Chapter Text
Music recommendation:
NF2 14 - The Key to the Future
It had been a hard week. After a rough month. After a bad year. While the mansion itself was undamaged, two thirds of the personnel had been dead on the spot or died from their injuries during the past days. Not that she cared, because the guards had been the worse half. Adding some field hands to that death toll she was still better off than before.
She could have considered the monster in the woods a blessing.
But then, the yelling never stopped. For bandages, for hot water, for wood and empty night pots, for herbs from the small garden behind the stable that she considered her own by then. With the naughty stable boy dead, she had moved from the hut at the garden wall into the saddle chamber. Closer to the few surviving horses she had to care for and less chilly in the upcoming autumn nights because of the animals and the amount of straw and hay that was stored underneath the shingle roof. It could even be heated.
She piled the last handful of carrots in the basket and was about to even out the ground with a small wooden tool when the captain of the no longer existent guard rounded the stable’s corner. “Get that stuff down to the kitchen fast, you lazy bitch! You’ve got a visitor to care for…” She forced herself to drop the tool despite his rapid approach. She grabbed the basket instead and rushed to reach the end of the patch before the captain stepped onto the food she was growing. Just squishing past the big brute would not do, so she curtsied and acknowledged his presence without lifting her gaze higher than his armored chest, “…right away, sir.”
She would have been on her way but he grabbed her bare upper arm and squeezed to emphasize his next point, “Tend to his horse and to his every need once the Butcher finishes business with the Count. Dinner, bed ‘n’ breakfast – and whatever piece of you he wants. The countess doesn’t want the whoreson in the mansion, understood?” – “Yes, Sir.” – “And,” the armored chest was coming awfully close to her nose now, “if your service is found to be lacking, the count promised to take your tight virgin ass for it this time,” the captain emphasized his order with a slap on her buttocks that sent her stumbling down the garden path.
She did not know where the guy got his ideas from, but she could feel his gaze run down her shoulder blades. His chuckle clung to her ears until she rounded the stable’s corner. She rushed over the empty courtyard, passed the main stair in front of the mansion and slipped some steps down to enter the kitchen through a side door.
“Cass?” she realized that she was yelling, straightened the cloth around her hair briefly and tried again. “Got you the veggies, please, I need wine, ale or beer or something.” – “Who doesn’t, these days?” a thickset woman in her thirties looked over her shoulder at her like she had grown crazy or even a set of horns. “It’s not for me, Cass, it’s the captain’s order to cater someone called ‘the butcher’.” The cook wiped her hands on her dirty apron and threw her a ring of keys. “Take one bottle from the mid-shelf then,” she went back to the pig roast she was spiking with garlic. “Just one - and put my keys back on the table!” the cook shouted before the gardener could rummage around her cabinet and scavenge more groceries. - “What if he gets thirsty?” – “There is plenty of water in the trough.” A warning raise of the cook’s thin knife made the older but trim gardener duck for cover behind the basket-turned-shield and scramble out.
Geralt Of Rivia
https://youtu.be/j940HnlMM8k
On the courtyard, an impressive war horse had appeared in the meantime. The big red mare was still fully saddled and packed. Tied loosely to the huge stone basin and unable to rest, it huffed at the clean cold water that drizzled constantly into the trough from a well up in the hills. She filled a bucket at the far end of the basin and went around the horse in safe distance. “It’s okay, have a drink while I put this away.” The gardener went to store the looted food in the saddle chamber and took the sturdy brown leather apron off a peg in the wooden wall. She tied it over the skimpy dress that was one of the two clothing items she had aside of a pair of wooden clogs that would hopefully keep her toes safe while she was handling an animal trained to fend off foes.
She got a braided halter and adjusted it to the large size. She poured fresh water in the trough inside. She went around the stable, lit a fire and went around the horse again with a tankard to fill up the water in the saddle chamber’s oven. The go-and-return gave the mare plenty of times to get used to her general presence. Exiting once more, she slung a feed bag over her shoulder and pinned both door wings wide open. “Now Sweetie…” she whispered to the horse which perked its ears at the tone’s pitch while she approached from the side with slow but even paces. Running her palm down the wide neck and under the reddish mane she stood, exhaled and let the mare get comfortable with her scent and proximity.
