Chapter Text
The elevator opened to silence and marble.
Jaskier stepped out into a space that smelled like leather, polished wood, and something darker. The air was too still, like it hadn’t been stirred in days. Rich and bold. Beautiful in a way that made his chest feel tight.
He swallowed, clutched his canvas messenger bag like it was armor.
And then. “Come in.” The voice cut through him like a wire. Deep. Measured. A little rough, like it had been unused for a few days. Geralt of Rivia didn’t shout. He didn’t have to.
Jaskier followed the sound through a wide archway into a sitting room where the silence thickened. It was cavernous, all dark woods and steel accents. A fireplace roared quietly to one side, illuminating the single figure lounging in a leather armchair.
Geralt.
He didn’t rise. Just looked up, amber eyes scanning him in full. Jaskier tried not to shrink under the gaze, but gods, the man was enormous. Even sitting, his thighs spread wide, broad chest stretching the fabric of a loose black shirt. Pale hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck. Big hands curled loosely around a crystal tumbler.
“You’re early,” he said.
“S…sorry,” Jaskier murmured. “Yen said three, I…”
Geralt stood.
The words fell out of Jaskier’s mouth and died somewhere between them.
He was huge. Towering. Six foot eight at least, a wall of quiet strength in bare feet and soft slacks. Shoulders like steel beams. He walked with unhurried precision, like a man who never needed to explain himself.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
“You’re nervous.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
There was no desk, no meeting table, just a low marble sideboard and a thick leather portfolio laid open atop it. The pages were crisp. The ink was dark. The contract waited, silent and patient, like it already knew how this would end.
Geralt tapped the page. “Seven days. Trial contract. You stay here. You follow orders. You don’t leave without permission. No one else comes or goes.”
Jaskier’s mouth was dry. “Right.”
“You do not touch yourself. You speak when spoken to. You take care of your appearance. And you allow me to do whatever I want to you within the limits of this agreement.”
A pause. “You may leave at any time.”
“I…don’t want to leave.”
“Not yet.” Geralt said, voice like poured gravel. “But you should understand what you’re signing.”
Jaskier looked down. The page was simple, but brutal.
Seven days. No masturbation. No privacy. No refusal.
He looked up. “And after seven days?”
“If I like what I see,” Geralt said, circling him slowly, “we renegotiate.”
The weight of him, of his presence, was overwhelming. Jaskier was hyperaware of the man’s body behind him. The sound of his breathing. The fact that if he turned around, he’d probably be looking directly at, Jaskier signed.
The pen clicked shut.
Geralt took it from his hand without a word and closed the folio.
Then. “Strip.”
Jaskier blinked. “What?”
“Everything. Off.”
“O…okay.”
His fingers shook a little as he pulled off the blazer. Then the shirt. He tried to fold them neatly but Geralt took them from him mid motion and dropped them to the floor.
Shoes. Socks. Pants. And then finally, breath hitching, he peeled his boxers down.
The cold air kissed him. He stood there trembling, flushed and exposed, all pale skin and soft limbs and a tiny, twitching cock that immediately tried to shrink from view.
Geralt said nothing for a long, awful moment. Then, finally, “Good.”
Jaskier didn’t know how he ended up on his knees. He just blinked and suddenly he was there, head lowered, bare and shivering on the plush rug, his cock swaying helplessly as he tried not to cover himself.
Geralt stood above him like a monolith. “Three inches?” he chuckled, crouching down to run a finger along Jaskier’s bare thigh.
Jaskier whimpered. “I…it’s n..I mean…”
“It’s perfect,” Geralt said.
Then he opened a velvet box.
Inside a small, elegant stainless steel chastity cage. Slim. Gleaming. Deliberately unremarkable, the kind of thing you could wear under a suit without anyone knowing. Just tight enough to press every part of him into place.
Jaskier’s breathing hitched.
“You’ll wear this for the duration of the trial.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes. I…I want to.”
A pause.
