Work Text:
Geralt finally finds Ciri in a side hallway, on her knees with her back to the wall as one of the servants fucks her throat. She’s sitting very nicely for it, even when she chokes, hands folded neatly in her lap as the boy’s movements rock her head into the wall.
At the sound of his steps, the servant freezes. When he turns to see Geralt standing there he flushes crimson and starts to stammer, “S-Sir, I’m – ”
Geralt waves away his panicked apology before it forms. “Don’t stop on my account.” He gestures toward Ciri, who has begun moving her head back and forth in the absence of the boy’s own movements, tongue working as she goes. He grins, proud.
“It’s what she’s here for, after all,” he continues, as he looks back at the boy. “Go on.”
The boy seems unsure, for a moment, but when Ciri leans forward to force his cock down her throat, choking softly, he appears convinced. One of his hands drops from the wall to her head, holding her down, and Ciri’s shoulders shake, but she doesn’t fight him. He groans.
Geralt waits until he’s finished shaking through his orgasm to speak again. “If her mouth weren’t free to use, it’d be plugged like her other holes.”
The boy is still gasping, but he nods. “Y-yes, Sir. Thank you.”
Geralt chuckles. “No need to thank me. In fact – Cirilla, be a good girl.”
Ciri pulls back from where she’d been cleaning up the mess on the boy’s cock, blinking up at him. “Thank you for using me, Sir,” she says, sweetly, and Geralt muffles a snort when the boy’s entire body twitches.
“...yeah, of course,” he says, clearly unsure, and Geralt decides to take mercy.
“I do need her, though,” he says. “And I am sure there is something you ought to be doing.”
“Fu – yes, of course, Sir, sorry, Sir.” The boy is gone in a flash. Geralt’s not entirely sure he managed to put his cock away first.
Ciri stays on her knees, mouth swollen, just looking at Geralt with her wide, sparkling eyes. She looks innocent – or, well, as innocent as a branded slave can look, a belt around her hips keeping her cunt and ass plugged, chain dangling between her pierced nipples and not a single stitch of actual clothing – but Geralt knows the twinkle in her eye well.
“Dangerous little minx,” he says, and she simpers. “C’mon, up. We have guests tonight with very particular tastes, and you’ll be the entertainment.”
– – – – –
Ciri knows that particular tastes usually means extreme tastes, but somehow she’s still not expecting the elaborate contraption she finds when Geralt leads her down to the special entrance foyer.
Lambert, of course, looks thrilled. That just puts her more on edge, especially when he produces a slim vial full of brightly-colored liquid.
“Gonna be a good girl?” he asks, twisting the vial so the liquid shifts and she can see the way it swirls.
Geralt’s hand lands on the nape of her neck. “Of course she’s going to be good,” he answers for her. She shivers, and his hand slips down, from her nape to her ass, where he grips hard enough to ache. “Aren’t you, Cirilla?”
She swallows, belly squirming even as she clenches around the plugs keeping her full and stretched open. “Yes, Master,” she answers. Of course she’ll be good – she is good, she’s a perfect slave, Geralt’s favorite and most prized possession. No matter her trepidation, she’ll do whatever her Master wants of her.
She’s mischievous, but only where she’s allowed to be – like luring a random servant boy into fucking her throat for fun.
“Then take your medicine,” Lambert says, and uncorks the vial to hand it to her. She takes it, carefully, and upends the entire thing into her mouth.
It’s cloyingly sweet, enough it almost stings, but she swallows it down without a complaint, handing the vial back. Lambert shoves it and the cork into a pocket and then gestures toward the contraption in the center of the room.
“You get her set up here while I grab the rest,” he says, to Geralt, and Ciri follows easily when she’s pulled toward the….
Well, it’s not quite a chair. It’s got four legs, arms, a back, and…most of a seat. There’s enough of a seat to consider it a chair, probably, but it’s got a massive hole in the center. That in and of itself isn’t terribly strange – she’s seen similar before, though that was when she was in training, not Geralt’s slave – but the rest of the attachments to the chair are entirely unfamiliar.
Metal loops protrude from the front legs and the tops of the arms, as well as one secured to the back; two strange post-like things sit under the hole in the chair, secured to the back legs; and there’s a strange sort of rod protruding horizontally from the back of the hair, much higher than the metal loop, with a little hook dangling from it.
Geralt drags her to the chair, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small, familiar key. She whines, when the belt unlatches and her plugs shift, holes clenching hard instinctually, and Geralt laughs.
“Let go,” he says, and she whines again but relaxes, letting him pull the plugs free of her body and set the belt to the side. She squirms, the emptiness feeling more intense than usual – whatever Lambert had her drink, most likely, making her hyperaware of the need that’s always at a low simmer in her belly.
“Sit,” Geralt orders.