The mare chewed on the snaffle bit impatiently and stepped from one hoof on the other while thinking about it, then decided that the contents of the feed bag were interesting enough. “You wanna eat, you let me take that off.” She unbuckled the clasps of the snaffle, held it for the brief moment to get the halter ready for the large muzzle as the large red head dived into the bags’ contents. “Fine, c’mon inside,” she coed softly. Whenever the mare got pushy for another mouthful of oats she took a little step backwards. Inside, she hung the bag to the lattice of the hay rack and took the bags and saddle off and away. She returned with a cleaning box while the horse was still busy and did not mind to be tied and rubbed down. Once it had all its itches scratched by the friendly newcomer, it let itself down to release a hoof after the other and in return got the mud caked gravel removed.
The stable hand left the divider and hoisted the saddle over her shoulder with a low grunt at the weight and smell that emanated from the large moist blanket. On the second tour she moved the luggage bags down the aisle way, closed the double wings of the gate and checked the saddle chamber. It was still too chilly to dry anything efficiently. She would have to hurry and put fresh logs on, not to mention food. By the time she returned from the garden with an onion braid, herbs and apples filling her basket, the snaffle and rains were no longer attached to the stone trough where she had left them. Making a mental note that she would have to find and clean that later, she caught the door wing that had been left swinging in the autumn wind and slipped inside.
A tall person in a black cloak moved in last sunrays falling on the aisle, turning on her at the screeching of the gate she was about to pull close behind her. She took in a mane of matted grey hair on top of the mountain of soft black fabric. A tinkling in the man’s gloved fist gave away the missing tack.
And then his scrutiny locked on her from dark eye sockets, “Where is my horse?”
The raspy baritone made her shrink instinctively. Remembering the captain’s assessment of a ‘butcher’ made her clutch her basket to her chest. That was a dangerous man and she had managed to anger him at the very first moment. Underneath his frowning thick brows, his eyes shone yellow like a wolf’s?!
The Witcher’s nostrils flared slightly, taking in the familiar scent of Roach as it intermixed with the scent of half dried onions, fresh parsley and flustered femininity. The visuals of the small slim person wrapped in a leather apron that had been made for a square-built blacksmith, hair hidden under a blue print scarf left a lot to imagination. But it took him just one gaze in her wide dark eyes to know: one more move and the woman would dash. Experienced with animal fright, the witcher froze and. just. listened.
She swallowed, breathed and found her voice again, “In the third stall to the left,” she piped and pointed with a wave of her hand, while the stranger kept his piercing gaze trained on her. She tried an introduction, “My name is Velita, gardener.” Remembering the manners of the mansion, she curtsied; after all she had done nothing wrong. “I took care of your horse and moved your luggage to your quarter,” she pointed at a chamber in the middle of the stable of the size of a horse box, “If you would like to hand me that… for cleaning… while you check on your horse,” she offered.
Upon invite it took him just one fluent stride to hand over the mucky tack. “Roach. I’m Geralt,” his arm reached out while the rest of him remained in polite consideration of her comfort distance, “Not what I expected.” he added.
As if that explained anything?!
Velita dared to inquire, “What did you expect, Sir?” and found herself staring upwards into his amber eyes. Then he set his square jaw and… was that a slight smile of amusement forming in the corner of his mouth? She blinked. Maybe he… Geralt, wasn’t that angry?
“A trampled down stable boy to be rescued from Roach. A guest room where roast and beer is served by a busty wench - after a hot bath,” he rapped down his expectations, the ones he had almost discarded after meeting the lord of this manor.
While her short comings dawned on her, Velita kept rambling. To avoid thinking of the consequences of failure, she put her sole advantage on the line: “Well, y... Roach... and I, we get along.”
“Hm,” he wasn’t one to explain a joke and went to check on Roach who lifted her head over the far divider and was already expecting her two-legged companion. The horses in the first two stalls had withdrawn to the far wall, just a scent of injury and herbs battling infections wafting over. Apparently, the leshen had taken his toll on the mansions live stock as well as the humans.
Darkness crept up the vertical slits in the stable walls and the gate wing clanged shut to be secured with a screech. His mutated vision still allowed him to evaluate the injuries, take measurement of the gashes and compare that with the description the Count of Midville and his Captain had given him of the monster they contracted him to dispatch.
