”

“Cantarella—you will pay for disrupting my operation,” he grunted, thrusts turning erratic, powerful. “Do you understand?”

Her mind was gone—lost in the whirlwind of sensation. “Yes—oh yes—make me pay!”

Bernard’s voice dropped to a guttural growl. “I will, you sexy cock-hungry whore! You’re going to be my sex slave—my cum bucket!”

He fucked her faster—harder—each thrust slamming deep, balls slapping against her clit. Cantarella screamed, body shaking, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

“I’m cumming! Oh god, I’m cumming all over your thick halfling cock!”

With a final, savage thrust he buried himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed violently as he came—thick, hot ropes flooding her depths, painting her insides with his release.

Cantarella shattered.

Her orgasm erupted in a tidal wave—walls clamping down hard, milking him greedily as she screamed his name, “Bernard! Oh fuck Bernard!” Slick gushed from her in an audible torrent, soaking his thighs, the floor beneath them. Her body convulsed violently, pleasure consuming her until she could barely breathe.

Bernard groaned through the last pulses, then slowly withdrew. A thick trail of his cum dripped down the back of her trembling thigh.

He stepped back, breathing hard, satisfied.

Cantarella collapsed forward onto the cold stone, face flushed, chest heaving, mind reeling. She tried to process what had just happened—how easily she’d broken, how thoroughly she’d surrendered—but the potion and serum still hummed in her blood, leaving her aching, needy, wanting more.

Bernard adjusted his trousers with casual arrogance. “We’ll continue this tonight, Cantarella,” he said, voice carrying the weight of ownership. “Rest up. You’re going to need it.”

He turned to his men. “Get her ready for later.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

Cantarella lay there—bound, spent, dripping—trying to understand the depths to which she’d fallen.

Chapter 14: The Guards

Cantarella’s legs shook as the two guards hauled her up from the floor. Her knees buckled once, twice—muscles still quivering from the aftershocks of Bernard’s brutal claiming. The potion hadn’t faded; if anything, the violence and humiliation had only fed it. Every brush of rough hands on her skin sent fresh sparks racing through her nerves. Her nipples ached, tight and hypersensitive; between her thighs, Bernard’s cum still leaked slowly down her legs, mixing with her own slick in a humiliating trail.

*This is wrong. This is beneath me.*

The thought clawed at the back of her mind—Nilfgaard’s deadliest spy, reduced to trembling prey. Yet her body refused to listen. Her clit throbbed with every heartbeat; her inner walls fluttered emptily, already aching to be filled again. Shame burned hot in her chest, but it only made the heat between her legs worse.

The older guard—broad-shouldered, scarred, gray at the temples—guided her toward the heavy wooden desk in the center of the room. The younger one—lean, eager, barely more than a boy—followed close behind, eyes wide and hungry as they drank in her naked, flushed form.

“Hands on the table,” the older one rumbled, voice low and thick. Cantarella obeyed before she could think—palms slapping down on the scarred wood, elbows locking, ass presented high. The position forced her breasts to hang heavy and swaying, nipples grazing the cold surface with every shaky breath.

The older guard stepped behind her. Rough fingers traced the red welts Bernard’s paddle had left on her ass, then slid lower—parting her cheeks, spreading her open. She felt the cool air kiss her dripping cunt; a soft, involuntary whimper escaped her.

“Still soaked,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Bernard really did a number on you, didn’t he, honey?”

Cantarella clenched her jaw. *Don’t answer. Don’t give them anything.*

But her hips twitched backward anyway—traitorous, needy.

The guard chuckled darkly. His hands roamed upward—cupping her breasts, squeezing the soft weight, thumbs rolling her aching nipples until she gasped. “Sounds like you want more,” he whispered against her ear. “What do you say, honey?”

She tried to summon defiance. Tried to spit venom. But the potion turned every word into a plea.

“Please…” she breathed instead, horrified at herself.

The older guard pressed against her back—his clothed body hot and heavy, the hard ridge of his cock grinding against her ass through rough wool. He leaned her forward until her chest flattened against the desk, nipples scraping wood, ass lifted higher.

Behind her, the metallic clank of a belt buckle hitting stone. Then the rustle of fabric. Heat radiated from his freed cock as he notched the thick head against her entrance—still slick with Bernard’s cum and her own endless arousal.

He pushed in slowly—inch by thick inch—stretching her anew. Cantarella’s breath hitched into a long, broken moan. The stretch was exquisite—painful in the best way, every ridge dragging along her oversensitive walls, forcing her to feel every detail.

“Ohhh… uh… uh…” The sounds spilled from her lips before she could stop them.

Meanwhile, the younger guard stepped in front of her. His trousers dropped quickly; his cock sprang free—long, slender, already leaking at the tip. He gripped the base and angled it toward her mouth.

“Suck my cock,” he ordered, voice cracking with excitement.

Cantarella licked her lips—once, twice—then opened for him.

Her warm mouth enveloped him in one smooth glide. The young guard groaned, hands fisting in her hair, pushing deeper until her nose pressed into the coarse thatch of pubic hair. The musky scent flooded her senses; the potion turned it intoxicating. She sucked hard, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing—desperate to please even as her mind screamed in protest.

*This is wrong. This is degradation. I am Cantarella—*

But her body didn’t care. Her hips rocked back onto the older guard’s thrusting cock; her throat opened wider for the younger one. She moaned around the shaft filling her mouth, vibrations making him shudder.

The older guard gripped her hips and began to fuck her in earnest—hard, deep strokes that slapped wetly against her ass, driving her forward onto the cock in her throat. The two men found a brutal rhythm: one thrust in as the other pulled back, rocking her between them like a toy.

“Fuck yeah—she likes it!” the young guard panted, hips snapping forward. “Take it all, slut!”

Cantarella gagged softly—throat fluttering around him—but she didn’t pull away. Her hands—still bound behind her—clenched uselessly as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her core. The older guard’s thick cock battered her G-spot with every thrust; the younger one’s length slid deep enough to make her eyes water.

She hated them.

She hated herself.

And gods help her—she loved every second.

The older guard slapped her ass again—hard—sending a fresh bloom of heat straight to her clit. Cantarella moaned louder around the cock stuffing her mouth, hips bucking wildly.

The room filled with the symphony of their bodies: wet slaps, ragged breaths, muffled cries, the creak of the desk beneath her elbows.

Both men thrust in unison—driving her forward and back, filling her from both ends until she couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the next began.

Cantarella’s mind fractured—shame, rage, ecstasy crashing together in a blinding storm.

And still her body chased more—greedy, insatiable, utterly surrendered.

The young guard’s dick thrust eagerly into her mouth, stretching her lips wide.

“Yeah—take it all, slut!” he groaned, hips jerking.

Cantarella’s throat worked around him—swallowing, sucking, begging with every hollow of her cheeks.

The room echoed with the wet, obscene symphony of debauchery—skin slapping skin, ragged breaths, muffled cries, the creak of the heavy desk beneath Cantarella’s braced elbows. Her body rocked helplessly between the two guards, impaled from both ends, every thrust driving her deeper into a haze where shame and ecstasy blurred into one unbearable flame.

The young guard withdrew from her mouth with a wet pop. Silky ropes of saliva stretched and snapped between her swollen lips and his glistening cock. He groaned, hips jerking as the first thick rope of cum erupted across her tongue. Cantarella’s eyes fluttered half-closed; driven by the potion’s merciless hunger, she opened wider—catching every pulsing jet, letting it paint her lips, her cheeks, her chin in hot, white streaks.

“Oh fuck—I’m… I’m coming—” he panted, voice cracking with awe.

She swallowed greedily, tongue swirling to capture every drop, the salty-bitter flood overwhelming her senses. As the last spurt landed on her tongue, she looked up at him—eyes glassy, face marked, utterly debased—and slowly, deliberately, dragged her fingers through the mess on her cheeks. She brought them to her lips, licking them clean with slow, sensual strokes, swallowing again while her gaze never left his.

The young guard stared, stunned and triumphant. “You like how it tastes, don’t you, whore?” he rasped. “Clean me off.”

Cantarella leaned forward without hesitation. Her lips wrapped around his semi-hard shaft, sucking gently, tongue laving every inch—cleaning him with reverent care. The taste of his release mingled with her own spit; she moaned softly around him, the vibration making him shudder.

The potion turned every cut into pleasure. Her pussy clenched around the older guard’s thrusting cock; her clit throbbed untouched. She hated how much she craved this degradation. Hated how right it felt.

The older guard behind her growled approval, hips snapping harder. “Look at her—fucking loving it. Dripping like a bitch in heat.”

