Weekly Poll #6 - OC / Yennefer of Vengerberg (The Witcher) {Story 11 - Patreon Exlusive} (Patreon)

Weekly Poll #6 - OC / Yennefer of Vengerberg (The Witcher) {Story 11}

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The road to Temeria had been long, dusty, and fraught with the kind of quiet tension that only a woman who’d spent decades dancing on the edge of political fire could recognize. Yennefer hadn’t come here for leisure. She hadn’t come for trade. She’d come because the whispers had grown too loud to ignore — whispers of Ciri, her daughter in all but blood, sighted near the southern marches, moving like a ghost through the ruins of what used to be Velen. And if Ciri was there, then the Wild Hunt wasn’t far behind. And if the Wild Hunt was near, then Emhyr’s agents were already mobilizing. And if Emhyr was mobilizing, then the only way to reach her before they did was through the back doors — the ones guarded by men who didn’t ask too many questions… for the right price.

She’d left Kaer Morhen under the cover of twilight, her black dress clinging to her like a second skin, her hair wild and untamed, her boots kicking up dust as she rode hard through the foothills. She’d ditched the carriage days ago — too conspicuous, too slow. Now, she rode alone, her saddlebag hidden beneath layers of enchanted silk, its contents pulsing with a faint, rhythmic warmth against her thigh. Inside: a vial of liquid shadow, distilled from the marrow of a slain leshen, potent enough to cloak a person from spectral eyes — and a small, ornate locket, its inner mechanism humming with a spell of temporal displacement, one she’d spent three months refining in the hidden vaults beneath Aedirn. Both were illegal under Temerian law. Both were essential.

She’d considered magic — a glamour, a false identity, a simple illusion to slip past the gate. But Bulvald Algild wasn’t just any gate guard. He was the gate guard. The one who’d turned away a mage of the Chapter for carrying a single vial of moonpetal extract. The one who’d let a smuggler through after a whispered conversation and a discreet coin purse pressed into his palm. He wasn’t corrupt. He was calculating. And Yennefer knew better than to test his patience with cheap tricks.

So she came as herself. Unapologetic. Unhidden. Let him see her. Let him feel the weight of her presence, the heat of her gaze, the slow, deliberate sway of her hips as she approached. Let him wonder what she was hiding — and whether it was worth the risk to look.

She’d done this before. With Rience. With Emhyr. With men who thought they held power over her. She’d used her body like a weapon, a lure, a distraction — and she’d walked away with what she needed, every time. This was no different. Except… this time, she didn’t feel the usual cold detachment. This time, there was something in the way Bulvald stood — the way his eyes tracked her, not with lust, but with assessment — that made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with danger.

The late afternoon sun bled orange across the stone battlements of the Temerian border gate, casting long, skeletal shadows from the iron spikes atop the portcullis. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, catching on the worn leather of Bulvald Algild’s belt, the brass buttons of his tunic, the faint sheen of sweat at his temples. He stood with his weight shifted slightly onto his left leg, arms crossed over his chest, the posture of a man who knew exactly how much authority his uniform commanded—and how much he could bend it without breaking.

He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to gesture. He just looked. That was his gift. A flicker of the eyes, the way a traveler’s fingers twitched near a hidden pocket, the slight hitch in breath when questioned about cargo—Bulvald saw it all. He didn’t just guard the gate. He read it. And today, he read the woman approaching like a storm wrapped in silk.

Yennefer of Vengerberg.

She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t need to. The way she moved—hips rolling with a rhythm that wasn’t just walking, but performing—told him everything. The way her black dress clung to the curve of her waist, dipped low at the back to reveal the twin valleys of her spine, the swell of her ass pressing against the fabric with every step. Her hair, raven-dark and wild, framed a face sharp enough to cut glass. High cheekbones, full lips painted a deep, dangerous red, eyes like polished obsidian that missed nothing. And yet, for all her poise, there was a tension in her shoulders. A flicker of impatience. A man like Bulvald didn’t miss that.