She hums an acknowledgement so he knows she’s not ignoring him, but moves slowly, trying to be careful not to just fall through the hole in the middle of the chair. She finds she has to reach down and spread her ass open to get her weight distributed right, and it makes her even more aware of how empty she is, cunt and ass bared to the cold air as she settles into the chair.
“Good.” Geralt crouches in front of her and moves her left leg back, until her calf is pressed against the chair leg. The metal loop at the bottom comes around her ankle, and she feels him twist something until it’s tight. The other loop goes around just below her knee, and then the process repeats with her other leg.
She shifts her arms to be centered on the chair’s arms before Geralt can ask or move her, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Her arms are secured at the wrist and the elbow, and then Geralt is standing and pressing her back, just slightly, until he can secure the last metal loop around her throat. She’s left sitting ramrod-straight in the chair, secured so tightly that she can barely move a quarter of an inch in any direction.
Her belly swoops and her cunt throbs. Geralt pets her hair for a moment, and then shuffles away to do – something. She can turn her head a little, but the metal around her throat is tight enough that it hurts to do it for long. She’s left staring straight forward.
It means she can see Lambert, when he returns, carrying an unfamiliar mass of leather and a large box.
“These are the ones they sent, right?” he asks Geralt, and sets the box down to open it. She can’t quite see what’s inside it from the angle she’s at.
Geralt returns to her line of vision to look down into the box. “Mhm.”
“Alright, did they have a preference for which one in what hole?” Lambert asks, and well, that answers the question as to what’s in the box.
“Just that they wanted her uncomfortable,” Geralt answers, and Lambert hums, reaching into the box to fiddle with something.
“Alright.”
He picks up the box again and makes his way behind the chair. From the sound of it, he’s fairly close to her, but she can’t quite figure out where he is until his hand brushes her ass.
The way she jumps almost hurts, the metal around her limbs digging in, and she makes a soft, mewling sort of noise. Lambert laughs.
“Settle,” he murmurs, and then there’s some rustling and metallic sounds before something large and slick is pressed to her cunt. She sucks in a breath, but tries not to tense. Lambert’s surprisingly gentle about it, but gentle doesn’t necessarily mean slow.
She’s already panting, when he finishes pushing the toy into her, unable to do anything else since she can’t squirm. It’s not quite the largest thing she’s ever taken, but it’s damn close, and there’s no variation in the girth of it – it’s the same size around from the head to the base, forcing her cunt uncomfortably wide from her entrance clear to where the head presses threateningly against her cervix.
There’s more movement behind her, and then another large, slick toy is being pressed against her asshole. She makes a soft, panicked little noise, half-breathless, but the pressure doesn’t relent. Lambert doesn’t even say anything, not to make fun of her or chastise her for the way she continues to whimper with panic. Once again, he’s gentle, but not slow, and this toy is noticeably bigger than the one in her cunt.
Still not the largest she’s ever taken in her ass, but the combination of the two at once is absolutely the most she’s ever taken at once. She whines, startled, when she feels tears drip from her cheeks to her collarbone. She hadn’t realized she was crying. She’s still making quiet, animal sounds, even as she gasps, and the feeling of her guts rearranging to accommodate the toy only makes it worse. She can’t look down to see, but she’s almost certain that her belly is bulging.
“There you go,” Lambert says, finally, just when she’s certain she’ll start to choke if anything more is forced into her body. “How are you feeling?”
She tries to answer – she tries, mouth fumbling around “Sir”, but all she can really manage is a choked whimper.
Now Lambert laughs. “Give it another few minutes, and you’ll be fine.”
“Or maybe she needs another dose?” Geralt asks, appearing in front of her. He looks mildly concerned. She tries to smile at him; she doesn’t know if she succeeds. She still feels like she might choke on the pressure of the toys sunk into her guts.
Lambert hums. “It’s not impossible, but give it a bit longer anyway.”
Geralt nods. “On to the rest, then.”
The rest turns out to be the mass of leather, which pulls apart into three separate and very differently sized masses of leather. One piece, she recognizes; ring gags are familiar, enough that all Geralt has to do is hold it up for her to see and she’s opening her mouth as wide as she can get it.
It turns out that she can’t quite open her mouth wide enough, not by herself, but Geralt has no qualms forcing her; she whines, as Geralt forces the steel ring behind her teeth, and he ignores her. It hurts, her jaw and lips stretched too-wide, but Geralt just pets some of her saliva over the straining corners of her mouth and then buckles the gag around her head securely.
The second leather piece appears to be a simple strip, wide and sort of cushioned in places. She has no idea what it could be for until Lambert places it over her eyes and ties it around her head – it’s a blindfold. More importantly, though, the padding sits on the sides, directly over her ears, and muffles her hearing.