Cantarella moaned louder around the softening cock in her mouth, hips rocking back to meet every punishing thrust. Her breasts swayed heavily beneath her; her bound wrists strained uselessly as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.

Then she felt it—new, invasive.

The older guard’s thick fingers traced the tight pucker of her asshole—slow, deliberate—spreading the slick mess of her arousal upward. Panic surged through the lust haze.

“Wait—I…!” she tried to scream, pushing the young guard’s cock from her mouth with a wet gasp.

But the younger one was faster. He gripped her hair and shoved himself back down her throat—silencing her protest into muffled whimpers. “Shut up and take it, slut.”

The older guard pressed one finger past her resisting ring—slow, insistent. Cantarella’s body jolted; a strangled cry vibrated around the cock stuffing her mouth. The stretch burned—sharp, foreign—yet the potion twisted it into dark, forbidden pleasure. Her hips bucked involuntarily, pushing back onto his finger even as tears stung her eyes.

Another slap cracked across her ass—harder this time. The sting bloomed into heat that shot straight to her core. She moaned—loud, broken—around the shaft filling her throat.

“You fucking slut,” the older guard growled, adding a second finger—stretching her wider, scissoring gently. “Look at how you love my fingers in your ass. You love having all your holes claimed, don’t you?”

Cantarella’s mind screamed *no*—but her body answered for her. Her hips rocked back greedily; fresh slick gushed down her thighs. She couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t stop the desperate whimpers spilling around the cock in her mouth.

“Tell me you want me to fuck your ass,” he demanded, fingers pumping slowly, stretching her open.

Her resistance shattered.

“Yes—oh gods yes—claim me! Claim all of me!” she panted, voice wrecked and pleading.

The older guard withdrew from her dripping pussy with a wet sound. Cantarella whimpered at the emptiness—then gasped as he pressed the thick, slick head of his cock against her virgin asshole.

He pushed in slowly—relentlessly.

The stretch was fire at first—burning, overwhelming. Cantarella screamed into the cock in her mouth, body tensing, tears streaming down her cheeks. But the potion was merciless. Inch by thick inch, the pain melted into dark, exquisite pleasure. Her walls hugged him like velvet heat; every ridge dragged along nerves she hadn’t known existed.

“Ow… you are too thick—fuck—my ass—you’re stretching me to my limits!” she panted around the shaft filling her throat.

The older guard gripped her hips and sank deeper—until he was buried to the hilt. Cantarella’s back arched violently; a long, shuddering moan tore from her lips.

He pulled her upright by the hair—pressing her sweat-slick back against his chest. Her legs dangled uselessly; he hooked his arms under her thighs, spreading her wide, lifting her completely off the ground. Her breasts bounced freely; he palmed them roughly, twisting her nipples until she cried out.

“You like how this feels, don’t you?” he growled against her ear.

“Yes—oh gods—yes!” she sobbed, head falling back onto his shoulder, arms flung around his neck for balance as he began to thrust—slow at first, then harder, deeper, fucking her ass with punishing rhythm.

The young guard watched, stroking himself back to full hardness, eyes wide with awe and lust.

Cantarella’s moans filled the room—raw, desperate, broken. “Oh gods—yes—holy shit—yes! Give it to me!”

Her body bounced in his grip—breasts swaying wildly, ass clenching around his thick cock with every brutal plunge. Pleasure crashed over her in relentless waves; another orgasm built impossibly fast.

The older guard’s voice was a guttural snarl. “Your ass is so fucking tight!”

He had Cantarella lifted completely off the ground—her legs hooked over his thick forearms, spread wide, her body suspended and impaled on his cock. Her arms were flung back, bound wrists useless, fingers digging into his sweaty shoulders for balance as he bounced her up and down his shaft. Each brutal thrust drove him deeper into her ass, the thick girth stretching her to the absolute limit, every ridge dragging along her sensitive walls in a rhythm that made her vision blur.

Cantarella’s head lolled back against his shoulder, mouth open in a continuous stream of broken moans. Her full breasts bounced wildly with every impact, nipples hard and aching, begging for touch. The potion had turned her into pure sensation—every nerve screaming with overstimulation, every thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating from her stuffed ass straight to her untouched clit.

The young guard watched, transfixed, his cock already hardening again as he stroked himself slowly. “God, you are beautiful,” he breathed, stepping closer. His hand reached out, cupping one swaying breast, thumb and forefinger pinching her taut nipple hard enough to make her gasp.

Cantarella’s eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused—and met his. The young man closed the distance, crushing his mouth to hers in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Tongues tangled; she moaned into him as his free hand slid down her belly, fingers finding her dripping pussy, flicking her yearning clit.

The young guard then notched his cock at her entrace then slid into her inch by torturous inch, forcing her hips to yield to both men, her walls fluttering and clenching in frantic protest and greedy welcome. Cantarella’s eyes shot wide, she felt impossibly full—split open, claimed in every way. A raw, ecstatic scream tore from her throat, muffled against his lips as both men filled her. The thin wall separating their cocks stretched taut; every movement rubbed them against each other through her body, igniting a cascade of unbearable pleasure that short-circuited her mind.

“Uh… uh… fuck—” she panted into his mouth, voice trembling, breaking on every syllable. “You’re both so big—stretching me—gods—too much—too fucking much—”

The two guards found their rhythm—thrusting in counterpoint, one driving deep as the other pulled back, rocking her helpless between them like a living toy. Her body undulated, hips rolling instinctively, chasing every inch of friction. The older guard’s thick cock claimed her ass with punishing force; the younger one’s long shaft battered her G-spot with every snap of his hips.

“She’s loving it!” the young guard groaned, hands gripping her waist as he pounded harder. “Fuck—your pussy feels so fucking good!”

The older guard growled behind her, pace turning savage. “Feel that, slut? Two cocks owning every hole—stretching you wide open—”

Cantarella’s arms tightened around the young man’s neck, nails digging into his shoulders as she clung for dear life. Her hips rolled instinctively—chasing every inch of friction—moaning louder into his mouth with every slow, deliberate thrust that filled her beyond capacity.

“Yes—yes—I’m a slut—use me—fuck me—please—” she begged, words slurred against his tongue, body shuddering as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.

Cantarella’s mind fractured—shame, rage, ecstasy crashing together in a blinding storm.

This is wrong. This is degradation. I am Cantarella—

Cantarella’s body didn’t care. Her pussy fluttered wildly around the young guard’s shaft, inner walls spasming in frantic, greedy pulses that tried to pull him deeper. Her ass hugged the older one’s cock like velvet heat—clenching rhythmically with every brutal plunge, milking him as if her body had decided it belonged to them now. She moaned louder—raw, desperate—into the young guard’s mouth, the sound vibrating down his length as her hips bucked frantically between them, chasing every inch of friction, every punishing stretch.

The pressure built like a storm trapped inside her skin—coiling tighter, hotter, until every nerve screamed with unbearable tension. Her thighs trembled violently; her bound wrists strained against the ropes; her breasts bounced wildly against the young guard’s chest with each synchronized thrust.

She tore her mouth from his just long enough to gasp—“Oh fuck—I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”—voice cracking, high and broken.

The older guard growled behind her, pace turning absolutely feral. “Gonna fill this tight ass, slut—gonna mark you inside and out.” His palm cracked across her ass—hard—sending a fresh, searing bloom of heat straight to her core. The sting detonated like a spark in dry grass.

That was all it took.

Cantarella’s first climax exploded through her like a dam bursting.

Her entire body seized—back arching so violently she nearly lifted off the older guard’s arms. A raw, primal scream tore from her throat—“YES—FUCK—YES!”—as every muscle locked at once. Her pussy clamped down like a vise around the young guard’s cock, spasming in violent, rhythmic waves that milked him relentlessly. Her ass clenched even tighter around the older one’s shaft, fluttering and squeezing as if trying to pull him impossibly deeper. Slick gushed from her in a hot, audible flood—drenching both men’s thighs, dripping onto the stone floor in obscene puddles.

Pleasure ripped through her in blinding white waves—starting at her core and exploding outward until her fingertips tingled and her toes curled. Her vision whited out; tears streamed down her cheeks from the sheer intensity. Every nerve fired at once—clit throbbing untouched, walls convulsing, ass stretched and filled beyond reason. She shook uncontrollably between them—body jerking with each aftershock—moans dissolving into breathless, sobbing whimpers.

But they didn’t stop.

The older guard kept thrusting—slow, deliberate now—milking every last tremor from her spasming ass as she gipped his thick shaft. The young guard matched him—long, deep strokes that dragged along her oversensitive walls, prolonging the aftershocks until they blurred into something new, something relentless.