“Halt,” he said, voice low, gravelly, not raised, but carrying. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t need to. He just was there, blocking the path.

She stopped. Smiled. A slow, knowing curve of her lips. “Is there a problem, Gate Master?”

“Procedure,” he replied, nodding toward the small, windowless chamber to the side. “All foreign mages are subject to inspection. Especially those who arrive unannounced, unregistered, and with… unusual cargo.”

Her smile didn’t falter. But her eyes narrowed. Just a fraction. “I assure you, I carry nothing that would concern the Temerian crown.”

“Then you won’t mind if we verify that,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass. “After you.”

She turned, the movement fluid, deliberate. The fabric of her dress whispered against her thighs as she walked ahead of him. He didn’t follow immediately. He watched. The way her hips swayed, the way the low back of her dress revealed the dip of her spine, the way the curve of her ass flexed beneath the material with each step. He didn’t stare. He observed. Like he observed everything. And what he observed was a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. And what she was offering.

The interrogation room was a box of silence, small and suffocating, walled in cold, grey stone that seemed to drink the light from the single oil lamp flickering on the rough-hewn table. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of old dust and fear, but it smelled different now—different because of the two of them, the thick, humid heat of their bodies mixing with the stagnant air. Bulvald closed the heavy wooden door behind them, the thud echoing like a gunshot in the small space, sealing them in. He didn’t lock it. He didn’t need to. He leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his boots planted shoulder-width apart, watching her with the lazy, dangerous focus of a predator who knew exactly what he was looking at.

She turned to face him, her back straight, hands clasped primly in front of her like a noblewoman at a banquet, the picture of composed elegance. But her eyes betrayed her. Those dark, obsidian pools were darting, assessing, calculating. She wasn’t just looking at the uniform. She wasn’t just looking at the position. She was looking at him. The way his tunic strained across his chest, the definition of his pectorals, the corded muscle in his forearms that rippled when he moved. She saw the scar cutting through his eyebrow, the rough stubble shadowing his jawline. She saw a man who knew his worth, a man who didn’t just guard the gate but owned the space around it. And she saw an opportunity.

“You’re thorough,” she said, her voice smooth as dark wine, smooth as velvet, a purr that seemed to vibrate in the silence. “I admire that.”

“Thoroughness keeps me alive,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the floor up. He pushed off the door, stepping into the space between them. Not too close. Just close enough that she could smell him—sweat, leather, iron, and a raw, animal musk that made her throat go dry. “And it keeps you from getting arrested.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She held his gaze, her dark eyes locking onto his, challenging him. “And what if I told you I’m willing to make it worth your while?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just watched her, his expression unreadable, his body a wall of tension. “Worth my while how?”

She took a step forward. Then another. The heels of her boots clicked on the stone floor, a sharp, staccato sound. Until she was close enough that he could see the faint, frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. The way her breath hitched, just slightly, a gasp that was half-exhale, half-excitement, as she looked up at him. “I’m not a woman who begs,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, the air between them growing heavy with the scent of her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and something sweeter, something like dried blood. “But I’m not above… negotiating.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let her hang there, suspended in the charged air, in the heat of the room, in the unspoken promise that hung between them like a physical weight.

She reached up, slowly, deliberately, and placed her hand on his chest. Her fingers curled against the rough fabric of his tunic, feeling the hard, hot muscle beneath. “You’re not bad looking, Gate Master,” she murmured, her voice thick with something that wasn’t just desire. Something darker. Something hungry. “And you’re not stupid. You know what I’m offering.”

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t pull away. Just let her fingers trace the line of his collarbone, the dip of his throat. Let her thumb brush against the stubble along his jaw, rough and scratchy against her skin. Let her lean in, until her lips were a breath away from his ear, her hot breath ghosting over the sensitive shell of his ear. “Let me through,” she whispered, the words hot against his skin, a command wrapped in a caress. “And I’ll make sure you remember me.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He reached up, slow, deliberate, and hooked a finger under the strap of her dress. The silk slid against her skin as he tugged it down, just enough to reveal the swell of her shoulder, the curve of her breast beneath the fabric, the pink nipple pebbling in the cool air. Felt the shiver that ran through her, a small earthquake that rippled through her body and into his. “You think you can buy me?” he asked, his voice low, rough, a growl that vibrated in his chest.

