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Geralt staggers as the blizzard howls around him, unable to see anything through the walls of white that surround him. He knows that the fact that coldness had stopped hurting long ago is a bad sign. He has no tinder or stamina to cast Igni even if he did and no shelter to escape the blizzard’s fury. Staggering again at a sudden gust, Geralt can’t help but fall to his knees, and no matter how much he wills it, he can’t seem to make himself rise again.
Geralt might have laughed at another time. He’d always thought that he’d die to a monster, not to a blizzard, but then very few people are granted a choice in death when it comes to them. Close to death as he is, he doesn’t notice the way his wolf medallion rattles against his chest, and when he finally passes out, he certainly doesn’t notice the massive creature that picks up his limp form and carries him away.
The drip of an almost too hot fluid into Geralt’s mouth rouses him enough to swallow. Abruptly realizing how parched he is, he eagerly sucks on the object filling his mouth, forcing his jaw to stretch wide as he seeks to quench his thirst. It doesn’t come out at a steady pace. Instead random spurts fill his mouth to near overflowing. It’s strangely bitter, but Geralt doesn’t care, enthusiastically drinking it down.
Geralt doesn’t stop until his stomach begins to feel uncomfortably full, until he begins to sweat from the heat filling him. He tries to turn his head away, displace the object, but at his move, it suddenly pushes deeper, pressing at the back of his throat and causing it to flutter in protest. Eyes popping open, he’s met with the sight of white fur, and crossing his eyes, it takes him a long, confused moment to comprehend that the thing in his mouth is a large red cock.
The creature chooses that moment to thrust its cock directly down Geralt’s throat, abruptly causing him to choke and gag at the intrusion, to attempt to struggle.
But Geralt’s limbs feel heavy, and they barely twitch as he wills himself to move. His lungs burn as the creature fucks his mouth, never drawing out far enough to allow him to breath. It’s not long before he sees dark spots again, his vision going strange as once more the world fades from view.
Geralt awakes with a shout as something none-too-gently thrusts itself into his unprepared asshole. He tries to fight, but while this time his limbs can more than twitch, he can barely raise them, and he certainly can’t fight like this. Moreover, he’s shivering violently, the scraps left of his armor have been removed, leaving him completely bare to face this onslaught.
Teeth-gritted, Geralt expects the worst, but the creature is still, barely moving, the cock barely breaching him before it begins to pulse. Geralt hisses at the sudden heat and wills himself to struggle, but a massive claw-tipped hand closes over his middle and holds him easily in place.
Eyes squeezed shut, Geralt pants at the nearly too hot fluid being pumped into him, at the increasing fullness, at the way his cock twitches and suddenly starts to rise. That last part is decidedly wrong, but he has bigger things to worry about right now than the state of his libido.
Something presses against his lips, and Geralt’s eyes snap open, his eyes going up and up and up as he finally gets a good look at the creature attached to the cock seeking entrance into Geralt’s mouth.
It’s certainly not a creature that Geralt has seen before, but it’s clearly a relative of a fiend, what with its size and the impressive antlers rising from its head. The too large cock fits with the rest of the creature’s massive frame as it presses insistently at his mouth, and Geralt turns his head away in denial.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” The creature behind him suddenly thrusts forward, sending a not inconsiderable amount of its cock deep into Geralt’s body, pulling another shout from him.
Taking the opportunity, the creature in front of Geralt presses its cock into Geralt’s open mouth and down his throat. Geralt’s body protests the dual intrusion, but there is little he can do as he’s filled from both ends. They’re surprisingly gentle at first, belying their sizes as they both reach so deeply that he wouldn’t be surprised if they met in the middle somewhere.
Clearly having learned from their previous attempt, this time the one fucking Geralt’s mouth pulls out enough on occasion to allow him to take several ragged breaths, before the creature begins fucking Geralt’s face again. Even so Geralt is decidedly floaty, his arms and legs jerking where they hang beneath him as he’s very obviously used as some sort of sex toy for them.