Geralt’s hand found the base of his cocklet and slowly fitted the ring. The metal was cool and precise. He guided the soft flesh into the cage with clinical patience. Jaskier gasped, not from pain, but from humiliation. From the sharp, sudden rightness of being tucked away like this.
The lock clicked shut.
“You don’t need this anymore,” Geralt said softly. “You belong to me now.”
Jaskier nearly cried.
That night Jaskier didn’t sleep, after the cage was locked, Geralt didn’t touch him further, just handed him a soft black robe, motioned him toward a guest room, and said “We start early.”
That was it.
He had curled up on the massive bed, trembling and hard but unable to even try to touch himself. The cage held him snug, a metal fist at his groin, reminding him every time he rolled over that he had signed away all control.
He woke up hard. Still caged and aching.
Geralt was already waiting by the door. “Get dressed,” he said. “We have work to do.”
The ride to the salon was in a sleek, tinted car with butter soft seats. Jaskier kept his coat pulled tight around him, more aware of his body than he had ever been in his life. Hair a mess. Skin dry. Legs unshaven. Caged and small and disheveled.
He felt like a half finished doll. Geralt, by contrast, looked immaculate. All black, tight shirt, tailored pants, boots. Silver hair sharp and clean. He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to.
They stopped in front of an unmarked door. Tinted windows. High-end anonymity. Geralt simply said “Inside.”
The salon smelled like rosewater and heat. Everything inside was clean, expensive, and quiet. It wasn’t the kind of place you book. It was the kind of place you were invited to.
The woman at the front desk greeted Geralt with a nod, eyes flicking briefly to Jaskier, down his throat, his flushed cheeks, his too long hair. She didn’t look surprised.
Geralt murmured a few words and Jaskier was guided back to a private suite.
The room was soft lit and warm, with a padded chair in the center. Jaskier stood uncertainly in the doorway until the stylist, a slim man with perfectly tweezed eyebrows, said, “Robe off, please.”
He hesitated but untied the sash and let the robe fall.
The stylist didn’t even blink. “Oh, sweetheart. We’ve got our work cut out for us, don’t we?”
The process began.
First a full body waxing. Chest, stomach, arms, legs, underarms, back. Every inch was stripped smooth. Jaskier hissed and whimpered through it, gripping the chair arms as hot wax peeled hair and dignity away in equal measure.
Then came plucking. Eyebrows refined. Fine hairs removed with merciless precision.
Geralt entered halfway through and sat down in the corner. He didn’t say a word. Just watched. His legs were spread, one hand curled around a cup of black coffee, the other resting on his thick thigh. He looked like a man inspecting a luxury acquisition mid refurbishment.
Jaskier flushed brighter.
Next was skincare. Lotions, oils, serums, everything gently massaged into newly bared skin. The stylist worked silently, smoothing his chest, his thighs, his inner thighs, and even applied a delicate scent to his neck and collarbones.
Geralt finally spoke.
“Lavender. Keep that.”
“Yes, sir,” the stylist said.
Jaskier swallowed hard. The oil made his skin gleam. He looked…precious, almost fragile, like something you weren’t supposed to touch unless you paid the right price.
When it was done, Geralt stood and circled him slowly. “Better,” he murmured. “But not quite finished.”
He handed Jaskier a small bag. Inside: clothes. New ones. A silky white shirt, soft high rise jeans that hugged the waist and…a
delicate pair of white lace panties
He stared. Then swallowed. “I…they’re really beautiful,” he said softly.
When he stepped into them, the lace hugged his thighs like water. The front pressed against the cage just enough to make him shiver.
He leaked. Just a drop. Just a blush of it.
Geralt chuckled low in his throat.
Jaskier turned crimson.
Geralt looked him over, eyes dark and full of possession.
“Now you look like mine.”
They didn’t go home right away. The car dropped them off on a quiet designer strip, where the stores didn’t ask for money, they assumed you had it.
Jaskier followed behind like a shadow. He couldn’t help it, Geralt moved through the world like it belonged to him, sharp, focused, devastating in his silence. When he gestured, people obeyed. When he stepped into a store, clerks looked up in anticipation. And when he turned to check on Jaskier, it made the boy’s stomach twist with heat.