“I think,” she said, her breath catching as his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her shoulder, her back arching into his touch, “that you’re not the kind of man who needs to be bought. You’re the kind who needs to be… convinced.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t protest. Just let his hand slide down, over the curve of her back, down to the swell of her ass, cupping it, feeling the heat of her through the fabric, squeezing tight. Felt her press against him, the hard line of his cock pressing against the softness of her belly, a promise of what was to come. “Convince me,” he growled, his voice thick with need, his hand tightening on her ass, pulling her closer, grinding against her.

She didn’t hesitate. She reached down, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, her breath coming faster, hotter against his skin. The sound of the fabric rustling filled the silence. Felt the hard length of him as she freed him, the heat of him against her palm, the weight of it, the thick vein running along the underside. Felt him shudder as she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking him, slow, deliberate, her thumb brushing over the head, slick with pre-cum. “Gods,” he groaned, a sound that tore from his throat, his hand tightening on her ass, pulling her closer, grinding against her.

She didn’t speak. Just tilted her head back, exposing the long line of her throat, her eyes half-lidded, dark with desire, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Let him kiss her, hard, bruising, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting her, claiming her, the kiss a desperate, hungry thing. Let him push her back against the table, the wood digging into her back as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her dress riding up, baring her thighs, her ass, the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her belly.

He didn’t waste a second. He didn’t offer the pretense of foreplay, didn’t tease the swollen lips of her cunt with the tip of his cock. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging bruisingly into the soft flesh, and drove himself home in one brutal stroke. The black silk of her dress was an obstacle, bunching up as he lifted her, but he didn’t care. He pushed through the barrier of fabric, the rough denim of his trousers chafing against her sensitive skin, until he was buried to the hilt. The stretch was violent, a sudden, tearing fire that made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the stone walls, raw and desperate. She gasped, her back bowing off the table, her nails raking down his back, leaving red welts that he felt even through his tunic. Her hips rose to meet him, instinctively seeking more, grinding down as he pulled back, only to be slammed into again.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough, guttural, vibrating against her skin. He set a rhythm that was immediate and punishing. Thrust. Pull. Slam. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was loud in the small, confined space—the wet, slick slap of his hips against her thighs, the obscene squelch of her cunt taking him, the sharp, desperate gasps she made with every deep plunge. The wooden table beneath them groaned in protest, the legs shifting on the stone floor, adding to the chorus of creaks and groans that filled the room.

She didn’t beg. Didn’t plead for mercy or for him to slow down. She was a mage, a woman who commanded the elements, but right now, she was just a woman being used. She arched her back, her head thrown back, her throat exposed and vulnerable. Her chest heaved, the black silk of her dress clinging to her skin, revealing the heaving swell of her breasts as they bounced with every forceful thrust. Her nipples were hard and pink, visible even through the fabric, pressing against the silk, begging to be touched, to be pinched. She let him watch her, let him see the way her face twisted with pleasure, the way her mouth fell open, the way her eyes fluttered shut as he drove into her, hitting that spot deep inside that made her toes curl.

“Look at me,” he growled, his hand sliding up from her hip to grip her throat. His fingers wrapped around the column of her neck, not tight enough to choke her, but firm enough to make her gasp, to make her eyes snap open, to force her to meet his gaze. The contact was electric. Their eyes locked—his dark, predatory, filled with lust; hers dilated, dark with desire, swimming in the haze of her arousal.

She did. And in that moment, there was no mage, no Gate Master, no smuggler, no guard. Just two bodies, two souls, two desires colliding in the heat of the moment, in the sweat and the scent and the sound of flesh meeting flesh. She felt his cock swell inside her, getting bigger, thicker, stretching her walls even further, and she loved it. She loved the way he took her, the way he owned her.

