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The Lust Wish
🕑 Added 2018-11-05 21:00:01 +0000 UTC
As a Witcher, Geralt was always aware of his surroundings. He was in the basement underneath a tavern, though after a recent blow to the head, he felt like he was careening up north of the moon.
The basement held, in addition to sporadic posts supporting the dance floor upstairs, a backlog of beer barrels and bottles of wine, as well as other supplies tucked away to await their use. There were a number of cots, in case a miracle occurred and all the tavern’s rooms were sold out, but the public still craved to spend their coin here. It was a state Geralt had indulged in when circumstances conspired against him and he was damned sick of camping. The innkeeper there had stressed that he had a full inventory of his spirits, and if any was found missing, the price would be split among all the boarders whether they’d drunken or not, so it was in everyone’s best interest to see to it no one indulged themselves selfishly.
That tavern was probably still standing. This one had caved in, its rubble bending the floorboards downward, making the place cramped instead of open and airy. A portion of the basement at the far end had collapsed, allowing sections of wall and roof to slide down from upstairs, and allowing in an ample helping of light that shed its glow even into the shadowed area of the basement, where all the weight overhead seemed to squash illumination.
The maelstrom of the djinn hovered in that gaping hole, blotting out much of the sunlight with the insubstantial smoke of its body. Yennefer was still trying to subdue the thing, break it in like a rowdy horse, but she had been driven to her knees by the effort, her careful composure now sweaty and weak-kneed. Geralt could see the djinn gaining in forcefulness, its energy sweeping aside Yennefer’s attacks like a rock would bat aside the tide. The sorceress had insisted she could bring the creature down, but if she could, it would be as the surf wore down a stone, and neither of them had that kind of time.
One wish still remained to him. With it enacted, the djinn would be powerless, dispelled. But as the wild horse would try to kick those who dared for its taming, the djinn would use what remained of its energy to take revenge on Yennefer, and Geralt would not see that happen, for reasons too numerous for him to sort out the prime one. He owed her for Dandelion’s life. She had impressed him with her wits and willfulness. She was beautiful, in the bittersweet way of the sorceress’s corrections.
Even in the midst of combat, bedraggled and worn, Yennefer was beautiful. Her sculpted face, even if it masked that which she was born with, had been crafted with a master artisan’s touch, Yennefer aware of exactly how she wished to appear and exactly the effect she wished to convey. Her dress torn, her primness stripped away, she was even more alluring. He could see all of the will backing her actions, and the ferocity with which she pursued her goals at all costs. Before, for all her preening, she’d reminded him of some show pony, her body a trophy of her own magical talent, and displayed with the same self-satisfaction. Now she was an animal cornered, cunning and fierceness pushed to the limit, and that feral drive shared space in her bright eyes with the same heady intelligence she had always possessed. It made her far more attractive than her spells ever could.
The only thing that could save her from the djinn’s vengeance was if her destiny were tied to his, making it impossible for the djinn to attack her without breaking its covenant with him. To the outsider’s eyes, harming one destined to be with him would be no difference from severing a hand or plucking out an eye—verboten.
He could plainly wish for her to fall in love with him, or bear his child, or something equally obvious. It would be the simplest of methods and Geralt doubted he would mind her company very much. But even if he were cur enough to claim a woman’s bed by such brusqueness, she was a sorceress, and powerful even for one of her breed. Her cleverness would overcome any love spell in little time, and she would take revenge for the disrespect given her. Though perhaps if he convinced her it was to save her life, she would let him off with a light flaying.
No, there was only one tack to take. She wouldn’t like it, but she would like death even worse.
“Genie!” Geralt called, his gruff voice filling the room, dwarfing the exchange of energies and stratagems that had seemed so loud up until now. “I wish that every time I thrust into Yennefer, she would be brought to orgasm!”
Even the djinn seemed stunned, the roiling mass of it pausing in its outgrowth of limbs and tendrils, letting them dwindle into nothingness while the intractable volume of its head and trunk remained. Then Geralt felt a flush of power, like warm air had blown into the room through a door the djinn had made to someplace fiery and howling. He could see the same prickling awareness wash over Yennefer, the hem of her dress whipping around her legs, the hairs standing up on her arms.