Arriving at the third divider, Geralt stepped beside Roach silently. He had trained his horse to fend off thieves grabbing for his luggage on her back. At times, surplus monsters managed to come past him. In return, Roach’s occasional snap or kick at an overzealous stable hand were acceptable side effects to him. But apparently, that ‘gardener’ knew what she was doing.
Otherwise, the local nobility had let him wait twice, sized him up, agreed a price for his service and then socially discarded him for the same mutations that enabled him to do his job. While Velita had given him a deeply frightened impression after sizing him up, she was feisty enough to get at least Roach dry, clean, well-fed and watered. …Geralt marked this as the first attractive aspect of his stay.
He spent time with Roach to get over the humiliation, breathed the scent of fresh hay by the side of his four legged companion until he felt like facing humanity again. ‘All your needs will be met within the stable walls,’ the captain had said as he showed him out of the noble mansion. He should have haggled for a price to match their disrespect. For now, a square of yellow light beckoned on the darkened aisle. He went for whatever awaited him in that stable box dubbed ‘his quarter’.
In the meantime, Velita had washed the mucky tack in the cold water at the stone trough’s gutter. Afterwards she had withdrawn in the saddle chamber to prepare supper for her guest. She stepped out of her wooden clogs on the grate just inside the door and moved bare foot over the wooden platform that covered the ground to the adobe oven built along the opposite wall. Once she placed the saddle bags on the cot she had made from straw she realized her next short-coming: Her guest was taller than her bed was long!
Velita stir-fried onions golden in the butter she had scavenged and doused them with already lukewarm water from the nearby basin. The vapor that filled the little room was vented through the window-slits up in the wall. She dropped marrow bones intro the brew and put on the lid to let the onions simmer. She lit two lanterns in the fading daylight and hooked them back under the ceiling. Standing on her toes once again, she stuffed the window-slits with wool pads to allow the oven to heat-up the room. Once the urgent preparations were done, Velita went to fetch additional straw from the hay loft.
Aside of the scents of freshly cut onions, drying horse blanket, leather and polish that filled his assigned quarter and hit him squarely in the face upon entry, Geralt found the saddle chamber devoid of human presence. Under the golden candle light, something edible blubbered in the hearth. He had learned early in life to accept any food he did not have to pay for. The only exception on that path was a troll’s stew.
His saddle bags had arrived and he was about to drop the sheep skin package with the silver sword on his discarded cloak when a heavy thud right outside shook the door in its hinges. Long swords were no use in such close quarters, but his trophy knife was out in a blink. Another thud followed suit, the door flew open… and he got a square view at the bent back of his host who hoisted a straw bale up on the wooden platform.
Her bare shoulders and arms were straining sinews underneath tanned skin, but that round ass protruding from the apron’s gap was just… right. Without dropping his lusty consideration Geralt stepped aside to let the rampage pass. The bale was shoved at the foot of the makeshift sleeping place. Once she had brought the other one up, Velita was panting - which reminded him of other activities in the hay. Unsuspecting, she pushed and kicked the straw into place - while her guest slipped the knife in the horizontal sheath in the small of his back and the thought of assistance crossed his mind.
Velita evened out the hay padding and straightened the sheet when she spotted boots on her polished wooden floor panels. “Please let me help you with those,” she ushered her guest to sit on the edge of the wooden platform, knelt down on the grate and undid the four clasps before pulling for all she was worth.
Geralt inwardly admitted that a smith’s apron was as useful for well traveled witcher boots as it was for filing down hooves. He noticed that she brushed straws and dirt off the platform immediately and washed her hands with a ladle of water by the edge of the platform. While his host’s constant activity was an annoyance, it also made the place a clean, cozy nest of this fluttering blue bird.
His discarded cloak went on a peg and he re-positioned his bags off the bed to have space for undoing his armor. He was used to shed his plates in civilized surroundings but walking around in socks made him feel naked. While he was wondering where to put his blades, she sided with him to assist with the buckles. A useful support, because he had to bow his head low to get the harness and then the brigandine through under the ceiling beams and avoid the lanterns that were hooked to the ceiling. No longer afraid of his superior height she was bustling around him.
Velita placed the set of armor on a saddle fixture to dry it well away from the oven. His own musky scent mixed with leather became the new dominant. He wrapped the harness around the sheath of the steel sword and placed it along the straw bales he sat on. Rolling up the sleeves of his loose black shirt Geralt extended his long legs, stretching the tight riding pants over his swords on the ground as he took another look around.