He fucked her harder, faster, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate, losing all rhythm in his need to bury himself to the hilt. His balls slapped against her ass with a wet, heavy sound that was obscene and beautiful. Felt her clench around him, her inner walls tightening, rippling, milking him, pulling him deeper. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving, her nails raking down his back, scratching him, marking him.

“Cum for me,” he growled, his voice thick with need, his hand tightening on her throat, his hips slamming into her, deep, hard, relentless. “I want to see you break for me.”

She did. A sharp, broken cry tore from her throat as she came, her body convulsing around him, her cunt squeezing him, milking him, pulling him over the edge.

He followed her, his cock pulsing inside her, his seed spilling into her, hot and thick, his groan low and guttural, his body shuddering as he came.

They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stayed there, locked together, breath mingling, sweat slicking their skin, the scent of sex thick in the air.

He pulled out, his cock sliding free with a wet, slick sound that made her shudder. He let her down, her legs trembling as they hit the floor, her dress falling back into place.

Bulvald didn’t give her time to recover. He grabbed her waist, his grip iron-hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, bruisingly possessive. He spun her around with a fluidity that belied his size, the motion violent and sudden. Before she could gasp, he slammed her back against the rough-hewn stone of the far wall. The impact jarred her teeth, a sharp, stinging shock that made her cry out, her head snapping back. Her back arched instinctively, pressing her chest against him, her body a bowstring pulled tight.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her calves hooking behind his back like steel bands, her heels digging into the small of his spine with a pressure that was both command and plea — pull me closer, bury yourself deeper, don’t stop. Her thighs trembled with the effort, the muscles straining as she held herself aloft, suspended in the air by his grip, her body a bowstring drawn taut, every inch of her pressed against him, hot and slick and desperate. She didn’t just want him. She needed him — needed the weight of him, the force of him, the raw, unrelenting power of his cock slamming into her until she forgot her own name.

He didn’t hesitate. He lined himself up, the crown of his cock — thick, veined, glistening with pre-cum — nudging the swollen, dripping lips of her cunt, teasing her entrance with the blunt pressure of his tip. He didn’t push in gently. He didn’t ease her open. He claimed her. With one brutal, unrelenting stroke, he drove himself home, the force of it slamming her back against the stone wall, the impact jarring her teeth, making her cry out — a raw, broken sound that was swallowed by the sudden silence of the room, the echo of her scream bouncing off the cold stone before dissolving into the thick, humid air.

Her nails raked down his forearms, her fingers clawing at the fabric of his tunic, leaving red welts that he felt even through the material, the sting of her nails a sharp counterpoint to the heat of her cunt gripping him. Her body convulsed around him, her inner walls clenching, rippling, milking him, pulling him deeper, demanding more.

"You like it rough, don’t you?" he growled, his voice a low rumble in his chest, thick with lust, his breath hot against her skin as he held her up by her thighs, her weight resting entirely on his grip. Her dress was hiked up to her waist, baring her hips, her thighs, the soft, pale curve of her belly, the black silk clinging to the sweat-slicked skin of her legs, the fabric damp with her arousal, clinging to the swell of her ass, the curve of her hip, the hollow of her waist. Her nipples were hard, pink and pebbled, scraping against the cool air, visible even through the thin silk, begging to be touched, to be pinched, to be sucked.

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Just a gasp—sharp, wet, broken—and a laugh that vibrated against his chest, low and throaty, like velvet dragged over stone.

“Is that all you’ve got, Gate Master?” she purred, her voice trembling with heat, her eyes dark and dilated, pupils swallowing the gold of her irises. “I’ve been split open by sorcerers who’d crack your spine just to watch you beg.” She arched her back, her chest thrusting forward, the black silk of her dress straining over the swell of her tits, nipples hard and pink against the fabric. “You want to claim me? Then claim me. Don’t fuck me like I’m some noblewoman you’re trying to impress. Fuck me like I’m yours. Like you’re trying to erase every man who ever touched me before you.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into skin. “Make me scream so loud they hear it at the next checkpoint. Make me forget my own name. Make me yours.”