Cantarella’s first climax hadn’t even fully crested before the second began to build—coiling low and vicious, feeding on the overstimulation. Her pussy fluttered wildly around the young guard’s cock; her ass clenched rhythmically on the older one’s shaft. The dual penetration turned every nerve into a live wire—each slow withdrawal and hard thrust rubbing them together through the thin, stretched wall inside her, igniting fresh explosions of sensation that made her scream.

“Oh gods—no—too much—too fucking much—” she sobbed, voice cracking, hips bucking helplessly between them even as tears streamed down her face. But her body betrayed her again—pussy clenching greedily, ass hugging tight, slick gushing in rhythmic pulses that soaked both men’s thighs.

The older guard growled low in her ear, hips snapping forward harder. “You’re not done yet, slut. Feel that? You’re coming again—already.”

He was right.

The second orgasm crashed over her like a breaker—sharper, more violent than the first. Her entire body seized—back arching so hard she nearly lifted off the older guard’s arms. A raw, animal scream tore from her throat—“YES—FUCK—YES!”—as her walls clamped down like a vise on both cocks, spasming in brutal, rhythmic waves. Slick squirted from her pussy in hot, audible jets—drenching the young guard’s shaft, dripping onto the stone below. Her ass fluttered wildly around the older one, milking him as if trying to pull him deeper even as he stayed buried to the hilt.

The older guard roared—hips slamming forward one final time—and buried himself to the hilt in her ass. His cock pulsed violently, flooding her depths with thick, hot ropes of cum that painted her insides, marking her completely. The sensation—warm, overwhelming—triggered another violent aftershock; her walls clamped down harder, milking every drop as fresh slick squirted around the young guard’s shaft.

The young guard groaned—voice breaking—“Fuck—she’s coming again—squeezing me so tight—”

He thrust harder, chasing her climax with his own. The older guard matched him—short, punishing strokes that kept her impaled and shaking. Cantarella’s third orgasm followed almost immediately—rolling right into the second like a chain reaction. Her body convulsed uncontrollably—legs kicking against the older guard’s arms, breasts bouncing wildly, head thrown back as another scream dissolved into sobbing moans.

“No—no more—I can’t—please—” she begged, even as her hips rolled frantically, chasing the unbearable pleasure. Tears streamed freely now; her voice grew hoarse. Yet the potion refused to let her stop—turning overstimulation into addiction, every aftershock feeding the next crest.

The young guard lost it watching her shatter again. “Fuck—take it—take everything!” He slammed deep one final time—cock pulsing violently as he unloaded inside her pussy—hot, thick spurts painting her depths, mingling with the older guard’s cum still leaking from her ass.

Cantarella’s body shuddered through yet another ripple—moaning brokenly, vision blurring as fresh slick gushed around the young guard’s shaft. She felt impossibly full—stretched, claimed, overflowing—cum dripping from both holes in slow, obscene trails down her trembling thighs.

The older guard finally stilled—buried to the hilt—groaning through the last pulses as he emptied the final spurts into her ass. “Such a good little whore,” he rasped against her ear. “No wonder kings tell you their secrets. You are good at this.”

For several timeless moments, the three of them clung together—sweaty, trembling, breathing ragged. Cantarella hung suspended between them—legs still hooked over the older guard’s arms, head lolling against the young man’s shoulder—cum leaking steadily from her stretched, quivering holes.

They eased her down slowly—almost reverently—until her bare feet touched the cold stone. She swayed violently, legs barely holding her weight, body still quaking with rolling aftershocks. Her chest heaved; sweat glistened on her flushed skin; tears streaked her cheeks.

The room fell quiet except for the ragged breathing of three spent bodies and the faint drip of cum hitting the stone floor.

Cantarella lay sprawled across the scarred wooden desk as she watched the men dress—her limbs heavy, skin slick with sweat and the mingled evidence of their release. Her thighs trembled; thick trails of white leaked slowly from both stretched holes, pooling beneath her ass in obscene puddles. Her breasts rose and fell with shallow breaths, nipples still flushed and erect, skin marked with red handprints, faint bruises blooming where fingers had gripped too hard.

She stared at the cracked ceiling, eyes glassy, unfocused. Her fingertips drifted absently to her swollen lips—tracing the sticky residue left by the young guard’s release. The taste of him lingered—salty, bitter, overwhelming—and she licked her lips once, twice, a slow, instinctive motion that sent another weak shiver through her core.

This isn’t me.

The thought surfaced like a drowning woman grasping for air. I am Cantarella. I break men. I do not break for them.

Yet the potion twisted even that defiance into something darker. Her body still hummed—every muscle aching in the best way, every nerve singing with the memory of being stretched, filled, used. Shame burned hot in her chest, but it only fed the lingering heat between her legs. She clenched—feeling the slow drip of cum from her ass and pussy—and a soft, involuntary whimper escaped her.

She hated how fulfilled she felt.

She hated how right it felt.

The older guard finished buckling his belt, voice rough but satisfied. “Up, honey. The boss wants you cleaned up. You’ve got a long night ahead.”

Chapter 15: School of the Viper

Geralt leaned against the iron bars of his cage, arms crossed. He counted the anti-magic wards etched into the metal cage, his yellow eyes scanning every shadow and seam in the dimly lit chamber for any weakness—any crack he could exploit. But he found none. The metal was cold against his back; the air smelled of damp stone, old oil, and the faint metallic tang of blood. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest—magic nearby, or something close enough to it. He tested the bars again—solid, no give. Frustration coiled tight in his gut.

Then footsteps—deliberate, unhurried—echoed from the corridor beyond the iron door.

A voice cut through the gloom, low and familiar, edged with venom.

“Geralt of Rivia. School of the Wolf.”

Geralt’s head snapped up. Serrit stepped into the lantern light—lean, scarred, black eyes gleaming with the same poison mutations that marked all Viper witchers. Dual silver swords hung at his hips; his armor was battered but well-maintained, the leather darkened by years of blood and betrayal. The same cold precision Geralt remembered from years ago—when they’d crossed paths during the hunt for kings, when Serrit’s brother Auckes had died by Geralt’s hand in a fight neither had wanted but both had been forced into.

Serrit stopped just outside the bars, arms folded, head tilted in mock appraisal.

“Let me go, Serrit,” Geralt spat, fists tightening on the bars until his knuckles whitened. “You can’t hold me here forever and when I get out....”

Serrit’s lip curled into a sneer. “How the tide has changed, Geralt. First, you choose northern kings over your own kind to defy Emhry. And now you play lapdog for the very emperor who paid us to slit those throats.”

Geralt’s voice was low, dangerous. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not working for Emhyr. We have a mutual interest in finding Ciri. She is in real trouble.”

Serrit laughed—short, bitter, the sound echoing off the stone like breaking glass. “Ciri. Always Ciri. You’d sell out the last free witchers for your little girl. You think I don’t remember how you hunted us down after the assassinations? How you stood with the north while we bled for Emhyr’s gold, then watched him turn on us? Letho tried to warn you. You didn’t listen. And now here you are—locked up like a dog, chasing shadows for the same emperor who destroyed our School.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. “You chose the coin over honor. I chose to stop the slaughter. Don’t pretend you’re the victim here.”

Serrit stepped closer, black eyes burning. “Honor? You speak of honor while wearing Emhyr’s leash? The spy you’re working with—why do you think she led you here, Geralt? She’s trying to stop a rebellion against Emhyr.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “What spy?”

Serrit stared at him for a long beat, disgust twisting his features. “Dear gods, Geralt. Did you really have no idea?”

“No!” Geralt shouted, the word echoing off the stone. Confusion and rising fury warred in his chest.

“Your precious Sasha is Cantarella, the head of the Nilfgaardian Secret Service, you idiot,” Serrit said flatly. “She set all of this up. The last shipment of explosives we were waiting for. The money we were told to steal to pay for it. She was using you to clean up loose ends for her emperor. A trap. And you fell for it—hook, line, and Witcher cock.”

Geralt’s mind reeled. The tournament. The pact. The stolen purse. Her insistence on splitting the money. Her “need” for protection. The way she’d rifled his belongings at dawn. The way she’d begged him to wait if he lost. Every moment—every touch, every moan—reframed itself in cold, brutal clarity.

“She knew I needed the tournament money for the boat to Skellige,” he said slowly, the realization dawning like ice in his veins. “She gave the tools to win the tournament. The strategies. The card. She… she didn’t need my protection. She needed my muscle to stop you…” He looked down at his boots, crestfallen.