At the same time, Geralt can’t help but wonder at the why of it, why bother picking him up at all, why they’re obviously trying to keep him alive, why they haven’t killed him. Not that he’s complaining about the last part of it.
Geralt’s orgasm when it hits is unexpected, like the spring thaw, the trickle is slow at first, and then the sun really hits it, and it turns into a raging torrent that sweeps him away. The creatures seem excited by that, exchanging strange chortles, and it’s not long before they’re both coming as well, filling him from both ends until he’s truly fearful that he’ll burst.
When they pull out, Geralt leaks from both ends, an unpleasant and somewhat embarrassing feeling. He can feel himself gaping as cool air rushes in to fill the space left by the cock. It’s not pleasant, and he shivers. He makes a startled sound when he finds himself pressed between the warm fur covered bodies of the two creatures, both of them seemingly uncaring of the mess he was making of their fur as their come continues to drip from him. Despite the strangeness of the situation, it’s not long before the warmth within Geralt and surrounding him pulls him into sleep.
Going forward, Geralt’s days are filled with sex and sleep. He eats nothing but their seed and looks perpetually pregnant from the amount they constantly pump into him. He’d been fearful at first that their intention had been to breed him, but as the days turn into weeks, he can find no signs of pregnancy. Twice a week one of them leaves for a period of time to hunt, bringing back something to eat—Geralt is thankful that there’s never been a human.
It’s three weeks in when Spot and Curly—Geralt had to call them something—both tried to fuck his ass at the same time. It’s not uncommon for Geralt to wake up being fucked. In fact, it’s rare that he doesn’t wake up that way as he’s come to find that he dislikes being empty. What is unusual is real pain. The first time had certainly not been the most pleasant, and the first week, he’d been perpetually sore, but now he’s grown used to the stretch, even enjoying the burn of it.
On this day though, Geralt wakes up to real pain, and Igni springs from his lips and fingers before he’s conscious of what he’s doing. There’s more pain as he’s tossed across their cozy cavern, his back scraping along the rough surface of the wall, drawing blood before he crashes to the floor.
Geralt scrambles to his feet, feeling truly fearful for the first time since he’d woken in this place. He’d grown complacent, enough that he’d come to enjoy what was being done to him, enough that—
Geralt shakes his head, trying to shake the strange humming that fills it, trying to remember what he’d been doing, why he was in pain, why he was standing here in the cold.
Heart-racing as Spot and Curly stalk towards him, Geralt sizes them up, their powerfully muscled bodies nearly twice the size of a great bear, their long white fur—Spot with the black spot his chest, and Curly’s fur being more, well curly—their antlers that made them seem even larger, their sharp fangs and claw, the three eyes that stare so intently at him, but most importantly are the thick cocks that rise beneath their bodies, partially hidden by their fur.
Geralt’s own cock throbs as he’s lifted so easily, as he’s pressed between them, as he’s lowered onto not just one but two too thick cocks. He grits his teeth and knots his fingers in Curly’s fur as they drag him down, down, down the length of their cocks, certain that at any moment they’ll be as deep as they can possibly go. Except they keep going, far past the point of comfort, past the point of pain until he knows nothing except heat and fullness, until nothing else matters except the pleasure that they create.
Geralt thought he’d known pleasure, but he’d been wrong. He’d known a mockery of pleasure up until this moment. He’s fearful for a moment, suddenly fearful that he’ll lose himself completely, but that worry is gone nearly as soon as it forms as he dies and is reborn anew again and again, as he’s raised to greater and greater heights of pleasure, until words fail to capture what he feels, until finally both his brain and his body give out.
When Geralt opens his eyes again, he blinks in confusion at the canopy of leaves above his head. He groans as he sits up, supporting himself against the rough bark of the tree at his side. He tries to sort his mind out, remembering the blizzard which had clearly been some times ago, the time with Spot and Curly that must have been longer than he can recall, but he has no memories of how he came to be here or where exactly here is. It’s an effort to push himself to his feet, his stomach feeling heavier than ever.
The first matter of business is finding some clothes, and the next—Geralt’s stomach growls, hunger hitting him for the first time he can remember in a long time—well, that answers that.