Half of the tack stored in the chamber was under repair but the only blades in the room were his. There was a cutter attached to the opposite wall which she now used to chop parsley. He inhaled deeply and ran an appreciating gaze down the split of the stained brown leather of the apron. There was tiny blue angle of washed out fabric peaking out that revealed flawless tanned skin – as high up as the back of her knees!
Those toned calves and slim ankles …he would love to feel those heels beside his ears.
And then it dawned on him. It wasn’t just a treacherous chafing on her left ankle. This was going further than the indentured servitude in the northern kingdoms usually went. This woman was no servant. She was a slave. He was sitting on her bed... and she had nowhere to go.
Undisturbed by his considerations, Velita pulled a three legged stool out from under the stored saddles and placed a wooden plank on stool and oven as a makeshift table. She produced a cup and a bottle of beer, a piece of bread, lard, pickled cucumbers and a spoon. She turned to the oven and lifted a lid. Steam billowed up and she picked out a rolled-up cloth, shaking it in front of him to reduce the heat of the fabric so he could touch it bare handed. “For your refreshment, Geralt.”
It had been a while since she made eye contact and he welcomed it with a genuine smile. He set his scruples aside and took the cloth she offered. It wasn’t a bath but she made him feel fresh and good again when he cleaned his hands and face for dinner. She would find out that her position in human hierarchy did not matter to another outcast like him.
Velita smiled back at her guest, knelt beside him to pour him beer then rose to lift the round soup pot from the hole in the hearth onto a saucer to cover the pot’s sooty bottom below the ring. To prevent smoke and sparks from entering her wooden housing quarter, she transferred the pot’s cover immediately to close the fiery opening. Velita lifted the bones out of the soup, pushed the marrow out and divided the larger lumps. Disposing the bones, she added the chopped parsley and stirred.
Once she had placed the dark ceramic pot in front of her guest reverently, she withdrew…
To his regret, but Geralt just folded his long legs under the board and pushed his dangling guild pendant under his shirt to prevent the silver wolf’s head from dipping into the brew. He bent over and stuck the spoon into the onion soup. The strong smell had simmered into an equally strong yet somewhat sweet aroma that went well with the beer. He fished for a marrow dumpling that swam between the supple onion slices. It was no roast in gravy, but it would keep him warm and he found the taste to his liking.
Meanwhile the skittish woman hunkered down on the edge of the wooden platform to shine his black riding boots. He wouldn’t force the gardener turned stable hand turned cook to turn entertainer and flirt with him. Nevertheless he tried to intervene before the hidden dagger fell out of its sheath in his right boot. “That is not necessary. I’ll have to put them back on to drain the snake.” If she would just stop flitting around and eat something herself – that would serve his peace of mind best.
Velita just gave him a puzzled look and lifted the other boot for him to see. “I was about to fix that for you,” she unrolled a package with leather tools and restored a seam that had been coming loose underneath the dirt; “You can put them on again in a few minutes …and ride out safely tomorrow.”
“You are very thorough,” he noted and continued to eat and analyze. Parsley helped men to saddle up… and pregnant women to the grave. While she was hospitable, she watched her distances carefully. So far, he had neither made flirting attempts nor felt the need for an aphrodisiac. Small amounts of parsley prevented bad breath. So where was that leading to?
“Where do you sleep?” he inquired evenly.
While his piercing gaze followed her around, Velita felt no longer threatened. “Wherever you prefer, with you or in the hay upstairs,” she replied as casually and kept polishing his boots. She had accepted him as a polite, even friendly person. It was out of question that he was a big, gritty, dangerous warrior, but so where others. While others yelled and grabbed, he was comfortably calm and lenient …and he put his horse first, he was kind and gentle with the mare. He was attractive in many ways. She had to avert her eyes or that smile would bind her attention to his sensuous lips. She shied away just because she was dangerously close to lose her composure. Requirement was that she stopped gawking and noticed her guest’s every demand.
‘With wh.. hat the fuck?’ Geralt thought, her forthcoming went farer than expected. Part of him wanted to turn to flirtation, tease her just to see what the woman would do, but she was so… focused. By the time he finished dinner and was chewing on a twig to clean his teeth, she had his boots ready as promised. He did not bother with his cloak as he walked around the stable by her side.
It was nearly dark in the shadow of the shingle roof under the waxing moon and it got frosty outside.