She didn’t beg. She commanded. And the way her body moved beneath him—tight, slick, trembling—told him she meant every word.

He just started to move. Hard. Fast. The sound of his hips slamming against hers was deafening in the small room — a wet, slapping rhythm that echoed off the stone walls. Slap. Squelch. Slap.

"Yes! Like that!" she cried out, her head snapping forward, her eyes fluttering shut. "Don't stop! Gods, you're thick. You're filling me up so good." She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

The friction was obscene, the wet, sticky sound of their bodies mating filling the air, mingling with the creak of the stone under their weight, the groan of the wall as he drove her into it. His cock slid in and out of her with a slick, wet sound, the head of his cock dragging against the sensitive walls of her cunt, the thick vein along the underside rubbing against her G-spot with every stroke. She felt every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, every swell as he buried himself deep, stretching her, filling her, owning her.

Her legs tightened around him, her heels digging into his spine, pulling him in, urging him on. The heat between them was almost unbearable, the air thick with their combined scent — sweat, musk, sex. He watched her face, the way her eyes fluttered shut, the way her mouth fell open, the way her body convulsed with every stroke. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t ease up. Just pounded into her, harder, faster, deeper, his cock swelling inside her, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust, the sound loud, obscene, beautiful.

“Look at you,” he grunted, one hand sliding up to grip her throat, his thumb pressing against the frantic flutter of her pulse. “All spread out for me. Dripping. Like you were made to take this cock and beg for more.”

“You’re the one who’s hard,” she moaned, her head lolling back against the stone, her eyes rolling back, her mouth falling open in a silent scream of pleasure. “You’re the one who can’t stop. You’re the one who’s losing control because I’m too tight, too wet, too fucking perfect for you.”

He laughed, a dark, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the floor and into the soles of her feet. He drove into her again, harder than before, the crown of his cock hammering against that sweet, swollen bundle of nerves deep inside her. The impact was electric, a shockwave that made her toes curl so hard her calves cramped, her back bowing off the stone wall like a bowstring pulled taut.

“I can’t stop because you’re so fucking tight,” he growled, his voice rough, guttural, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate right through the bone of her skull. “You’re going to remember this wall. You’re going to remember how I owned you. How I made you scream. How I made you cum so hard.”

She didn’t answer. She just arched her back, her chest thrusting forward, her breasts bouncing in his face. She reached up, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss, a desperate, hungry thing, her tongue sliding against his, tasting herself on him.

“Fuck me,” she whispered against his lips, her voice breathless, broken. “Don’t stop.”

He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming a blur of flesh and bone and sweat. The air between them grew thick, heavy with the scent of their combined musk—the sharp tang of sweat, the iron tang of blood, and the heady, sweet perfume of her arousal. He watched her face like a hawk, tracking every micro-expression of pleasure that played across her features. Her legs tightened around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, her calves flexing as she pulled him in, urging him on with a desperate, silent scream.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice rough, demanding. "Look at me."

She forced them open, her gaze locking onto his, dark and dilated, the pupils blown wide with lust. She saw the hunger in his eyes, the raw, unadulterated need to possess her. And she matched it. She arched her back, her chest thrusting forward, her heavy breasts bouncing violently in his face, the black silk of her dress clinging to the sweat-slicked skin, the nipples hard and pink, pebbled against the cool air. She reached up, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss, a desperate, hungry thing, her tongue sliding against his, tasting herself on him, a salty, metallic tang that drove him wild.

"Fuck me," she whispered against his lips, her voice breathless, broken, barely a gasp. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He just pounded into her, harder, faster, deeper, his cock swelling inside her, the head thickening, flaring against her cervix. His balls slapped against her ass with every thrust, the sound loud, obscene, wet—a rhythmic slapping that echoed off the stone walls. He felt her clench around him, her inner walls rippling, tightening like a vice, her body tensing, preparing for the release.