She mewls, half-panicked again, and Geralt’s hand pets over her cheek. She can hear him say – something, and she recognizes the tone as soothing, but she can’t parse the words past the leather and stuffing over her ears.
She can’t see what’s coming next, so when leather and fingers are pressed to her face she jumps. There’s more muffled sound, Geralt’s voice again, and then there’s an entire mass of leather being pulled over her face, over her head. Her heart skips and then triples in speed, belly twisting, and the fear only intensifies when broad little nubs press to her nose, blocking off her breathing.
She panics, for a brief moment, unable to breathe until she remembers she can use her mouth. She thinks she hears Lambert laugh, but with the – hood? she thinks it must be a hood – on top of the sort-of-earmuffs, it’s nothing but susurration.
The hood is secured around her head and around her throat, leaving only her gagged-open mouth free, tightening until she’s hyperaware of the nubs plugging her nose and the pores of the leather pressed to her face. Something pulls at the top of the hood, and then when the movement stops, she finds her head is entirely immobile, now.
The hook and the rod, at the top of the chair.
Her heart hammering nearly hurts, now, but she’s started to pant, and she can feel her cunt throbbing around the toy buried inside her. Lambert’s medicine starting to kick in for real, just like he’d said it would.
There’s more murmur of sound around her, indistinguishable from the rush of her blood and her own labored breathing except for the pattern breaks, and then something cold and round presses hard and unrelenting against her swollen clit. She knows she makes some kind of sound about it – it reverberates through her skull, she can feel the vibration in her throat, but she doesn’t really know what kind of noise it is.
And then the bulb buzzes to life, and she absolutely screams.
– – – – –
They force her to come twice, with the vibrator, and then turn it off, and the room goes mostly silent around her. She’s left panting and drooling, probably-alone, entire body throbbing with aftershocks and the intensity of…everything. Her cunt and ass stretched uncomfortably wide, her belly cramping with the intrusions and the pressure on her cervix; her skin hypersensitive to the shifts in the air and the slow slide of her drool dripping down her body, nipples painfully hard; her vision and hearing entirely removed, nothing but blackness and rushing silence.
And then there’s a cock dragging over her tongue, sinking into her mouth, and without any preamble, down her throat.
She chokes, but there’s no escaping the pressure of it, and she can’t breathe, nose plugged and throat stuffed to match her other holes.
Her heart stops, painfully, and then stutters back into equally-painful speed, and she feels how her skin bruises as her body tries to jerk.
She sobs, when the cock finally retreats, sucking in breath, but she barely gets the time for anything real before it’s back, throbbing in the clutch of her throat and making her convulse. There’s sound, close enough that she can tell it’s there, but she doesn’t know what it is – voices, she thinks, but she can’t tell what they’re doing, talking or laughing or anything else.
Whoever is fucking her throat clearly has very little concern for her breathing, only letting her get half-breaths a every few thrusts, and it takes no time at all for her to be half-delirious. She’s dizzy and her head is pounding along with her heart and her cunt and ass are sore as she convulses around the too-big toys, arms and legs and throat tender where she’s jerking against the metal.
But the cock comes down her throat, and the heat that suffuses her at the taste – Pavlovian, the knowledge that she’s done well, made whoever is using her come – makes her desperate for more.
The vibrator turns on, and there’s another cock down her throat before she can even scream.
This one is bigger, and meaner; she’s certain she actually loses consciousness, once or twice, between the lack of air and being forced to come. Everything feels like it’s slowed to a crawl, even as her heart kicks with panic, her thoughts distant and soft-edged, her vision gone sparkling-white behind her eyelids and the blindfold. She can’t think, not really, except to alternate between resigned anxiety at the asphyxiation and deep-seated, vicious pleasure at being good and swallowing the cum she’s given.
She doesn’t have any thoughts, when they turn the vibrator on and force her to come too, and there’s only something like distant relief when they turn it off and give her a short break from bruising her insides with the spasms.
She’s helpless to it – the pleasure and the pain and the choking airlessness, the flickering consciousness. She’s…a toy. An object. She can hear her trainers, distantly, mantra repeating in her head: you’re an object to be owned, and your owner is your God.
She chokes violently around a new cock – this one is fake, a dildo, too large for her throat but forced down it anyway. Whoever is holding it doesn’t let her choking dislodge it, or even prevent them from forcing it deeper; no, another hand comes to the back of her stilled head and presses, until the base of the toy meets Ciri’s lips with a flare of tearing pain.
She can’t breathe, can't even choke, her throat is forced so wide that she’s all but paralyzed, caught like a bug with too-big toys in all of her holes, all of her senses except touch stolen.
The vibrator buzzes back to life, and she peaks so hard and so fast, no air in her lungs, that she’s knocked unconscious before she can even spasm.