Philippa's Grace

BY : Arizona Ice T
Category: +S through Z > Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
Dragon prints: 3991
Disclaimer: I do not own the Witcher, this is purely for fun, and not profit

What is destiny?


Those of the fatalistic mind might see it as the unchangeable direction of every man’s life and the world. The path that was set before anything existed. The path that one is on no matter if they want to be or not.


Those of the religious mind might see it as the undeniable and perfect will of the gods. Their vision for humanity, that exists is a part of. The many pieces in their game of chess.


Those of the skeptical mind might think destiny is nothing more than superstition. An excuse for people to not be responsible for their actions. The weak willed man’s crutch; determinism and piousness.


These ways of thinking fundamentally misunderstand destiny. Destiny is not set in any time. It is before and after, malleable in the past and present. It’s reactive. Cause and effect, action and reaction. Destiny and life, and life is destiny.


Geralt of Rivia was a man who didn’t think much of destiny, but destiny though much of Geralt.  


He moved through his life, thinking not about the greater picture. He wanted to just Be. Maybe that is why he always found himself at the intersection of history and change. Because he was one of the few who understood  that to think of destiny is antithetical to one’s experience within it.


Geralt might not have thought much about destiny.


But Destiny thought of Geralt of Rivia 


“Are you going to be in a pissy mood all morning?”


Geralt looked over at his aging companion. Vesemir was one of the few who could put his acerbic wit to task. Hell, he was the one who taught him it. 


“I am NOT in a pissy mood” Geralt replied, turning back to look at the road ahead of them as they trotted toward the edge of town. Vesemir just let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. 


They had been on Yennefer’s trail for close to 2 months now, and one thing after another seemed to get in their way. First, the town that she told Geralt to meet her in had been razed to the ground. He wasn’t sure by which side of the war, not that it mattered. Second, White Orchard, the lovely hamlet they seemed to find themselves in, had a Griffin problem. Geralt of course has put down many Griffins in his time, but this was an unneeded distraction. But as fate never seemed to be on his side, said Griffin was tied to his current goal of finding his long lost lover. 


The commander of the local Nilfgaardian forces, one Peter Saar Gwynleve, tasked him with dispatching the Griffin in trade for information on Yennefer’s whereabouts. Geralt had been a Witcher long enough to be accustomed to the ‘favor for a favor’ game, but that didn’t mean he liked it. To him, this Griffin was a waste of time and resources. You’d think a garrison of Nilfgaardian forces would be able to handle ONE Griffin, but alas, here he was, on the road to the some local herbalist about buckthorn 


“Wolf, I’ve known you your whole life. I know the tell tale signs of you sulking. Didn't even need to use my Withcer senses.`` Vesemir teased. 


“Maybe all your senses are going in your old age.” Geralt shot back, not turning from the road ahead. Vesemir smiled, knowing there was much bite in Geralt’s words.


“I know you’re tired of the run around,” Vesemir said sincerely. “But we do this, we might be put on the right path. Better than scouring every field for strands of black hair.”


Geralt gave a non-committal sound. Vesemir had a point though; this was the first hard lead they had on the sorceress in a while. Like it or not, it was the best they had to go on. The herbalist's shack came into view. It was small and a bit dilapidated. One might think it was abandoned, if  it wasn’t for the tended garden outside and if Geralt didn’t hear and smell signs of life inside. They rode up, and dismounted. Vesemir opted to stay outside and keep watch for any trouble.


Geralt pushed open the shack’s door and was met with a VERY pleasant image.


The herbalist, a woman, was bent over, rummaging around on her work desk, giving Geralt a clear view of her very lovely, large, leather clad backside. Geralt was a man who had laid with many women in his 90 or so years of life, and he had to say that this herbalist’s ass was among the best he’s encountered (even giving Yennefer a run for her money). Shapely and full, but not saggy or unpleasant. Her tight leather pants did nothing but accentuate her individual globes, and hug her curves. Geralt would rather stand around and enjoy this all day, but they were on a tight schedule. 