“Don’t hover,” Geralt murmured once. “Stay close.”
He did.
At Loewe, Geralt pulled a cream cardigan off a model and handed it over. “Try it.”
It was heavy and soft, structured like a coat but warm like a hug.
“D…do I get to pick anything?”
“You’re not a prisoner,” Geralt said. “Choose what you want.”
Jaskier did. He picked a flowing silk shirt with billowing sleeves, trousers that hugged his hips and brushed the floor. But he kept hesitating, glancing at tags. Pausing with his hands half raised.
Geralt noticed. “You’ll learn.” he said, handing him another silk shirt.
But the moment that undid him came at Versace. He spotted them in the display: sharp black leather calf length boots, gold chains and the classic Versace medallion glinting on the zipper, the price tag was the kind of luxury he only ever dreamed of owning.
Jaskier just stared at them.
Then his fingers curled against his chest and he whispered, “Oh gods…those…can I…”
Geralt turned to look at him.
Jaskier was flushed pink. Big eyes wide, practically shimmering. “Please?” His voice caught on the word.
Geralt’s lips curled. “I was going to get them anyway,” he said, low and amused, “but it’s cute when you beg.”
Jaskier burned all over.
The last stop was Agent Provocateur.
Jaskier was shy at first, blinking at the walls of lingerie, hesitating to step inside. But as they walked the aisles, something shifted. His breath hitched, his voice softened. His eyes were bright and low lidded, the cage between his legs felt tighter with every new piece he touched.
Geralt’s gaze went dark. “You like this?”
“I…I don’t know, it’s just…pretty.”
“Pick your favorites. And tell me why.”
So he did.
A pink silk pair that made him feel “small in a good way.”
A black lace thong that made him “nervous in the belly.”
One with pearl buttons he admitted he liked because “they look like cum.”
Geralt didn’t laugh. He just watched. Closely. And bought everything and then some.
By the end, Jaskier could barely walk. The car was full of designer bags, clothing, lingerie, accessories, and yet Geralt still looked composed. He hadn’t broken a sweat. He hadn’t even seemed to think about the price.
Jaskier finally murmured, “But what if I don’t stay the week?”
Geralt’s reply was instant. “Then you’ll keep them.”
The penthouse was dark when they returned.
Geralt didn’t turn on the lights. Just set the bags down by the door and watched Jaskier step inside, flushed and glowing, white panties soft beneath the jeans, the faintest trace of lace peeking at the waistband.
“You’ll wear those around the house.” Geralt said quietly, tracing the delicate lace.
He’d imagined this moment in a thousand ways since signing the contract, but none of it prepared him for the way Geralt looked now, standing in the doorway, eyes dark and jaw set. Every part of him screamed dangerous man who’s held back all day.
The air between them buzzed.
“Bedroom,” Geralt said.
The lights were dim. The bed was enormous. Soft linen and velvet throws and pillows Jaskier would later realize were for biting.
Geralt took his time. First the shirt slid off gently, tugged past Jaskier’s soft shoulders until he stood there bare and gleaming, smooth as a statue. Then the jeans. Peeled down slowly, inch by inch, until only the white lace panties remained. The cage bulged through them obscenely, hard and helpless.
“Look at you,” Geralt murmured. “My little doll.”
“I…” Jaskier shivered. “Yes, sir.”
Geralt pressed a palm between his thighs, rubbing the front of the panties gently.
“You’re dripping.”
“I c…can’t help it.”
“I didn’t say stop.”
Jaskier had seen him shirtless before, brief flashes beneath his suits, thick forearms under rolled sleeves, the heft of him barely contained by fabric. But now Geralt was naked.
And Jaskier couldn’t breathe.
He stood at the edge of the bed, hands at his sides, watching as Geralt unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers in one clean motion, no hesitation, no shame, just power revealed.
The man was huge.
Not just tall, though he was towering, but broad, thick, dense with muscle and dark hair across his chest, down his navel, dusting his thighs. His stomach was flat but powerful, carved with the kind of strength that didn’t come from vanity but from capability. His shoulders stretched impossibly wide. His thighs looked like they could break furniture.