Then the djinn was gone, evaporating like morning fog that had realized it’d overstayed its welcome and given in to the strong daylight.
No sooner had it left than Yennefer wheeled on him, her gorgeous face as aptly suited to expressing rage as it was to meriting seduction. She resembled nothing so much as some terrible goddess, beautiful in the totality of her anger.
“You fool! I nearly had him!”
There was no way for Geralt to turn away her anger, and no argument he could make that she hadn’t already rejected. It had been a long day and he was in no mood to continue putting pressure on a wound that had stopped bleeding. “Perhaps.”
His gentle voice was partly effective. Realizing how immature it made her look to have a screaming fit with a man speaking softly—much like cats, women could part with anything save dignity—she lowered her voice slightly and allowed her rage to show in the red in her face rather than the spittle flying from her mouth.
“And what kind of wish was that anyway? You could’ve had anything you wanted! Riches! Glory! An entire kingdom!”
“I’m content with my lot,” Geralt says. “I’ve more experience with a cold beer and a chicken leg fresh from the fire than with fine silks or sweet songs. But what fool would wish for something as common as—“ He kicked a beer barrel off to his side. “A never-ending flagon? Or a chicken pot that is never empty?”
Yennefer’s rage was not relenting, much as she herself might want to dispel it. Now she paced animatedly in front of him, burning off in that way the energy that a lesser woman might’ve spent rending her garments or tearing out her hair. “Common? Common? At least you’d get some use out of your beer or your chicken! Surely you don’t think you’ll ever lie with me! Infuriating man! Third-rate hexer! Do you really think I’d sleep with you, just because it might bring me pleasure? I’ve known pleasure, little boy! Do you know the suitors that have courted me, the gratitude they would show to find my bed? I have my pick of them! I have faces without scars and hands that have never known calluses!”
Geralt sat down on the beer barrel, groaning as the weight came off his tired feet. It seemed a poor reward for his troubles, getting yelled at even by such a stupendous woman, but his friend was well, the world was more interesting with Yennefer still in it, and the djinn would cause no more trouble. He’d had worse undertakings, and this one hadn’t even ended with him being routed from a town or stiffed of his payment.
Not that anyone had hired him.
Though, as he doubted the tavern would be reopening anytime soon, he was sure no one would gainsay him helping himself to a little of the stock before it went bad.
Making a quick Sign with two of his fingers, he drew up a mug that had fallen to the floor in all the chaos, sending it sailing through the air to come into his palm. Then he reached down and filled it from the barrel he was sitting on.
Cold, perhaps not. But cool, certainly.
Yennefer noticed, though it was a note of her flaring anger that it took her some moments to register what he was doing. “And now you’re drinking! Yes, yes, help yourself! Don’t think of what I could’ve done with the power of the djinn, or what you yourself could’ve possessed had you but put a moment’s thought into your wish, simply enjoy your small, trifling, petty pleasure!”
“I will,” Geralt said. “Would you care for one?”
“Ghhh!” Letting out a sound no more articulate than a wolf’s howl, Yennefer stretched out her hand and released her frustration in a river of coruscating energy, causing numerous bottles of wine to burst in small explosions, fragments of their glass cascading to the floor, the burgundy contents splattering against the wall and then slopping down to the ground.
After that display, her rage seemed spent, or perhaps she’d crossed a line and shamed herself out of so overtly showing it. Instead, she quietly fumed, her voice low and deadly. “Come every time you thrust into me… so what… you’d probably burst yourself after being inside me twice… though…” Her voice lost its edge. “That would be better than some could manage… quicker, too…”
Now she almost appeared confused, bewildered by the direction her own internal monologue had taken. Yennefer turned her head to the side. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if she were puzzling out some written passage making itself difficult to discern by mouthing its words as she read them. Geralt heard her speak again, though he didn’t think she meant to. “Every time he thrusts inside me,” she thought aloud. “Every single time…”
He drank some of his beer. It was good. He wondered if the innkeeper brewed it himself. If so, it was a shame a hospitable place that offered such comforts could no longer accommodate weary travelers.