Serrit’s laugh was pure contempt. “You are a bigger fool than I thought. You let her play you, Geralt. Let her fuck you blind while she feeds every secret back to Nilfgaard. And now you’re here—caged like an animal—while she’s probably already given Emhyr the locations of all the rebellion's supply lines. The rebellion dies tonight, thanks to you. You are a traitor to your people…a traitor to all Witchers.”

Geralt’s fists clenched harder. “I thought you were dead, Serrit.”

“I fled after our last altercation. Faked my death to escape. It was the only way.” Serrit’s voice dropped, a flicker of grief crossing his face. “All of the School of the Viper has been hunted down. Letho’s gone rogue. The rest are dead or scattered. This was to be my last stand. My chance to end Emhyr—the king who betrayed us when the north fought back. He branded us traitors, sent mages and assassins after us. My brother died because of him. Because of you.”

Geralt exhaled slowly. Regret weighed heavily. “I… I’m sorry about your brother. My fight is not with you. I need to save Ciri. The Wild Hunt is back.”

Serrit’s black eyes hardened. “I’m done fighting other people’s wars. The Wild Hunt is not my concern anymore.” He stepped back, shadows swallowing him again.

He vanished into the darkness.

Geralt yells, “You can’t keep me in here! Please! I need to get to Skellige!”

Minutes ticked by—slow, agonizing. Geralt sat motionless against the bars, but his mind raced like a storm breaking over the Pontar.

If Cantarella was Nilfgaard’s top spy—head of the secret service—then every moment between them had been a performance. The flirtation in the Passiflora. The “pact” to split the purse. All of it—a calculated seduction to keep him close, distracted, useful. She’d drawn him into this trap not to steal the coin, but to neutralize Bernard’s rebellion before it could threaten Emhyr’s supply lines. Every moan, every whispered promise, had been a lie to protect the emperor’s war machine.

But one piece refused to fit.

Why had she asked so much about Ciri?

Not casually—not the way a lover might probe for vulnerabilities. She’d asked pointed questions—when he last saw her, what signs he was following, how close the Wild Hunt was. Details no one outside his inner circle should have cared about unless they had a stake in the answer.

Cantarella would have known who he was from the beginning. Known about Ciri. Known Emhyr had sent him to Novigrad on the rumor of a sighting. Yet she’d never once tried to steer him away from the trail. She’d listened. Encouraged. Even pushed him toward the tournament purse that would buy passage to Skellige—the exact place the latest whisper placed Ciri.

Emhyr had sent Geralt to find clues… but he hadn’t known she’d fled to the isles.

The realization settled like ice in Geralt’s veins.

Emhyr was looking for Ciri, too. Not just relying on Geralt’s reports. He had Cantarella watching—perhaps even reporting back in secret. If she’d been feeding him information all along, then the emperor didn’t trust his reluctant Witcher ally. There were contingencies. Always contingencies.

Geralt’s fists clenched until the bars groaned under his grip.

She hadn’t just used him to protect Bernard’s operation.

She’d used him to track Ciri for Emhyr.

Rage and clarity sharpened into focus.

Then memory sparked. It had been a quiet evening in Kaer Morhen, years ago. Ciri, barely sixteen, he had been on her about learning alchemy. That she couldn’t depend only on her speed. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the armory while he sharpened his sword. She’d been tinkering with an old pair of boots he’d discarded, the leather worn but still sound. With a grin that was equal parts mischief and pride, she’d shown him the secret compartment she’d sewn into the inner lining of the right boot—small, flat, perfectly hidden beneath a false seam.

“For when you need it most,” she’d said, pressing the vial of golem marrow mutagen into his palm. “Vesemir helped me make it.” Her voice had softened on that last part, eyes flicking up to meet his—serious for once. He was so proud of her.

He crouched, fingers probing the hidden compartment in his boot. The small vial was still there—golem marrow and dimeritium extract, a last-resort mutagen for brute strength. It wouldn’t work for long, but he just needed a few seconds.

He uncorked it and drank.

The change was immediate and brutal. Muscles swelled, veins blackened beneath pale skin, strength surged like molten iron through his limbs. His heartbeat thundered; his vision sharpened until he could count the individual cracks in the bars.

Geralt gripped the iron—hands like vices—and pulled.

Metal groaned. Screamed. Bent. The lock snapped with a loud clang.

He stepped free, retrieved his gear from a nearby crate—swords, armor, potions—and strapped everything into place with swift, practiced movements.

Geralt finished buckling the last strap of his armor, the familiar weight settling over him like an old friend. He turned—and there was Serrit, stepping from the shadows like a specter made flesh. Dual silver blades gleamed in the dim lantern light, poison dripping from their tips in slow, viscous beads. Serrit’s face was a map of the same monstrous mutations Geralt carried—black eyes, solid and unblinking, veins dark beneath pale skin—but where Geralt’s expression was grim resolve, Serrit’s was cold, burning hatred.

“You should have stayed in your cage, Geralt,” Serrit hissed. “I’ve been preparing for this day.”

Steel sang as Geralt drew his two-handed sword in a single fluid arc. The cavern rang with the first clash—Serrit lunged low, twin blades flashing in a scissor strike aimed at Geralt’s thighs. Geralt met the attack with a heavy downward chop; Serrit twisted aside at the last instant, blades scraping sparks along the flat of Geralt’s sword as he rolled past.

Geralt spun, blade whipping in a wide horizontal arc. Serrit ducked under it, came up inside Geralt’s guard, and drove both swords toward his ribs. Geralt parried with the flat of his blade—metal screaming—then shoved forward with raw strength, forcing Serrit back three steps.

They circled—fast, lethal. Serrit darted in again, blades a blur of silver and poison. Geralt blocked high, low, high—each parry ringing like a hammer on anvil. Serrit was faster, more precise; Geralt was stronger, each swing carrying enough force to shatter bone if it connected. A poisoned tip grazed Geralt’s forearm—burning pain flared instantly. He snarled, retaliated with a brutal overhead strike that Serrit barely deflected, the impact driving him to one knee.

Serrit rolled backward, came up slashing. Geralt leaped aside; one blade sliced air where his throat had been, the other carved a shallow line across his thigh. Poison burned like acid. Geralt countered with a sweeping cut—Serrit vaulted over it, landing behind him and thrusting both blades toward his back.

Geralt twisted, catching one sword on his guard, the other scraping across his pauldron in a shower of sparks. He drove an elbow into Serrit’s ribs—heard the crack of bone—and followed with a pommel strike to the Viper’s jaw. Serrit staggered but recovered in an instant, blades flashing in a whirlwind of strikes.

Geralt parried, parried, parried—steel screaming, sparks flying—then cast Aard. The telekinetic blast erupted from his palm, a roaring wave of force aimed straight at Serrit’s chest.

Serrit’s hands moved at the same instant—his own Aard sign flaring bright between his palms.

The two blasts collided mid-air.

The impact was deafening—an explosion of raw magical energy that shook the cavern like thunder. The shockwave hurled both witchers backward in opposite directions. Geralt slammed into the ruined cage, iron bars bending under his weight; Serrit crashed into a stack of barrels, causing one to crash into the floor, the wood cracking as the oil soaked the floor in a wide, glistening pool.

The barrels around them groaned dangerously—several rocking on their bases, threatening to topple. The air smelled of splintered wood and flammable seal oil. One wrong spark and the whole warehouse would become an inferno.

Both men rose slowly—breathing hard, blades still raised.

Geralt advanced—sword raised—but Serrit was already moving. He rolled to his feet, boots doging oil-slick floor, and charged again. Geralt met him head-on. Their blades clashed in a furious exchange—high, low, high—Serrit’s speed against Geralt’s power. A poisoned edge nicked Geralt’s shoulder; another grazed his cheek. Each cut burned like fire.

Serrit lunged—blades crossing in a killing X aimed at Geralt’s throat. Geralt caught the strike between his sword and forearm, twisted, and hurled Serrit sideways. The Viper hit the wall hard, rolled, came up slashing. Geralt blocked, countered—steel rang again and again.

They were both bleeding now—cuts shallow but numerous, poison spreading slow fire through Geralt’s veins. Serrit’s movements were growing sharper, more desperate; Geralt’s were heavier, fueled by rage and the knowledge that every second wasted here was a second Cantarella was with Bernard.

Serrit dove low once more—blades aimed at Geralt’s legs. Geralt leaped back and cast Aard again. The blast caught Serrit mid-lunge, hurling him into another barrel stack. There was a loud crack, wood splintering, as Serrit felt the oil drench his leather armor.

Geralt advanced—sword raised for the killing blow.