And between them, Jaskier swallowed audibly, Geralt’s cock was the size of his fucking forearm.
Twelve inches, at least. Thick as his wrist. Veiny, flushed, and curved just enough to look like a threat. The kind of cock that had no business fitting anywhere, let alone there.
It hung heavy between his legs, thick with promise, leaking faintly at the tip. Even semi-hard it looked like it was built to ruin.
Jaskier’s own caged cock pulsed desperately, helpless behind the bars of lace and gold.
“Worried?” Geralt asked, voice like smoke and command.
Jaskier opened his mouth. Closed it again.
He was trembling. Not with fear, but with the electric ache of want. A need so sharp he felt dizzy.
“Y…yes,” he whispered. “But I want it anyway.”
Geralt’s eyes burned. “You’ll take it,” he growled. “Because you’re mine. And I make sure what’s mine gets used right.”
Jaskier whimpered.
And leaked.
Jaskier's knees buckled.
His cocklet throbbed in its cage, a pathetic twitch beneath satin lace. He’d never seen anything like it in real life. Geralt was huge. Too huge. Towering over him, looming like some ancient statue of war and sex and strength.
Jaskier had always been attracted to men, but this?
This was something else.
Hair dusted Geralt’s pecs and thick arms, trailed down his stomach in a dark, delicious line, disappearing beneath the base of that monster cock. Jaskier’s eyes widened as it twitched, as a fresh bead of slick welled up at the tip and dripped down the shaft like a promise.
He whimpered.
And the panties were soaked now. Visibly. A translucent wet patch over the cage, a growing mess of precum that had nowhere to go.
Geralt saw.
He smirked.
“You like it,” he said, not a question.
Jaskier nodded desperately. “I want it.”
“Then you can start by worshipping it properly.”
Geralt stepped closer. One hand on his hip. The other curled around that monstrous shaft, stroking it lazily as he looked down.
Jaskier sank to his knees. He reached up with trembling hands, and Geralt let him touch. The weight of it. The heat. The sheer impossible mass. He guided the tip to his lips.
“Not yet.” Geralt said.
Jaskier blinked up at him, breath hitching.
“Look at it. Smell it. You’re about to put a real man’s cock in that pretty virgin mouth. Understand what you’re begging for.”
He did.
He stared, wide eyed, as Geralt tapped the heavy head against his cheek. The slickness smeared across his skin. His cage pulsed and he whimpered again.
“Now,” Geralt said.
Jaskier opened and sucked slowly, struggling to fit even the tip between his lips, his jaw aching already. His mouth filled with the taste of musk, salt and power. Geralt grunted low in his chest, hand resting gently at the back of Jaskier’s head, guiding, controlling.
“Good boy. That’s it. Worship your daddy’s cock.”
Jaskier moaned around the girth.
He was drooling. Caged and pantied. On his knees in a penthouse. Taking the biggest cock he’d ever seen into his mouth like it was his god given purpose.
And he was leaking steadily through the lace.He was laid across the bed like an offering, face down, ass up, panties pulled taut across his cheeks. Geralt sat beside him, one large hand cupping his ass, thumb sliding under the lace to tug it aside.
Jaskier’s wrists were buckled to the headboard before he even realized what was happening. Soft leather, built discreetly into the bed, they didn’t hurt, but they held him firm. Spread out. Helpless. Open.
Geralt looked down at him, panting. “Do you know what this is?” He murmured, dragging a thick finger down between his cheeks, brushing across his tight, untouched hole.
“M…my…”
“Your cunt.”
Jaskier gasped.
“That’s what I’m calling it now,” Geralt continued, voice like gravel soaked in sin. “This is the only thing I’ll ever fuck and you’re going to thank me for every inch of cock I give you.”
Jaskier moaned helplessly. “Yes…thank you…sir…please…”
He was slicked with lavender scented oil and Geralt worked him open with thick, patient fingers.
One at first. Then two.