Then he noticed Yennefer coming towards him. She was pulling aside her ruffled, rent dress, freeing herself of the many tangled imperfections it had taken on in the struggle. It left her shoulders bare, her corset hanging open between her breasts. They too were delicately formed, their swelling tender and artistic, but the hefty quiver that went through them with each breath demonstrated their robustness.
“I have to know,” she said simply, and with an impish flick of her wrist, sheer force knocked Geralt from his perch and down onto his back. Then Yennefer was kneeling over him, her black-gloved hands working at the concealment of his loins.
She couldn’t leave it at such a self-explanatory statement; she had to complicate things. “And you owe me for fouling up my enterprise—involving me in your perverted imaginings as well. It’s only fair I should see what this magic can do. It’s rightfully mine at any rate. And if this is the closest I can get to it…”
Geralt made a low chuckle. Imagine… even a sorceress having to apologize for her cunt, or justify its wetness. Well, he was nearly a stranger to her. Perhaps if they were on more familiar terms, she’d be comfortable admitting that she had an emptiness and it felt better full, just as his cock would feel better warm. Warm and wet and tight, wherever she chose to lodge it.
He stared up at the lovely girl as she leaned over him, her clothing so loose and damaged and undone that she was all but revealed to him. As he’d known it would, his prick began steadily thumping, lifting against his breeches, the knob bulging out and upward in spasmodic jerks.
“Oh… Geralt…” Yennefer whispered, finally saying his name. “You’re more foolish than I thought… your wish might not have been necessary at all…”
Geralt grinned as his manhood swelled into a frightful erection, his balls dangling in their pale sac like hen eggs in a nest. “You’re a rare woman, Yen. It must take something special to attract your eye.”
His cock was as hard as it could get, sticking up from his loins like a steel ingot, the shaft slick and throbbing, the tip foaming with precum. Yennefer stared at it as it jerked spasmodically in the open air, as if already seeking her warm body by simple nearness. She kept staring at it as she rid herself of her clothing in what seemed like only a few practiced motions, as if her ensemble weren’t half as elaborate as it looked. Perhaps she had the aid of magic, or perhaps Geralt’s own excitement was making time run away from him.
Yennefer’s body was exceedingly well-formed, breasts, buttocks, belly all in perfect proportion, even her lips and eyes sized to a pristine symmetry. The plumpness of her hips corresponded to her succulent lips, while her narrow waist fit her slitted eyes and the pert handfuls of her breasts, arranged on her chest as sweetly as a dune would form on a sea-swept beach. Her pale, creamy skin provided the finishing touch, its flawless pallor adding the aptest polish to her supple curvature.
Clawing her fingers into firm grips on his tunic, she threw a leg over his waist and straddled him. Then she lowered herself slowly to his cock. Her eyes closed as its tip met her womanhood, which wetly parted to admit him inside. She was clearly savoring her penetration, enjoying the size and heft of his feel within her, but her face showed only the tension of admitting such a huge intrusion, not anything he recognized as climax.
Then she came down a little further, and her body rippled, cunt clutching around his member, Yennefer letting out a short, involuntary gasp as she felt a small climax. Her chin dropped slightly in disbelief that she had really felt that much pleasure with such ease, and she looked down at his manhood as if unsure of what she had just taken into her sex.
Geralt rocked his hips upward, moving in and out of her slightly, and Yennefer whooped as she felt another orgasm. This one seemed a little bigger, her eyes widening as it ran its course. She had clearly enjoyed the sensation—enjoyed it immensely.
“You’re a fool, Geralt, a damned fool—“ She bounced herself up and down on his erection, cooing softly as she felt one orgasm after another, timing them so she kept herself on a plateau of utter satiation. “But you do make yourself useful… ooooh…”
Always a woman who knew what she wanted, Yennefer quickly figured out how best to please herself. She would volley herself up and down three, four, five times, almost knocking herself out with multiple orgasms, then sway her hips in a supple dance atop Geralt’s crotch, massaging his cock inside herself, both of them enjoying it immensely, but the interval proving less taxing than Yennefer’s literally magical climaxes.