Serrit rose slowly in a pool of seal oil; his boots slipped on the slick floor, traction gone. He lowered his blades in surrender.

“This ends badly for both of us,” he said, voice steady despite the oil soaking his armor. “If you use Igni now, this whole place goes up. We both burn. Let me take Bernard’s ship—let me have my revenge on Emhyr. I won’t stop you from finding your spy… or your coin.”

Geralt’s grip tightened on his sword. Poison burned in his blood; strength was fading. Serrit was right—one spark and the warehouse would become an inferno.

He lowered his blade—once, fractionally.

Serrit backed away slowly—along the wall of barrels—keeping distance. “She’s with Bernard now. Everything you need is in his chateau at the edge of Novigrad. Agreed?”

Geralt stared at him for a long beat—then nodded once.

Serrit vanished into the shadows.

Geralt exhaled, sheathed his sword, and downed Swallow and a poison-neutralizing draught. The burning eased; wounds began to knit. He turned toward the chateau at the edge of Novigrad. He wanted to just leave, but he needed to know what Emhyr wanted with Ciri.

Chapter 16: Finding Sasha

The walled chateau rose like a dark monolith against the moonlit sky, its high stone walls topped with iron spikes that glinted coldly in the pale light. The main gate—massive, reinforced oak banded with black iron—stood sealed and silent, guarded by a pair of sentries whose armor caught every stray moonbeam. Geralt crouched in the treeline just beyond the outer perimeter, yellow eyes narrowed as he studied the layout. Patrols moved in tight, overlapping patterns—ten men visible, likely more inside. The central keep towered above the courtyard walls, its upper windows glowing faintly with candlelight. That was where the secrets were kept. That was where she would be.

Geralt’s medallion buzzed faintly against his chest—magic, or something close. He downed a vial of Cat—his pupils dilated, the night blooming into sharp shades of silver and gray. Every rustle of leaves, every scrape of boot on stone became clear as day. He waited for the nearest patrol to pass, then moved.

He scaled the outer wall in three powerful leaps—fingers finding purchase in the rough mortar, boots silent on the stone. At the top, he dropped into a crouch behind a low parapet, body flat against the cold granite. Below, the courtyard stretched wide—cobblestone paths lit by sporadic torches, guards pacing in pairs. The central keep loomed ahead, its third-floor windows the only ones still lit. A faint, muffled sound drifted from one of them—soft, rhythmic, unmistakably feminine. Whimpers. Cries. Geralt’s jaw tightened.

Enough blood had been spilled tonight because of Cantarella’s games. If she were in there with Bernard, he would have answers—about Ciri, about Emhyr, about every lie she’d fed him while her legs were wrapped around his waist.

He waited for the next patrol to turn the corner, then dropped to a lower roof—silent as a shadow. The tiles were slick with evening dew; he moved carefully, boots finding grip where others would have slipped. A guard passed below, lantern swinging. Geralt froze, pressed flat against the shingles until the light moved on.

Third story. One window glowed warmer than the rest. He edged along a narrow ledge—barely a foot wide—back to the wall, fingers splayed for balance. Halfway across, the stone crumbled under his boot. His heart lurched as his foot slipped—body tipping outward over a three-story drop. Muscle memory took over: he twisted, hand snapping out to catch a protruding gargoyle’s horn. The stone cracked but held. He pulled himself back, breath steady, and continued.

The window was latched but old. A quick twist of his dagger popped the iron hook free. He eased it open and slipped inside.

Bernard’s private quarters were opulent—dark wood paneling, heavy velvet drapes, a wide four-poster bed with silk sheets still rumpled. A silver tea service sat cooling on a low table; the air smelled of bergamot, candle wax, and sex. From the adjoining chamber came the sounds again—muffled whimpers, soft rhythmic impacts, a woman’s voice rising and falling in broken, desperate moans.

Geralt moved like smoke—sword half-drawn, senses razor-sharp. He pressed against the doorframe and peered through the crack.

**Chapter 16: Finding Sasha (Continued)**

Geralt moved like smoke—sword half-drawn, senses razor-sharp. He pressed against the doorframe and peered through the crack.

On the ornate bed, Sasha—Cantarella—lay sprawled in abject surrender. Her legs were forced high and wide, knees pressed nearly to her chest by Bernard’s small but iron-strong hands. The halfling loomed between her thighs, hips snapping forward in short, brutal thrusts that drove his thick cock deep into her pussy with every stroke. Her torn robe hung in useless rags from her shoulders; her full breasts bounced heavily with each impact, nipples flushed dark and erect. Sweat glistened on her pale skin; her dark hair fanned across the silk pillows like spilled ink. Her wrists were bound loosely above her head with silk cord—more decorative than restraining—leaving her body open, vulnerable, offered.

The air was thick with the heady reek of sex—burning candles, sweat, the sharp musk of arousal, and the faint metallic sweetness of the lingering succubus mutagen. Muffled moans and broken whimpers filled the room, punctuated by the wet slap of flesh on flesh and the low, commanding rumble of Bernard’s voice.

Geralt’s grip tightened on his sword hilt until the leather creaked. Rage boiled beneath his skin—cold, precise, lethal—but beneath it, something darker twisted: a raw, unwanted pulse of arousal at the sight of her like this. Legs splayed, body rocking helplessly to meet every thrust, face flushed with pleasure she couldn’t hide. The same woman who had begged him to claim her now writhed beneath another—moaning, pleading, utterly lost.

Bernard leaned in closer, hips never slowing, driving into her with punishing rhythm. His voice was low, insistent, each word punctuated by a deep thrust.

“Tell me again, Cantarella—where are Emhyr’s eastern supply lines? The ones feeding the border forts?”

Sasha’s head thrashed side to side, eyes glassy, lips parted on gasping moans. “I—I told you—near the Yaruga crossing—ah!—three depots—guarded by—”

Bernard slapped her thigh—sharp, stinging. “Louder, slut. And the troop movements? How many battalions are moving north?”

Cantarella’s back arched, breasts thrusting upward as another cry tore from her throat. “Four—four full battalions—reinforcing Vizima—oh gods—harder—please—”

Geralt’s vision narrowed to pinpoints. Every detail burned into him: the way her pussy stretched around Bernard’s cock, slick and glistening with their combined release; the way her hips rolled up to meet him despite the ropes, despite everything; the way her voice cracked on every plea—not from pain, but from overwhelming, potion-fueled ecstasy.

Bernard grinned—small, vicious—and leaned down until his mouth was at her ear. “Good girl. Now tell me about the girl—the one Emhyr calls the key. Where is Ciri now?”

Sasha’s head thrashed side to side, eyes glassy, lips parted on gasping moans. “Skellige—she fled to Skellige—the isles—storm’s hiding her trail—ah!—please—don’t stop—”

Geralt had heard enough.

He kicked the door open with a single, thunderous blow. Wood splintered; the heavy oak slammed against the wall.

Bernard froze mid-thrust. The woman he knew as Sasha looked up—eyes wide, glassy with pleasure and potion haze—until they locked on Geralt.

For one endless heartbeat, the room was perfectly still.

Then Geralt spoke, voice low and lethal, each word carved from ice.

“Get. Your hands. Off her.”

Bernard pulled out slowly—his cock glistening with her slick—and stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. Sasha whimpered at the sudden emptiness—“No—no, please—” her hips twitching helplessly, seeking something to fill the ache.

Geralt advanced—sword fully drawn now, silver blade catching the candlelight in a cold, lethal gleam.

Bernard’s eyes flicked from the blade to Geralt’s face. “Impressive, Witcher. I would’ve thought there’d be more of a ruckus out there.” He waved a casual hand toward the window. “But you always were quiet when you wanted to be.”

Geralt didn’t answer. His gaze shifted to Sasha—sprawled on the bed, legs still splayed, chest heaving, cum and slick glistening on her inner thighs. She looked at him with a mix of shock, shame, and raw, potion-fueled hunger.

“Geralt, it’s not what it seems,” Bernard said, voice trembling.

“It looks like you're fucking my girl,” Geralt said flatly.

Bernard shrugged, unashamed, still half-hard and glistening. “Okay, well… it is what it seems, I guess. But her name isn’t Sasha. This is Cantarella—head of Nilfgaard’s secret service. She staged this whole thing to ruin me… and to spy on you.”

Geralt’s eyes never left Cantarella, “Ah. It all makes sense now. She’s a spy. And she staged the two of you fucking… to anger me?”

Bernard shook his head quickly. “No—that’s not it! She… Emhyr… they set you up. Used you to stop the resistance—to stop me. I needed answers from her, and the only way to make her talk was… well…” He gestured helplessly at the bed.