“Bad time?” He asked, getting her attention. She jumped a little at the sound of his voice and turned quickly to look at him. Her eyes went wide as she took him in. That seemed to be happening a lot around these parts. Geralt clears his throat, and asks again. “Is this a bad time.”


Geralt took in the herbalist’s face. She was beautiful, but not in a traditional regal sense. Her face was round, with pronounced cheeks. Her black hair ran down well past her shoulders, and she had striking blue eyes. If someone told him that she was some relative of Yennefer, he might have believed them.


Seemingly snapping the herbalist out of her shock of seeing the Witcher, she moves back towards her work station.


“Not at all. Could you hand me the beggartick. It’s-”


Before she could finish her sentence, Geralt hands her the plant.


“The red bloom.” She said, a bit surprised. “Well, well. One versed in herbs.”


“I know a bit. For instance, beggartick is poisonous.”


“In large doses. Small ones soothe pain and bring forth pleasant dreams.” She explained. She looked over to a woman splayed on a small cot, injured. “Which is all I can hope to do for her.” 


Geralt could tell by her injuries that the Griffin must’ve done that to her. He could also tell that it was unlikely she’d wake.


“Buckthorn? Know where any grows around here?” Geralt asked. The herbalist thought for a moment.


“Bottom of river, where the channel’s the widest. But you do know that once it’s out the water-”


“’ll stink worse than a weak old carcass? Counting on it.”


“Ah yes, the Griffin. Might’ve guessed. Though I must say, White Orchard is hardly swimming in the most bountiful resources. Who now could afford a price on the Griffin’s head?”


“Captain Peter Saar...something something.”


“Ah. Good to know the Black Ones are looking out for our welfare.” She said, voice laced with sarcasm.


Gerarlt snorted at her response. Her pessimism was after his own heart. The way she spoke, the way she held herself, it was unique to the rural surroundings, 


“Not from here, are you?” He questioned.  “Lot of bitterness in you. Too much for someone who's spent her life in a hut in the middle of nowhere.”


She gave him a rueful smile


“True. And you're in a hurry. Elsewise you'd not use bait, just wait for the griffin to attack again.” She responded.


This one’s observant’, Geralt thought


“Believe we could have an interesting conversation.” He said with a slight smile.


“Maybe next time.” She said, before turning back to her work station.



“What was the name of that herbalist again?” Asked Vesemir. He and Geralt were crouched behind a bush, having set up their trap for the Griffin terrorizing the area. The local hunt Mislav helped them find the Griffin’s destroyed nest -courtesy of the Nilfgaardian forces-, Vesemir found the perfect spot to bait the beast using the buckthorn they obtained. Geralt always hated the smell of it.


“Tomira.” Geralt answered, eyes focused on the trap they set.


“Hmh” Vesemir grunted. “She seems nice. Definitely not of these parts.” 


“Yeah, I gathered.” 


“I’m sure you did, all that flirting you did in there.”


Geralt turned and scowled at his partner.


“I was NOT flirting. I was making conversation.” Geralt said defensively. Vesemir just smirked at him. 


“Wonder how Yennefer would take it, knowing you were looking at another raven haired beauty.” Vesemir said with a shit eating grin.


“Vesemir, we really need to focus on the task at hand,” Geralt said, pinching the bridge of his nose.


“Alright, alright……….. Has a great ass though.”




“Shhhhhhh! You hear that? It’s close.”


Geralt tilted his head upwards, and just on time, the Griffin swooped in, taking interest in the decoy sheep they set up. 


“Let’s give it a warm welcome.” Geralt said, standing and preparing himself. Vesemir did the same. 


“Here, take this.” Vesemir said, handing Geralt a small one handed crossbow. This would prove useful, given the hardest part about killing Griffin’s is getting them grounded long enough to deliver a killing blow.