“Your garden?” he asked.
“Yes,” Velita replied in low voice then knelt by the side to feed the oven fresh logs.
A beam of red light from the fire opening shone on her fine features and left just a few edged shadows under the head scarf as the fire roared and cracked. The hair on Geralt’s bare forearms and around the silver pendant stood. He averted his gaze to look over the schemes of well kept patches and an orchard that supplied fruit and vegetables for many people. Then he strolled off to the dung heap to have a piss and spat the twig on top of it.
Despite that skimpy dress underneath the apron, this garden proved his suspicion that the woman worked hard for her food and lodging. What mismanagement by the Count to throw one of his few surviving serfs to the Wolf! Whatever the Count had implied earlier, this wandering wolf would not mistake her for a prepaid whore and take advantage in the good conscience that everybody was free to choose a working perspective - whenever vertical or horizontal. Since he would not impose himself on the gardener by claiming her bed, he was about to get his swords and blankets from her room and avoid the upcoming embarrassment.
“The water should be warm enough by now,” Velita caught up with him at the gate and pulled the huge wing shut behind them. Excluding the moon shine, she pinned it shut and secured it for the night.
His predator eye sight had scanned the dark stable for the ladder up to the hayloft. Now it snapped back to the gardener, “Will you run me a bath in the horse trough, Velita?” he teased.
Velita was aware that her hospitality wasn’t up to par but there was little she could do than making an honest proposal, “Down the main road is a bath house. There they’ve got tubs - for coin.”
That stung. Geralt had run out of coin a couple of days ago, but once he was paid by the Count, he would soak away the monster grime and slime in a tub and have a buxom bath attendant scratch his every itch. If the harmony was right and he got invited into an alcove to tumble the sheets, he would enjoy the bodily relief and leave a generous tip afterwards. “I’ll go along with what you offer,” he assured her.
“I’ll help you to wash your back,” Velita promised, “and also your hair, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s warm enough,” Geralt agreed. Maybe she wasn’t that touchy after all. From what he had seen, he would enjoy her thorough attention – if it ever focused on him? There, she had asked him to undress and sit on the edge. He obliged her down to his briefs and pendant and prowled around that shapely butt while she was bent over the oven. Without feeling up her curves he sat down and behold, the elusive woman turned to him, carrying a block of soap, a clean cloth over her arm and a tankard with steaming hot water.
He felt like smiling, just one thing bothered him, “Get rid of that apron,” he insisted with a brief raise of his chin. Tough enough to service Roach was good enough for him, but that was a tad too much leather.
“Yes, Sir,” her bare toes dug into the floor boards when she untied the apron and hung the roll of thick stained leather next to his cloak. Inwardly Velita feared that once the man recognized her female attributes and realized how low her status really was, he would automatically start to manhandle her like the captain. ‘You are clothed unless…’ she called herself to order, ‘stay dry and matter of fact, damn!’
Little was left to his imagination now. The dress beneath her apron turned out too thin to hide the protrusions of her nipples. When she moved he could see the light shine through to the fairly high apex of her thighs. Geralt smiled approvingly at the sites. The downside was that his strategy to take it easy and get sex for free had taken a dent when Velita left their pre-established first-name basis.
“Hm,” Geralt straightened his back and fixed his gaze to the door, “You looked like a butcher in that.” He dared her to call it, call him like so many others. Then he would at least have sufficient excuse to isolate himself from the feminine allure she emanated.
Velita knelt behind him and picked the band from his matted gray mane gingerly. He accepted her touch with a low hum and she dared a retort. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not armed …and you don’t look like a lamb to me.” When he smiled ruefully, she could have sworn that his canines were pretty pointed. ‘How just a nibble would feel?’ she wondered. Safely out of his sight, she chewed on her own lower lip. She was very careful not to splash water all over them in the frosty draft at the door …though she could not chalk her physical reaction upon the cold anymore.
To increase volume, she mixed the boiling water from the oven with cold water from the bucket. She rested the edge of the bowl against his wide shoulder and moistened his fairly long hair with handfuls of water before working up lather with the block of soap. His dirtied yet dignified hair color was in mismatch with his young and amazing physique. She wondered if Geralt’s matted grey hair would turn into a pure white fluff once she managed to get a rid of the suds.