Geralt’s face remained stone. “You’re saying you’re fucking her to learn her secrets.”

Bernard swallowed. “I’m telling the truth. Just… just ask her anything. Don’t you want to know why they want Ciri so badly that the head of Nilfgaard’s secret service personally attended to you?”

Geralt’s gaze shifted to Cantarella. She looked back at him—eyes wide, lips swollen, body still trembling with unspent need. The potion still burned in her veins; he could see it in the flush of her skin, the way her thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking friction.

Geralt stepped forward—slow, deliberate—sword still drawn. Bernard pressed himself against the wall, hands up.

“Don’t move, halfling,” Geralt said quietly. “I don’t need a sword to rip your body in half.”

Bernard nodded frantically. “Go. Talk to her. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

Geralt sheathed his sword—then approached the bed. Cantarella’s gaze followed him, pupils blown wide, lips parted on shallow breaths. As he drew closer, she crawled toward him on hands and knees—slow, submissive—robe falling completely away to leave her naked, marked, dripping.

“Oh, Geralt,” she purred, voice thick with desire. “Are you pale everywhere?”

Geralt stopped at the edge of the bed, towering over her. “Who are you, Sasha? The truth. No games.”

She chuckled—sensual, broken—and reached for him, fingers tracing the black veins pulsing beneath his pale skin. “It’s me, baby. It’s Sasha. Come here…”

Geralt caught her wrist—firm, unyielding. “I’m not here for pleasure. Tell me who you are!”

Undeterred, she pressed closer, body brushing his armored thighs. “Pleasure can be a powerful motivator, Geralt.” Her free hand slid up and down his cock through his leather pants, already hardening despite his rage. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly. “You turned me into this cock-hungry whore. Give me what I desire… and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Geralt’s breath hissed between his teeth. He grabbed her hair—gentle but commanding—and pulled her head back so their eyes locked.

“You will tell me everything I need,” he said, voice low and lethal. “One way or the other.”

He pushed two fingers into her dripping cunt—hard, deep—palm slamming against her clit. Cantarella squirmed, pressed into his chest, moaning loudly. “Who the fuck are you!”

“Yes—oh god—yes!” she gasped, hips bucking against his hand. “My name is Cantarella, Geralt. I… I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long—hoping you’d call out my true name when you came in me!”

Geralt’s fingers curled inside her—ruthless—drawing another broken cry. “What happened to her? There’s no way the succubus potion would have this effect.”

Bernard—still pressed against the wall—chimed in, voice sly. “Well… I also gave her a truth serum during our interrogation. A rather large dose, might I add.”

Geralt’s realization hit like a sudden storm on a calm sea. The magical blend of the succubus potion—intensifying her desires—and the truth serum—stripping away inhibitions—had created an unpredictable, unstoppable elixir. She was helpless to lie. Helpless to resist.

Cantarella’s hands worked frantically at his armor—buckles snapping open, layers falling away. As she freed his cock fully, it sprang hard and heavy into her small hands. The black veins from the golem mutagen pulsed beneath his pale skin; he grew larger, thicker, monstrous in her grip.

Geralt looked down at her—eyes black, face carved from stone.

“You will tell me everything,” he said again, voice dark with promise. “And you will beg while you do it.”

Cantarella smiled—slow, broken, utterly surrendered—and took him into her mouth.

He pushed her back onto the bed—face down, ass up. Cantarella obeyed instantly, knees spreading wide, back arching to offer herself completely. Geralt gripped her hips—fingers digging into soft flesh—and thrust into her in one long, brutal stroke with his monster cock.

Cantarella screamed—pleasure and surrender tearing from her throat as he filled her completely. Her walls clamped down like a vise, fluttering wildly around his thickened shaft. The stretch was overwhelming—every vein, every ridge dragging along her oversensitive flesh, forcing her to feel him in excruciating detail.

“Oh gods—Geralt—you’re so huge—so fucking huge!” she sobbed, hips rocking back to meet him despite the intensity. “Yes—yes—fuck me like you hate me!”

Geralt’s pace was merciless—long, deep strokes that bottomed out with every thrust, hips slamming against her ass with wet, rhythmic slaps. Each plunge punched the air from her lungs; each withdrawal dragged a fresh cry from her lips. Her breasts bounced beneath her; her bound wrists strained uselessly against the silk cord as she clawed at the sheets.

“Who sent you to Novigrad?” he demanded, voice low and dangerous, hips never slowing.

“Emhyr—ah!—Emhyr sent me!” she gasped, body rocking forward with every punishing stroke. “To watch you—to track Ciri—to make sure you didn’t find her first!”

Geralt’s hand cracked across her ass—hard—leaving a bright red handprint. Cantarella screamed, pussy clenching tighter around him.

“Why does Emhyr want her?” he snarled, fingers digging deeper into her hips, pulling her back onto his cock with brutal force.

“She’s—she’s the key—oh fuck—her power—Elder Blood—she can open portals—control worlds—Emhyr wants her for the empire—wants her to end the war—wants her to rule—”

Geralt thrust harder—deeper—cock battering her cervix with every stroke. Cantarella’s moans turned into sobbing pleas—body shaking, sweat dripping down her spine.

“Who else knows?” he growled. “Who else is hunting her?”

“Everyone—Emhyr doesn’t trust you—never trusted you—sent me to—to keep you close—”

Another slap—harder. Cantarella’s back arched violently; a fresh gush of slick soaked his balls.

“Tell me everything,” he commanded, voice raw.

Cantarella broke completely.

“I—I couldn’t report anything—I needed to leave Novigrad—I needed to get to my spy network —I couldn’t tell him—I couldn’t tell Emhyr about Skellige…”

Geralt’s thrusts turned savage—short, punishing—cock slamming into her with bone-jarring force. Cantarella screamed—voice hoarse, body convulsing—as another climax built impossibly fast.

“I’m—oh gods—I’m cumming—Geralt—I’m cumming!”

“Yes—yes—YES!” she screamed, body seizing in a violent, shattering orgasm. Her walls clamped down like a vise—trying to milk every drop from him—slick gushing around his shaft in rhythmic pulses. Her vision whited out; her screams echoed off the walls; her body convulsed uncontrollably between pleasure and surrender.

But Geralt didn’t stop.

He held himself deep—teeth gritted, muscles tensed like steel cables—fighting back his own release as her climax rolled through her in endless, shattering waves. Her pussy spasmed wildly around his cock—milking him with rhythmic, desperate contractions—her slick soaking his shaft, his balls, the sheets beneath them in hot, audible torrents. Every quiver of her body pulled at him, every fluttering grip threatened to drag him over the edge.

He looked down—smirk slow and dangerous—at her panting, quivering form: face buried in the pillow, back arched, ass still raised, thighs trembling violently as aftershock after aftershock ripped through her. Her moans had dissolved into breathless, sobbing whimpers; her walls still fluttered weakly around him, trying to pull him deeper even as she shook.

Slowly—deliberately—he began to move again.

One long, torturous withdrawal—dragging every ridge along her oversensitive walls—then a hard, deep thrust that punched the air from her lungs.

Cantarella’s head snapped up with a sharp cry. “I can’t—oh god—I’m too sensitive! It’s too much!”

“You think this is over, whore?” His voice was gravel and venom—low enough to cut through her haze. “You used me. Lied to me. Betrayed me. Seduced me while you fed every word, every secret, straight to Emhyr.”

He fisted her hair—hard—yanking her head back until her spine arched painfully, forcing her to look up at him over her shoulder. Tears streaked her flushed cheeks; her lips trembled; her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide with potion and surrender.

“I’m a monster hunter, Cantarella,” he snarled, hips rolling once—slow, deliberate—dragging every thick inch along her oversensitive walls just to make her whimper. “And you? You’re the monster who thought she could play me.”

He pulled out almost completely—leaving only the head inside—then slammed back in with brutal force. Cantarella screamed again—voice hoarse, body jerking forward.

“I was going to ruin you tonight,” he continued, voice dark and measured, each word punctuated by another punishing thrust. “Break you. Use as the cock-hungry whore you’ve become.”

Another thrust—deeper, harder. Her walls fluttered helplessly around him; fresh slick coated his shaft.

“But first—” He yanked her hair again, forcing her to arch further, breasts thrusting forward as he leaned down until his lips brushed her ear. “—you’re going to come again. And again. And again. Until you can’t remember a single secret you haven’t screamed for me.”

He began to move once more—slow, torturous strokes that dragged along every oversensitive nerve.

Cantarella sobbed—half protest, half plea. “Please__I need a break__oh god!”