The Griffin was agitated, finding the bait to be inedible. It twisted it’s head, noticing the Withcers, and let out a screech. It wasn’t trying to run, which made their job easier. God knew it would be a hassle chasing a Griffin all over the countryside. Vesemir took point, stepping toward the beast directly, as Geralt tried to flank left. Vesemir lunged forward, silver sword in a high guard. He swung down, catching the beast on its shoulder. Griffin skin is tough, and their bones hard; usually steel swords would have little effect, but silver slices through like butter. The Griffin screeched and jumped back. It swiped at Vesemir with it’s large front talon, but he managed to roll out of the way in time. 


With the Griffin distracted, Geralt advanced from his flank, striking the Griffin on it’s side. It bled, but didn’t hit anything vital enough to bring it down. Suddenly The Griffin kicked out with it’s left leg, hitting Greralt square in the chest. He was lucky that he only was hit by the pad and heel of it’s foot - those talons would’ve cut him to shreds - but he still took the full brunt of it’s powerful kick, throwing him back several yards, flat onto his back. 


“Geralt!” Vesemir yelled. 


It hurt. Knocked the wind out of him, caused his head to bang hard off of the ground. Probably cracked a rib or two, he’d have to check later.  


The Griffin began to flap it’s large wings, making to escape. It lept, hovering off the ground.


“Igni!” Signed Vesemir, shooting a blast of fire from his hand. Griffin’s weren’t particularly weak to fire, but nothing LIKES being set on fire. The Griffin screeched and turned it’s full attention back to Vesemir. 


“Oh shit-” He cursed, as the Griffin flew toward him. He tried to move, but wasn’t fast enough. The Griffin latched its talons into Vesemir’s side. While his armor kept the Talons from fully digging into him, they still penetrated deep enough to break skin, and dig into his flesh. 


“Argh!” He yelled, as the Griffin flapped his wings, and began to gain altitude, with the struggling Vesemir in tow. Geralt managed to roll to his feet, head still stirring. 


He saw the Griffin begin to ascend. He couldn’t let it get too much height or distance, or he’d never be able to catch it before it tore Vesemir to shreds, or dropped him from a deadly height. 


Geralt pulled out the crossbow. He never did like ranged weapons, but right now, it was his best shot. He loaded a bolt, and took aim. He had to pick his shot wisely. He didn’t want to risk hitting Vesemir, and needed to hit somewhere that would force the Griffin to land. The beast was gaining distance; it was now or never. 


Geralt pulled the trigger, and the bolt let loose. It flew through the air, catching the Griffin right under it’s right wing. The Griffin screeched in pain, dropping Vesemir. The Griffin tried to fly away, but every time its wing flapped downward, it dug the bolt into itself more and more. It landed ungracefully, sliding in the grass and dirt. Geralt ran forward, closing the distance between them, and cast Aard. A powerful force of kinetic energy shot from his hand, hitting the distracted Griffin, toppling it over on it’s side, leaving its soft underbelly exposed. Seeing his opening, Geralt lunged forward, and drove his silver sword into its torso, piercing it’s heart. The Griffin let out a final screech, and spasmed, before dropping dead. Geralt pulled his sword from the Griffin’s heart, and shook his sword of blood.


He looked back and saw Vesemir rolling around on the ground. He ran over to check on him.


“Ves! Are you alright?” Geralt asked, kneeling down next to him. He looked at his side. The Griffin’s talon dug into him about an inch, leaving  long, but relatively shallow gashes on his side. The armor did it’s job, but only could do so much. 


“Nothing hurt besides my pride” Vesemir croaked. He coughed up a bit of blood. “...and maybe a collapsed lung.”


Geralt helped him sit up.


“Come on, let’s get some Swallow into you.” Geralt reached into his satchel and pulled out a small vial of the red potion. He brought it up to Vesemir’s lips and helped him drink it.


“Blegh-” Vesemir complained. “All our knowledge, and we still can’t make potions that don’t taste like it was brewed in a boot.” 