His briefs were about to get soaked and since they stank like he had spent two weeks on horseback in them, she was unsure if the travelling mercenary owned replacement. She could not think of a polite way to broach the topic and Geralt wasn’t talkative anyway. She wiped the foam off her hands and ran two fingers of each hand around the sides of his sculpted six-pack and further down his groin, hooking in the waistband.
Since those small hands had taken their sweet time to massage his skull, Geralt jumped at their unexpected shortcut to his private parts; but she just pushed his last clothing item down his thighs without touching his manhood. He could have sworn he felt a pair of tense nipples against his back for a fleeting moment. There was more than she let on, but he saved the risky comment à la Lambert that came to mind.
Geralt kicked off the briefs, flipping them over to his saddle bags. Her palm between his shoulder blades nudged him to bend forwards. Now, that way she wouldn’t get as much as an uncouth sight in reward for her daring underwear loot?! Next, the foamy suds were gushed out of his hair, right into the gutter beneath the grate. Coming back up, he split his long floating mane and wiped the water off his face.
Velita felt that she had pushed her luck by removing his underwear. She sat back on her heels but couldn’t help but gape at his profile; eyes closed, featured relaxed, perfect edges highlighted by water, the plane of his jaw matted by a three days roughness. Nevertheless she was quick with the cloth. Wrapping up his hair she wrung the remaining water from the silver strands into the fabric.
The moisture made him feel her hot breath down his neck acutely. Since she had unjustly taken his underwear, he was about to turn and steal a kiss from her …just when she stood briskly to throw the wet towel over the oven bar. All he caught was a whiff of her arousal and a good look at the back of her round thighs underneath a twirling hem.
She knelt to get more steamed rags from the adobe oven. He sighed under his breath. She was so driven by duty, it wasn’t romantic. There was no admitting to her how often his blood stained fists had cracked a layer of ice on the bucket he used to wash in Kaer Morhen. That he was made from stern stuff and certainly no lamb. No telling who he was. Somehow she fuzzed over him as if he was precious. Maybe she did not know better?
By principle, witchers did nothing for free because they got nothing for free. He had run out of coin but he could still grant an incentive. Taking all his warmth upstairs suddenly appeared like a selfish move on a frosty October night. He was broke but he would help with cold feet in a fair exchange.
While he pondered his options, Velita placed a plate with steaming cloths beside his bare butt. At least this one of a kind woman skipped scar-memory-moment and rubbed his wide back down to his ass in amiable silence. The torrid moisture evaporated on his skin instantly and left him so fresh and clean his hackles rose due to the fleeting hot-cold experience. Since he had regained her up-close attention, he picked a cloth from her basket and took a good moment to wipe down his hairy, scarred front side to make sure he at least smelled appetizing. After all, her arousal was his main appeal.
And then it was high time for clarifications: “Did you decide?”
While she washed his back, Velita had been somewhat detached as he spun her that line. She had avoided the angry scratches and stuck to the careful removal of flakes of dead skin that came off ridges and puckers. She was revealing clean rosy scar tissue gently and had listened for a halting of breath each time she thought it could have hurt, but nothing. After a while her thoughts had been floating with the steam that rose from the huge scarred plane, “Wha… what was the question, Geralt?”
“Whenever to invite me into your bed or point me the way to the hayloft.”
“You cannot just leave,” she blurted out, “If someone sees you outside, then…”
Geralt whipped his head around because the woman suddenly emanated desperation. He had not been aware of being locked up and bristled at the mere idea, “Then what?”
“I’ve got to serve to full satisfaction,” Velita stated firmly, skirting around the captain’s threat.
‘Whatever that means,’ he thought, listened to her rapid heartbeat and reassured her for her kindness, “I enjoyed your cooking, I’m freshened up nicely and I‘ll be content to sleep up on the hay loft.”
Velita worked to straighten out her blunder by getting directly to his part of their bargain.
“I want you to sleep in the bed, please,” she pointed behind her. An inquisitive “hm?” rumbled in his throat. She felt like talking to a wall which made her list the resulting options: “I will join you if it pleases you,” she promised and when his expression remained impassive, she admitted “unless you don’t feel up to it…”
“That’s not the issue.” Geralt wondered how she could remain undecided. Did she doubt that he was a functional male in his prime? Honestly, he kept his ass on the seat as it was bathhouse-custom but couldn’t she see what was going on since she had stripped him butt naked?! If that did not help her to make up her mind, nothing would.