Geralt’s smirk widened—cold, merciless.

“Beg all you want, slut.”

His hand cracked across her ass—hard—sending a fresh bloom of heat straight to her core.

“You don’t get to stop until I say so.”

And he thrust again—deep, relentless—beginning the long, punishing night he had planned for her all along.

Chapter 17: Cantarella’s Fate

Bernard lingered in the corner of the room, an observer of the carnal symphony unfolding before him. His eyes—sharp, calculating—devoured the scene: the monstrous Witcher, Geralt, dominating Cantarella with an intensity that shook the heavy bedframe. The air pulsed with their shared pleasure—wet slaps, ragged breaths, her broken moans rising in pitch with every punishing thrust. Each collision of their bodies created a mesmerizing rhythm that echoed through the stone walls.

As Geralt’s large hands cracked across Cantarella’s enticing ass—leaving bright red handprints that bloomed instantly—Bernard couldn’t deny the twisted arousal twisting low in his gut. Envy. Desire. A hint of fear. His mind raced with survival instincts, already weaving a new plan. He had lost control of her body tonight, but he could still control her fate—and leverage Geralt’s rage to keep her under his thumb.

With visions of a willing, potion-bound sex slave dancing in his mind, Bernard saw boundless opportunity: endless pleasures, absolute control, and a way to turn this disaster into profit. He understood Geralt’s quest to save Ciri and the risk Cantarella posed if she ever escaped to report back to Emhyr. To ensure Geralt’s cooperation, Bernard needed a narrative that made releasing her not just foolish but suicidal.

He stepped forward, voice calm but edged with cunning. “Geralt. You know we can’t set her free. If Emhyr learns what we know—what she’s already spilled—he’ll send everything he has to stop you from reaching Ciri. Assassins. Witchers. Armies. She’s too dangerous to let walk.”

Geralt didn’t slow—hips still driving into her with brutal rhythm, each thrust punching a fresh cry from Cantarella’s throat. But he glanced at Bernard—eyes black, face carved from stone.

A long beat of silence.

Then Geralt’s voice—low, gravel-rough—cut through the room.

“Deal.”

Bernard’s grin widened—victorious.

Bernard guided her mouth to his cock with a sly grin. “Open wide, honey. Show the Witcher how good you can be.”

Cantarella obeyed instantly—lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste him. Bernard groaned as she took him deep—sucking with desperate fervor, head bobbing in rhythm.

Geralt's hands gripped her hips—fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—and thrust back into her pussy in one long, brutal stroke.

Cantarella screamed around Bernard’s cock—muffled, raw—body jolting forward onto the halfling’s shaft. The two men found their rhythm again—Geralt pounding her from behind, Bernard guiding her mouth with a firm hand in her hair.

The room filled with the sounds of their claiming: wet slaps, choked moans, the creak of the bedframe, Bernard’s low grunts of pleasure.

Cantarella’s mind was gone—lost in the relentless storm of sensation. She was theirs now—body, secrets, fate. The potion had stripped away resistance; the truth serum had stripped away lies. She existed only for this—for the next thrust, the next command, the next orgasm that would shatter her again.

Geralt leaned over her—voice dark against her ear.

“You hear that, Cantarella?” he growled, hips slamming forward with punishing force. “You will be a slut. A whore. A cum bucket. Until I decide a different fate for you.”

Cantarella moaned—muffled, desperate—around Bernard’s shaft, body convulsing as another climax built impossibly fast.

Geralt thrust harder—deeper—cock battering her cervix with every stroke. Cantarella’s moans turned into sobbing pleas—body shaking, sweat dripping down her spine.

She tried to scream, but Bernard’s cock pushed deep into her throat, her nose pressed into the curly hairs at the base of his thick cock, her eyes wide. As he pulled out, she gasped, “Oh gods—I’m cumming—I’m cumming so fucking hard!”

Her entire body seized—back arching violently, walls clamping down like a vise around Geralt’s cock, spasming in brutal, rhythmic waves that tried to milk him dry.

Her release gushed from her in hot, audible torrents—drenching his shaft, his balls, and the sheets beneath them. Her thighs shook uncontrollably; her screams dissolved into breathless, sobbing whimpers as the climax tore through her like wildfire.

“That’s it, Cantarella—is this what you like?” Geralt exclaimed, voice rough and mocking as he drove into her with punishing force.

“Yes! Oh God, yes! Ruin me!” she begged, still shaking from the intensity of her last orgasm, body quivering uncontrollably around his thick shaft.

“Oh, you want to be ruined, eh?” Geralt growled, pulling out of her dripping pussy with a wet, obscene sound. She whimpered at the emptiness—hips twitching, chasing the lost fullness—but he didn’t give her time to recover. His cock—slick with her release—shifted lower, the broad head pressing insistently against the tight, puckered ring of her asshole.

“I will ruin you for all men, Cantarella,” he snarled, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. “I want you to remember what this Witcher has done to you—every time you sit, every time you walk, every time another man tries to claim what’s mine.”

She purred in response—low, broken, quivering with anticipation—as his hips pressed forward. The fat head breached her slowly, stretching her virgin ring inch by torturous inch. Cantarella’s breath hitched; her body tensed, then yielded with a sharp, involuntary squeal of pleasure mixed with surprise.

“Oh god—oh no—I can’t—you’re too big!” she gasped, voice cracking as fire bloomed in her ass. The stretch was overwhelming—burning, impossible—yet the potion twisted every nerve of pain into dark, exquisite ecstasy. Her sphincter fluttered helplessly around his girth, clinging, resisting, then opening wider as he sank deeper.

Geralt didn’t stop—didn’t slow. He pushed forward steadily until his hips met her ass, cock buried to the hilt in her impossibly tight heat. Cantarella howled—back arching, fingers clawing at the sheets, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

He held there for a long moment—letting her feel every thick, throbbing inch claiming her most forbidden place—then began to move. Slow at first—long, deliberate strokes that dragged along her stretched walls—then harder, faster, hips slamming against her with wet, rhythmic slaps.

Cantarella’s moans turned into sobbing pleas. “Oh fuck—my ass—my virgin ass—you’re ripping me open—stretching me—gods—it hurts so good!”

Geralt lifted her completely off the bed—hands hooked under her thighs, spreading her wide, impaling her on his cock as he stood. Her legs dangled helplessly; her back arched against his chest; her breasts bounced freely with every brutal bounce. He fucked her ass standing—deep, punishing—each thrust driving her down onto his shaft until she screamed.

“Let’s seal this, Bernard,” Geralt growled, voice dark with possession. “Let’s show this spy what she can expect for the next year.”

Bernard grinned—cock hard and leaking in his hand—as he climbed onto the bed between her spread thighs. He notched himself at her dripping pussy and drove in with one savage thrust.

Cantarella’s scream shattered the room—raw, primal—as both men filled her. The thin wall separating their cocks stretched taut; every movement rubbed them together through her body, igniting a cascade of unbearable pleasure that short-circuited her mind.

“Uh… uh… fuck—you’re both so big—stretching me—gods—too much—too fucking much!” she panted, voice trembling, breaking on every syllable. Her body quivered between them—caught in the vise of their dual penetration—hips rocking instinctively, chasing every inch of friction.

Bernard sucked one breast into his mouth—teeth grazing her nipple, tongue swirling—while his hands urged her thighs wider. Geralt’s grip on her hips tightened—fingers bruising—as he bounced her up and down between them, using her like a living toy.

They plowed into her relentlessly—Geralt’s thick cock claiming her ass, Bernard’s fat shaft battering her pussy. The room filled with the sounds of their claiming: wet slaps, choked moans, the creak of the bedframe, Bernard’s low grunts of pleasure, Geralt’s savage growls.

Cantarella’s mind was gone—lost in the storm of sensation. She felt a whirlwind of emotions—exhilaration, vulnerability, a twisted sense of freedom she had never known. Her moans rose in pitch and intensity—each one a testament to the surrender she was experiencing, both physically and emotionally.

“Oh fuck—oh god—oh god!” she screamed, body trembling with anticipation, skin flushed with the fire of their entwined desire. Each thrust sent shockwaves through her; her moans grew louder, more urgent as she teetered on the edge of ecstasy. Her hands grasped at Geralt’s arms—nails digging into his skin—as if trying to anchor herself amidst the storm.

Bernard’s pace quickened—hips snapping forward—while Geralt matched him—thrusting deep and hard into her ass. The dual penetration pushed her relentlessly toward the brink.