"Cum," he growled, his hand sliding down to her clit, rubbing it hard, fast, circling the sensitive nub with brutal precision. "Cum for me."

She screamed as she came, a raw, animalistic sound that tore from her throat, a scream of ecstasy that echoed off the stone walls. Her body shuddered violently, her back arching off the wall, her legs tightening around him like a vice, her cunt milking him, pulling him over the edge with relentless suction. The rhythmic involuntary muscular contractions of her pelvic region gripped him, milking the last drops from him.

He followed her, his cock pulsing inside her, throbbing rhythmically as he emptied himself, his seed spilling into her, hot and thick, fulfilling the release of ejaculate characteristic of the male orgasm. His body shuddered with the force of it, his groan low and guttural, a sound of pure satisfaction. He held her there, against the wall, his cock still buried deep inside her, his breath ragged in his chest, their heartbeats pounding in sync.

Bulvald didn’t let her dismount. Instead, he pulled her down onto his lap, the rough stone of the floor biting into her skin, but the heat of his body searing through her dress. She turned, her back to him, and sank down onto his lap again, this time facing away. The angle was different, deeper, and it allowed him to watch the play of muscles in her back as she began to move.

She started slow, rolling her hips, grinding down against him, testing the fit, testing his control. The sound of her dress rustling against the stone was muffled, but the sound of his cock slipping in and out of her slick cunt was loud, wet, and obscene. Squelch. Slap. Squelch.

"You like this view?" he growled, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her ass, guiding her, setting the rhythm.

"I love it," she moaned, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her back like a dark waterfall, obscuring the curve of her spine. "You like watching me ride you, Gate Master?"

"I do," he grunted, his eyes fixed on the sight of her ass cheeks bouncing with every thrust, the way her back arched, the way her shoulders rolled. "Greedy little mage."

She laughed, a low, breathy sound that vibrated against his chest, and picked up the pace. Her hips began to snap forward, a frantic, desperate rhythm that drove her body down onto his, her back muscles flexing hard, the skin rippling and bunching in a hypnotic display of raw female power as she took him. The friction was agonizingly sweet, a raw, burning friction that scraped against her swollen, sensitive folds, the heat between them stifling, almost unbearable. She could feel him thickening, the blood rushing into his shaft, making him impossibly larger, filling her completely, stretching her walls to their absolute limit.

"Harder," she gasped, the word tearing from her throat as her fingers dug into the grit of the stone floor, her nails scraping against the rough surface, leaving bright red crescents in the dust. "Don't hold back. Give me everything you've got."

He didn't hold back. He gripped her hips with bruising force, his fingers digging deep into the soft, yielding flesh, and thrust up, hard, meeting her as she came down. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was deafening, wet and loud, a rhythmic slapping that echoed off the stone walls. Slap. Slap. Slap.

"You're beautiful," he groaned, his voice thick with lust, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, the way her head tossed back, the way her breasts bounced, the way her face twisted in pleasure. "So fucking beautiful."

She didn't answer. She just kept moving, her body a blur of motion, her hips snapping, her back arching, her tits bouncing in the air, the black silk of her dress riding up, baring her hips, her thighs, her ass. She felt him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, his cock throbbing inside her.

"Cum," she commanded, her voice sharp, demanding. "Cum with me."

He roared as he came, his cock pulsing inside her, his seed spilling into her, hot and thick. She felt him explode, filling her, and she cried out, her body shuddering, her back arching, her cunt milking him, pulling him over the edge.

They collapsed against each other, breathless, sweaty, their bodies locked together. Bulvald’s cock was still buried deep inside her, softening slowly, the wetness of their union coating them both — slick, sticky, intimate.

Yennefer didn’t pull away. Instead, she shifted, sliding down his body with a slow, deliberate grace, her breasts brushing against his stomach, her nipples grazing his skin as she lowered herself to the floor. She braced her hands on either side of his thighs, her knees pressing into the cold stone, her hair falling forward like a dark curtain around her face. She looked up at him, a wicked, satisfied smile playing on her lips, her eyes glinting with triumph and hunger.