Jaskier whimpered and bit the sheets, hips twitching. The pressure was overwhelming, a fullness unlike anything he’d known. Each movement slow, calculated, rubbing deep inside him, coaxing him wider, looser, wetter.
The cage pressed hard against the sheets. His cocklet throbbed behind the bars.
“Good boy,” Geralt growled. “You’re taking it.”
“Feels so…full…”
“Not even close, sweetheart.”
By the time three fingers were inside him, Jaskier was crying. Not from pain but from the need. The stretch. The pressure. The aching, helpless, empty feeling when Geralt pulled out even an inch.
“Beg for it,” Geralt said, fingers still working him gently.
“I want your cock…please…fuck my cunt, make it yours, I want to be yours…”
“You already are.” Geralt pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades and murmured: “But I’m going to prove it.”
Geralt slicked himself with the same lavender oil he'd used to open Jaskier. The scent clung to them both now, soapy and sweet, soaked into Jaskier’s thighs, his belly, the sheets he clung to like they might save him.
The mattress dipped as Geralt climbed onto the bed behind him.
"Deep breath," came the growl.
And then the tip of his cock pressed against Jaskier’s cunt. Slow. Unyielding. Hot, heavy pressure splitting him apart.
Jaskier sobbed.
It was too much. The head alone stretched him wider than three fingers had. His body clenched, but Geralt didn’t retreat, just gave him a moment to breathe, one giant hand stroking slowly down his back, the other gripping his hip in a steady bruise of ownership.
"I can’t…" Jaskier gasped.
"You will," Geralt murmured, “you’re taking me so well, little thing.”
He pushed deeper.
And deeper.
Jaskier made a strangled sound, halfway between a moan and a prayer. The cage pressed hard against the bed, useless and twitching, sticky with the way his cocklet kept leaking every time Geralt shifted deeper inside him.
"Full," he whimpered. "It’s s…so…fuck…it’s full…"
Geralt's lips brushed his ear. "That’s because I’m in."
For a long, breathless moment, Geralt didn’t move. Just let Jaskier adjust to the impossible thickness filling him up, every ridge, every vein, every inch of that monster cock stretching his virgin hole into something ruined and gasping.
“Say it.” Geralt rasped.
"My c…cunt," Jaskier whimpered. "It’s yours…oh gods…it’s all yours…"
"Good boy."
And with that, he started to fuck him. Slow. Deep. Rolling strokes that bottomed out with obscene weight. The bed creaked. The oil made it wet and filthy. Jaskier trembled beneath him, hands clawing at the sheets as his tiny, locked cock dribbled helplessly against the linen.
He was being taken. Thoroughly. Methodically.
Geralt didn’t pound, not yet. He claimed. Every thrust a deliberate reminder of ownership. Every exhale a reminder that Jaskier was here by choice and would be staying by need.
“Feel that?” Geralt murmured, grinding against his sweet spot. “That’s your place now.”
"Y…yes…sir…yes…"
Geralt grunted low in his throat. “And yet you’re still begging for more.”
Jaskier’s eyes were glassy. His mouth hung open.
He nodded, helplessly.
“Then say it.”
“F…fuck me harder.”
And Geralt snapped his hips, the rhythm was brutal now, unrelenting. Each thrust shoved Jaskier forward, dragging moans out of his throat that got more broken, more gasping with every second. His legs trembled. The lace panties were bunched at his knees. His cocklet twitched furiously in the cage, leaking in pulses.
Geralt reached for his neck, not to choke, but to anchor. A big, calloused hand wrapped around Jaskier’s throat and held him steady.
And that was it.
Jaskier came.
Unreal. Unhinged. Unfathomable.
He cried out, body arched, helpless as his little caged cock spasmed and shot out a sad little dribble while his hole squeezed around Geralt’s thick cock, milking him, shaking.
Geralt followed with a growl, slamming deep and pumping him full. Heat spilled inside him, thick and heavy, and Jaskier whined, feeling it leak out around the stretch.
But Geralt didn’t stop.