“I can’t—oh gods—I’m coming again!” Cantarella’s orgasm crashed through her like a breaking wave—violent, endless—her body seizing between them as her walls clamped down in rhythmic, desperate spasms around both cocks. Slick gushed from her pussy in hot, audible jets, soaking Bernard’s shaft and dripping onto the sheets beneath them. Her ass fluttered wildly around Geralt, milking him with greedy, fluttering pulses. Her scream dissolved into breathless, sobbing whimpers, thighs shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

Geralt leaned in and sank his teeth into the side of her neck—soft but possessive—biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. His voice was a dark, venomous whisper against her ear as he held her there, still buried to the hilt in her ass.

“Feel that, Cantarella?” he growled, hips grinding slow and deep. “You’re getting so loose for me already. Stretched wide open like a proper whore. I bet no king ever ruined you like this—never fucked you so deep you forgot your own name.”

Bernard’s hands slid up her body, fingers finding her swollen nipples. He twisted them sharply—pinching and rolling the sensitive peaks between thumb and forefinger—while his cock continued to thrust into her spasming pussy.

“Cum again for us, slut,” he ordered, voice thick with lust. “Let the Witcher feel how much you love being split in half.”

Cantarella’s body ratcheted higher—every muscle locking, then releasing in violent spasms. Her back arched impossibly, breasts thrusting forward into Bernard’s twisting fingers, ass clenching and fluttering around Geralt’s thick shaft. The dual invasion pushed her relentlessly toward another peak—her pussy and ass stretched to their absolute limit, the thin wall between them rubbing their cocks together with every synchronized thrust. Her moans turned into broken, animalistic cries—higher, louder, more desperate—as pleasure bordered on pain.

“I can’t—oh god—I can’t take any more!” she sobbed, voice cracking. “It feels too good—too much—please—stop—I’m going to break—”

But her body betrayed her again—hips bucking frantically between them, chasing every brutal thrust, her pussy and ass convulsing in rhythmic waves that milked both men mercilessly.

Geralt’s control finally snapped.

With a savage growl, he slammed into her ass one final time—burying himself to the hilt—and unleashed. His cock pulsed violently, flooding her depths with thick, hot ropes of cum—painting her insides, marking her completely. The sensation—warm, overwhelming—triggered Cantarella’s final, cataclysmic release.

Her entire body seized in an explosive, hedonistic surrender. Her scream tore through the room—raw, primal, unending—as her orgasm detonated like a star collapsing. Every muscle locked at once—back arching violently, thighs shaking uncontrollably, pussy and ass clamping down like a vice around both cocks in rhythmic, violent spasms. A violent gush of her release squirted from her pussy in powerful, audible jets—drenching Bernard’s shaft, soaking the sheets, splashing onto the floor beneath them. Her vision whited out completely; her voice broke into hoarse, sobbing cries as wave after wave of ecstasy consumed her, leaving her convulsing helplessly between the two men.

Bernard followed seconds later—hips stuttering, cock jerking deep inside her cunt as he erupted with a low groan—thick spurts of cum flooding her pussy, mixing with Geralt’s release still leaking from her ass. The sensation of both men filling her at once sent Cantarella spiraling into yet another aftershock—her body shuddering violently, another weak squirt escaping her as she collapsed forward, trembling and spent.

For several long moments, the only sounds in the room were their ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum onto the floor.

Geralt slowly withdrew from her ass—watching with dark satisfaction as a thick trail of his seed leaked from her stretched, quivering hole. Bernard pulled out of her pussy with a wet sound, leaving her gaping and dripping from both ends.

Cantarella lay there—face down, ass up, body quaking with aftershocks—completely ruined, marked, and utterly surrendered.

Bernard stepped back, breathing hard, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“She’s all ours now, Witcher,” he said softly. “Our willing whore… until Ciri is safe, of course,” he said with a gleam in his eye and a smirk on his lips.

Geralt looked down at Cantarella—still trembling, still leaking their combined release—and felt the cold weight of his decision settle over him.

Chapter 18: The New Pact

The days that followed were a strange, suspended interlude in the shadowed heart of Novigrad.

Bernard moved quickly. He gathered a crew—hard men who asked no questions and sailed under no flag but their own. Supplies flowed into the chateau’s hidden dock: barrels of salted meat, casks of fresh water, coils of rope, crates of dried fruit, spare sails, and enough coin to bribe every harbormaster from here to the Pontar Delta. The ship itself was a sleek, fast caravel—narrow-beamed, black-hulled, with a name long since painted over. Bernard renamed her *Cantarella’s Mercy* in private jest, though he never spoke it aloud.

While the preparations unfolded, Cantarella descended fully into her new existence.

Geralt worked in the chateau’s small alchemical chamber—mortar and pestle, alembic and retort—refining the succubus mutagen to perfect the blend with Bernard’s truth serum, adjusting ratios until the final elixir glowed a deep, hypnotic violet. One drop on the tongue was enough to ignite every nerve; a full dose turned reason to ash and left only raw, insatiable need.

He tested it on her that first evening.

Cantarella knelt between them—naked, wrists lightly chained to the bedpost—eyes already glassy from the morning’s dose. Geralt held the vial to her lips; she drank eagerly, tongue flicking out to catch the last drop. Within minutes, her skin flushed crimson, breath quickening, thighs pressing together as fresh slick coated her inner thighs.

She became their willing and desperate whore.

They took her in every way—sometimes gentle, more often brutal. Bernard favored her mouth—guiding her head with a fist in her hair while she sucked him deep, throat fluttering around his girth, tears streaming as she gagged and moaned in equal measure. Geralt preferred her ass and pussy—stretching her wide, filling her until she screamed, until her body learned to crave the burn of being opened beyond reason. They fucked her together most nights—Geralt in her ass, Bernard in her cunt—rocking her between them until she squirted helplessly, body convulsing, voice hoarse from begging.

She came again and again—each orgasm more violent than the last—each orgasm shaping her mind and body to her new and potentially permanent role. She barely spoke in full sentences anymore. Only pleas remained: “More—please—fill me—use me—don’t stop—”

The new potion was merciless. It kept her perpetually on the edge—horny, desperate, dripping—unable to think of anything but the next cock, the next thrust, the next flood of cum inside her or across her skin. She no longer cared about Nilfgaard, about Emhyr, about secrets. She cared only for the ache between her legs and the men who fed it.

On the final night—before the ship sailed—Bernard and Geralt stood over her once more.

Cantarella knelt on the floor between them—naked, marked, trembling—hands gripping their cocks in desperation, her lips moving from one to the other, sucking their fat shafts and begging for their release. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips swollen, throat raw from hours of use. She looked up at them with glassy, pleading eyes.

Geralt watched as she stroked himself slowly—thick, veined, still glistening from her cunt. Bernard stood next to him, standing on a stool, shorter but brutally thick—grinning as she pumped his rod.

“Open wide, slut,” Geralt ordered.

Cantarella obeyed instantly—mouth falling open, tongue extended, eyes locked on them in desperate worship.

Both men groaned in unison. Thick ropes of cum erupted across her face—hot, heavy streaks painting her cheeks, her lips, her tongue, dripping down her chin onto her heaving breasts. She moaned—low, broken—leaning forward to catch every drop, tongue flicking out to lick the heads of their cocks as they pulsed the last spurts onto her waiting mouth.

Geralt laughed—low, dark, triumphant.

“I can’t wait to visit Novigrad again,” he said, watching her desperately lap at their softening shafts, swallowing greedily. “To see how much looser my little cum bucket has gotten.”

Bernard chuckled, wiping himself on her cheek before stepping back.

“You’re always welcome back here, Witcher,” he said, voice warm with dark promise. “To check on your whore. She’ll be waiting—wet, eager, and obedient.”

Cantarella whimpered softly—still licking, still trembling—face glistening with their combined release.

The next morning dawned gray and cold.

Geralt stood on the dock beside the black-hulled caravel. Bernard waited at the gangplank—dressed now in simple captain’s garb, no trace of the sadist from the night before.

They clasped forearms—firm, brief, a soldier’s handshake.

“Safe voyage, Witcher,” Bernard said. “Find your girl. And if you ever need a fast ship… You know where to find me.”

Geralt nodded once—silent—then turned and boarded.

The crew cast off. Sails snapped taut in the wind. The *Mercy* slipped away from the pier, cutting through the mist toward the open sea.

Geralt stood at the rail, watching Novigrad recede—its spires and smoke fading into gray. Somewhere in that city, in a shadowed chateau, Cantarella waited—bound, dripping, forever changed.

He felt no regret.

Only purpose.

Skellige lay ahead.

Ciri waited.

And the White Wolf sailed on—alone again, but never truly alone.

The hunt continued.

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