Velita had respected his privacy and kept her eyes up where they belonged. Exceedingly unnerved, she tried to read his stern expression and figure out where the problem was, “It is a bit narrow, admitted,” and she tried to make up for it, “Once you are satisfied, I’ll slip out silently and grant you a good night’s sleep.”
“You won’t have to leave,” Geralt insured her. Due to his superhuman stamina paired with insomnia, he was not easily satisfied. Once a woman allowed him to hold her, she was in for a long night of pleasure.
Velita was sure he had no aim to harm her. Of course he was totally unaffected by what was at stake for her. She was willing yet couldn’t assume being desired just because he had smiled at her before. He was smiling no longer and looking down herself, why should he? “I’ll do whatever you wish, Sir, but please put it straight to the Captain that you’ve been satisfied. If not he will drag me to the Count for punishment first thing in the morning.”
The realization hit and Geralt shied away from it, and from her. “No,” he had been severely mistaken. She had not been in awe or infatuated with him. She had just chosen him in that one way he could not take. “I am not your lesser evil. I get to sleep on the floor and tell your worse evil where to shove punishment - first thing in the morning.” He made his point by placing his palm on the door in front of him, casting an Yrden sign that sealed off the room with a layer of blue light.
“No one comes in and no one leaves till the third cockcrow.” End of discussion.
Velita backed away as if he had slapped her and stared at his sudden outburst of chaos. How he could refer to himself as ‘a lesser evil’ was beyond her. “It wasn’t my intention…” He stood briskly and turned to step on the platform. He was a truly dangerous person, a mountain of muscle, a raging force of war craft and …magic?!
“…didn’t mean to annoy you,” was probably the nicest excuse he would ever get from a scared woman, “I just wanted to do you good. I was glad that you were so generous to give me a chance.” She was rambling and pleading but he would not have the damsel in distress. Thankfully she did not go fully hysterical but saved her breath and turned to the one corner his hulking presence had left her.
A contract was a contract. Either way the saddle chamber was more comfortable than a spot under the bushes outside. Geralt threw Roach’s blanket on the floor for padding. He fetched his bed roll and made up his mind. He projected to himself that he had been served well, that he should feel balanced and be content. It was warm and dry and clean, the host was harmless and his stomach was full.
What the fuck was she mixing up in that kitchen shelf?!
Couldn’t she just shut it, get into her bed and pull the blanket over her head? “It’s fine. Go to sleep.” He had a job to do tomorrow!
The scent of sage and rosemary wafted down to him.
Velita had been working all day to please everybody. She had given her best, she had failed and now she had reached that point where she could take no further reproach about the way life took - out there. She turned and stood upright like a statue of Melitele, deliberately drawing his attention to her.
This was her home, her rules. He was the one with her, in that spot of sole importance. Of course she cared - and so did he. That was all she needed to know and to handle the situation.
“Lay down on the bed, Geralt,” she prompted him in serious voice.
He was done with her but apparently she was not done with him yet. Stark naked he took a stance and protested sternly, “It is your bed.”
“I know - and you need to lay face down,” Velita held his amber gaze and smiled, gently swirling the contents of the bowl on her palm with her fingertips. “I’m going to take care of you,” …’cause no one has in a long time,’ she thought.
So she had found a different approach. Geralt liked women who knew what they wanted, who could handle his chaos. “Fine, have it your way,” he compromised due to her good intentions. Nenneke would be so proud of him. He briefly felt like a greased pig as warm slickness drizzled off her fingertips and onto his back, but her daft palms and pushy thumbs followed suit, spreading warmth all over him.
A pleasant tingle raised her hair on end as her palms swept in circles over his skin, slowly, tentatively as their charges equalized. He was still looking like a martyr but she would find out how to fix that, tracing down his back and exploring hard, lean muscles.
First he could hardly believe what she was doing and second he realized that she actually knew what she was doing. If that was her way to make it up to him, he could accept it. Knotted delta muscles stung before they relaxed into the smooth warmth of her touch.
It certainly helped to smother the pang of insult. An olive branch was due; it had not been her heavy handed approach that put him on edge. “Hm,” he had perceived Velita as gentle but reluctant yet utterly caring around him… a bit shy when he just wanted them both to get comfortable. No need to treat her like an overly friendly rock troll. “I don’t mind you sitting on me,” he finally mumbled under his forearm that served as his cushion.