He kept fucking him, slow now but deep, like he wasn’t done claiming him yet, like he never would be.
Jaskier was shaking. Wrecked. Sweat slick and soaked through the lace, his legs trembling, his throat raw from moaning. And still Geralt kept moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that made Jaskier’s whole body jolt against the restraints with each impact.
“You’re staying right here,” Geralt growled into his ear. “Daddy’s not done.”
“C…can’t…” Jaskier whimpered.
“You can.” Geralt gripped his hips and slammed forward again.
Jaskier sobbed from the intensity. From the pressure of being held, owned, filled. His cunt was raw, used, and still fluttering greedily every time that thick cock nudged his sweet spot.
He didn’t even realize he was hard again in the cage, or leaking anyway, until another dribble of cum slid from the tip.
“I’m…I’m!”
Geralt grunted, hips stuttering, and came again. Hot. Heavy. Filling Jaskier’s aching cunt until it spilled down his thighs. The bed creaked under them. Jaskier whimpered into the sheets, caged cock twitching helplessly.
But Geralt didn’t pull out. Didn’t soften. Didn’t even slow down.
By the third orgasm, Jaskier wasn’t speaking anymore. Just moaning. Glassy eyed and cock drunk, his voice hoarse from gasping “Daddy” like a mantra every time Geralt pushed back inside.
He could feel the mess inside him now, slick and hot, drooling out with each thrust.
By the fourth, he came again, untouched, locked, ruined. The cage soaked. His face streaked with tears. And Geralt just kept fucking him. Slow. Deep. Possessive. Like this was just the beginning.
The room was thick with heat and sex. The air buzzed with the scent of sweat, lavender oil, and the overwhelming musk of a man who’d just cum four times.
Jaskier was limp. Fucked-out, boneless and glowing.
His wrists were still cuffed to the bedpost, legs spread and trembling, cheeks flushed a rosy pink that matched the lace bunched uselessly around his thighs. Cum dripped from his ruined hole. The cage glistened with slick. His breath came in soft little hiccups as he blinked slowly into the pillow.
And behind him, Geralt exhaled. A heavy, satisfied sound, like a lion after a kill.
Then he moved. Gently. Big hands unbuckling the cuffs, guiding Jaskier’s arms down with surprising care. Geralt rubbed each wrist where the leather had pressed in, then brushed a kiss against one, quiet, almost thoughtless. As if it were a habit. As if he always treated his toys like something precious once they’d been thoroughly used.
Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed. “Daddy…”
“Mhm.”
Geralt rolled off the bed and disappeared into the ensuite.
Jaskier whimpered at the loss of body heat, but a moment later, the lights dimmed further, and Geralt returned with a warm, wet towel.
He started at Jaskier’s thighs. Quiet. Methodical. Wiping up the mess, cleaning every inch of skin that had been slicked or marked or kissed. He didn’t speak, just worked slowly, like he’d done this a hundred times. Like taking care of a boy was as sacred as breaking him open.
Jaskier watched, soft and floaty. “You’re so big,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper.
Geralt glanced up. “You only just noticed?”
“I mean…I knew. But like…now I know.”
Geralt smirked. “You did well.”
Jaskier flushed. “I tried.”
“You took me like you were made for it.”
Jaskier’s whole face lit up, pink with pleasure. Geralt chuckled under his breath, then finished with the towel and scooped him up like it was nothing.
Jaskier squeaked.
The size difference was absurd. One thick arm under his knees, the other around his back. “You really just picked me up.”
“I really did.”
“You’re not even winded.”
“You’re light,” Geralt said, laying him down on fresh sheets. “Delicate.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m a spoiled brat?”
“You will be.”
Geralt slid in beside him, one giant arm thrown across Jaskier’s waist, his other hand idly toying with the waistband of the ruined panties.
“You want to keep these?” he asked.
Jaskier nodded quickly. “Yes please. They’re…they’re full of…”
“Memories?” Geralt said dryly.
“…Yes.”
Geralt chuckled and pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “Good boy.”
Jaskier melted, blushed and grinned into the pillow.