Some men might’ve resented having their companion take far more pleasure than they did, but Geralt found it both fascinating and eminently satisfying. He could see the flickers of ecstasy across Yennefer’s face as her pleasure happened to her again and again, the red flush coloring her quivering breasts, and the twitch of her hips which was partly her trying to return the favor and partly an uncontrollable shaking as she gorged herself on bliss.
Her arms were fully extended, hands bruising into his chest to hold him down, but eventually Geralt had enough of that. He sat up, Yennefer crooning as he shifted inside her, and then she was straddling his lap, face to face with him. She kissed him, gratitude for how satiated she was in how her lips caressed his, rubbing along his cheeks, unable to express her affection nearly enough.
Arms around her body, he bounced her in his lap—Yennefer wrapped her arms around him and moaned in his ear, offering her throat to his own heated kisses, rubbing her breasts against his chest. She luxuriated in taking the pleasure he had to offer, simply enjoying it and the intimacy of their shared kisses, their hands on each other’s bodies, learning the feel of hair and skin and sweat.
Finally, she could not even respond to his kisses, his enjoyment of her, and her head lolled back, her eyes wandering back in their sockets. But she did not for a second relinquish the pleasure she had claimed for herself.
“More,” she mewled weakly. “You can’t stop… can’t…”
“Won’t,” Geralt answered her, roughness entering his otherwise gentle manner as he swung her about, placing her on her back as he loomed over her, mounting her. Yennefer’s closing eyes opened, almost in fright, as he thrust down into her, forcing himself to the depths of her sex. The orgasm she felt now was not the small pleasantry of before. It was a lightning bolt striking in the deepest part of her. She cried out, eyes open and alive and rapturous with delight, even as her expression shook, wondering how much satiation she could take. He was delivering it to her again and again.
Geralt rutted into her, plundering her, watching gleefully as the force of his strokes flew through her taut belly and the perfect roundness of her breasts. Her arms circled his body to look for handholds on the strong, scarred muscles that ran down his back. Her legs followed suit, grinding into his ribs, perfect thighs trembling with each thrust that went into her. He filled Yennefer even as she tightened to give him less room, clamping down as orgasm after orgasm flashed through her. Her mouth was wide open in a straining, jubilant cry, her eyes rolling back in her head. Unable to see, unable to speak, all she could do was enjoy herself. From the way her nails stabbed into his shoulders, she was having trouble doing even that much.
Still, a furious core of concentration remained in her as Yennefer fought a losing battle to stay with him, to endure his torturous pleasure and obtain even more of it. She showed the greed of a glutton, wanting to devour gratification she would never be able to stomach. And yet, Geralt fed it to her, relentlessly pleasuring her through her stricken stupor. He was nearly finished as well, and he wanted to drag Yennefer along to the very end of his witcher stamina.
Yennefer was barely awake when he came to a close, perhaps barely alive. She was aware of a last, punishing moment of ecstasy rolling through her like the thunder from a lightning bolt mere leagues away. Then he was pulling away from her, out of her, and she whinged wordlessly, the sound only heard deep in her throat. Even if she could not take anymore, she still wanted his seed. She had earned that, the evidence of their mutual enjoyment, the final token of him appreciating her body.
She needn’t have worried. With groaning exertion, Geralt arranged himself on top of her, a meaty hand wrapped around the stalk of his prominent erection, aiming it at her. In the veil of darkness that was drawing over her, Yennefer saw the bright red of his cockhead—then his semen flying from him, whiter than white, to land warm and viscous on her face, her chest, her dark hair, all of it marked with his pointed approval. Yennefer hummed happily as she felt the warmth soak into her flesh, not even able to register any distaste for being treated so crudely. Then she fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.
She couldn’t wait until her friend Triss got a load of this one.
Comments
"Got a load of this one" See what you did there.
Hm, technically, Geralt didn't specify what he thrusted.