Velita chuckled and continued her massage down the small of his back, over his buttocks and down his legs, “Thank you but I could not do that if I was,” she pulled his feet which caused an alarming crunch in his spine …followed by the warm sensation of normal circulation returning.
‘So much to shy,’ Geralt thought and groaned, “Gardener, my ass!” at the sudden wash of relief. This was better than getting laid. He became dough underneath her assertive hands that were rolling him in an entirely different way than Roach’s gait had required of him all the way from Flotsam.
Witchers were said to not have human emotions and indeed, he got turned off by the intellect that reined him in to not become a monster.
But…
On the physical basis of his artificially enhanced senses, the sensual friction on his groin was hot-wired with his loins. Besides, her pheromones were filling his nostrils and his ears picked up a little blob now and then as she worked to relax him.
It betrayed surplus moisture at the apex of her thighs and a total lack of underwear.
It called to him, turned him on shamelessly, drew him closer and lured his hand to feel for the unseen. The curious fingertips of his left wandered over the wrappings of his sword harness on the floor, felt the rough sheep skin and came to graze a thin layer of sweat on her thigh ever so lightly. She responded by missing a beat and he tilted his head at the prospect of finally getting a taste of the joy he scented, then twisted further on the bed to see if she would let him bridge the gap…
Once he raised his hip, Velita knew better than to allow him to get second thoughts and cause havoc again. She aimed and acted at once, moved into the offered space with precision and power. Her right hand took hold around his shaft, her elbow and full weight pushed his hip over fully as she climbed the straw made padding. Her left hand smoothed up his stomach and snaked over his pectoral as her mouth encased the tip of his erection.
One warm suck and he was paralyzed.
‘Just an old fashioned trap,’ Yen’s voice echoed in his mind. “Fuck!” – His pendant would have alarmed him of a succubus, so “yeah,” he muttered and allowed her doing this… and naturally, she was doing it well.
He grabbed for her head not to keep her at arm’s length, but to decelerate her a bit. The headscarf fell away and revealed braided chestnut hair. He dug his fingers in for hold and pulled the curled braids apart. The disheveled tresses where shot through with grey strands that betrayed more life experience than he had bargained for. The tops of her tanned shoulders were round with muscle; her small tits were just out of his reach but no longer hidden by the sagging collar of the skimpy dress that rode up her thighs as she brought the angle of her onslaught to perfection.
He closed his eyes and just felt for her hair unraveling all over his groin. That satiny bliss, her eager sucks, hard quick pumping and a wicked swirling tongue pushed him to the edge within minutes. He strained against her stroking palm. And then her fingers pinched his nipple to top up his roaring release.
Geralt felt himself relax into a puddle. He did not mind to find himself on the receiving end for once. She had eaten him alive like Neville’s bruxa and was now licking him clean with a cattish expression. He needed a moment to catch his breath, pulled her up on his mid section and turned them over. The expanse and smothering weight of his thigh landed on her short ribs. His knee on her hip bone communicated ‘game over’ unquestionably before she could get even fuller of herself.
He exhaled with a good natured sigh and stroked her back, running his fingertip across her shoulder blades along the fraying edge of the dress. Decades of experience with professionals had resulted in a hundred pleasurable ideas what he could have done with her all through the night.
Pity she had killed them all in one instant…
He did not mind the singular way she had taken to please him. The one temporary cure for his insomnia …it would kick in once he had taken care of unfinished business. He laughed a deep throaty sound into base of her neck. “You are still overdressed, little butcher,” he released his lock over her hip just to reach down further. His large hand bunched the skimpy dress over the small of her back and pulled that last clothing item over her head to toss it aside.
She swallowed hard but went with him getting even, smoothing her hair out of her face.
In the nude her butt was as shapely as he had imagined. It shone in the dim candle light like the waxing moon outside. With the heat coming from the adobe oven to his right, he left her just enough leeway to get the blanket from his feet or to snuggle into him and harvest the warm glow she had stoked up.
She managed both, wanting, needing his warmth.
The leisure of staying in bed after release – full hours in which he was not shooed out onto the street in favor of the next client but allowed to remain skin to skin with a woman who smelled of him and breathed contend – that was a luxury a witcher rarely enjoyed.
On this job, he got it for free.