“Stay,” she whispered, her voice low, throaty, a command wrapped in velvet.

She reached down, her fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, still half-hard, still glistening with her juices and his own sweat. She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, the heat of her mouth immediate, wet and tight, her tongue swirling around the head, cleaning him, tasting him — salt, musk, the faint metallic tang of his seed, the raw, animal scent of him. She swallowed him down, taking him deep, her throat convulsing around him, her lips sealing tight around the shaft.

Bulvald groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, his hips bucking up slightly. The sensation was overwhelming — the warmth of her mouth, the suction of her lips, the flick of her tongue. He felt her throat muscles contract around him, and he shuddered, his cock twitching, hardening again under her touch.

She pulled back slowly, her lips parting with a wet, obscene pop, a thin string of saliva and pre-cum connecting her lips to the tip of his cock. She looked up at him, her eyes dark, her lips glistening, her cheeks flushed.

He grabbed her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, and thrust up, his cock sliding into her mouth, filling her. He fucked her mouth, hard and fast, the sound of his hips slapping against her cheeks loud in the room. She didn’t gag, she didn’t complain. She just took it, her tongue working him, her throat swallowing him, her eyes locked onto his, dark and hungry.

He came again, harder than before, his cock pulsing in her mouth, his seed spilling into her, hot and thick. She swallowed it all, her throat working, her cheeks hollowing, taking him deep, taking everything he had to give. She didn’t pull away until the last drop was gone, until his cock was soft in her mouth, until she’d cleaned him of every trace of their union.

Finally, he pulled back, his cock sliding free with a wet, slick sound. She collapsed onto the floor beside him, her chest heaving, her lips swollen, her eyes half-lidded.

“Next time,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “we do this somewhere with a bed.”

Yennefer wiped her mouth with a silk handkerchief, the fabric catching the last of the spilled seed and her own juices. She didn't look at him as she stood, her legs trembling slightly before she found her balance, the adrenaline fading into a dull, satisfied throb between her thighs. She smoothed her dress, fingers working the wrinkles from the silk, though the scent of sex—sweat, musk, and iron—lingered heavily in the air.

"Clean yourself up, Gate Guard," she murmured, her voice husky, barely a whisper, as she turned toward the heavy wooden door.

Bulvald grunted, a low sound of agreement, and reached for his trousers. He pulled them up, fastening the buckle with a sharp click, his hand lingering for a moment over the fly where he’d left it open. He stood, stretching his back, the joints popping, and wiped his cock with a rag from his belt, the rough fabric scrubbing away the last of the mess. He tossed the rag into the corner, the sound lost in the silence of the room.

She reached for the door handle, her hand trembling just a fraction, before she paused. She looked back over her shoulder, her dark eyes locking onto his, a mischievous glint returning to their depths.

"Don't think this is a one-time thing, Algild," she whispered, loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough that the guards outside wouldn't catch the words. "I'll be back in a tenday. Same time. Same gate."

She didn't wait for a reply. She pushed the door open, the cool light of the corridor spilling into the dark room, washing over her face and revealing the flush still lingering on her cheeks. She stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her, the lock engaging with a final, definitive click.

Bulvald watched the door for a long moment, his thumb tracing the scar on his eyebrow. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the stale air of the room, and turned back to the table. He picked up his helmet, the leather cool against his palm, and placed it on his head, settling the strap under his chin.

He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, and stepped back onto the ramparts. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows across the valley, the wind cold and biting. He stood at his post, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning the horizon, his expression bored, indifferent, the picture of the unflappable Gate Guard.

A traveler approached, a hooded figure clutching a bag of coin.

"Pass," Bulvald said, his voice flat, devoid of any hint of the passion that had just filled the interrogation room. "State your business."

The traveler mumbled something, and Bulvald waved him through, his eyes already moving to the next line of travelers, his mind already back on the horizon, though his body still remembered the feel of her mouth, the taste of her, and the promise of her return.