Geralt just smiled at him and helped the elder Witcher to his feet. Swallow can only do so much to boost one’s vitality and healing. A wound of that nature still needed time and attention to heal properly.


“Let’s get into town. We can rent a room at the inn so you won’t have to rest on the ground.” Geralt said. They had been making camp outside of the town. Easier to not draw attention to themselves, but now he supposed it couldn’t be helped. Vesemir just grunted in consent, holding his side as they made their way to the horses.



“You should head on without me.”


Geralt looked over at his partner from his chair and raised a silver eyebrow. Vesemir was on his back shirtless, side wrapped in bandages. The Inn’s room was small, and the bed was lumpy, but sufficient for their needs of a place to safely heal up and certainly better than what they were used to while on the saddle. Though he’d never admit it, Vesemir hated being like this. Injuries came with being a Witcher, like splinters came with being a woodsman, but being laid up on his back...well it just reminded Vesemir of his age.


“I heard you the first time Ves, and the answer is still no.” Replied Geralt. Vesemir frowned at him and sat up, groaning in pain as he did.


“I’ll be fine wolf.” He started. The Swallow was doing its job, speeding up Vesemir’s healing, but it would still be about 2 or 3 days before he was back to fighting form. “You could be halfway to Vizima already.”


The Niflgaardian captain stayed true to his word. He revealed that Yennefer rode for Vizima, which was only about a day's ride away. It was a large place, and the witcher had friends there. He hoped Yennefer would still be there, and even if she wasn’t, there’d be people who could tell him where she went, and he wouldn’t have to ask random patrons in a tavern. But Geralt could not in good conscience leave Vesemir to go after her, even if he wanted to. He was possibly Geralt’s closest idea of what a father might’ve been like. Though he longed to see Yennefer again, she could wait. It had already been 2 years since he'd seen her last. What was another few days?


“I wouldn’t be a very good wolf if I abandoned my pack so easily, now would I?” said Geralt, standing to and moving to push Vesemir back onto his back.


Vesemir snorted derisively, but laid back down, accepting that Geralt wasn’t going anywhere, for now.


“Well what will you do here? Doubt you want to spend these next three days with a bleeding old man.” 


“I’ll find something to do.”


Vesemir quirked an eyebrow and smiled.


“Or someone to do-”




“Tell the pretty young herbalist that I said hello.”


“I’m beginning to regret not letting that Griffin turn you into lunch.”



He hated when Vesemir was right.


Geralt stood outside Tomira’s shack, just as Vesemir said he would.


While White Orchard was not the worst little countryside Geralt had ever been in, in fact it was pleasant in a lot of ways if one forgets the presence of dozens of black clad soldiers with superiority complexes, but it was clear that the people wanted very little to do with the witcher. Wasn’t really a surprise, humanity had a habit of judging and paranoia. Geralt had no interest in hanging around a tavern where everyone stared at him like he carried the plague, and there were no more old ladies to help, so Geralt found himself standing at the door of the one person here who didn’t seem to be afraid, or mistrust him. 


Geralt walked to knock on the door, but before he could, Tomira’s rang out-


“Come in!”


Hmph. She heard me coming. Hope I’m not losing my touch


Geralt enters the shack, and sees Tomira sitting at a small table, drinking a cup of tea.


“Well, well if it isn’t the intrepid Griffin slayer.” She said through a slight smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”


“Came for that interesting conversation. Mind if I sit?”


“Not at all.”


Geralt took a seat and looked around the room. He noticed the injured woman was no longer there.


“What happened to your patient?” Geralt inquired. Tomira smiled sadly, and looked at the empty spot where she had been.


“Yes, Lena. Her condition worsened significantly over the night. Her family came and got her. Decided they wanted her to spend her last moments at home with them. Can’t blame them really. Wasn’t much more I could do.” She said solemnly.


“Well that Griffin won’t be causing anyone anymore harm” Geralt said trying to comfort her.


“Yes, just the soldiers then.” She retorted. Geralt couldn’t argue with that. Tomira stood, letting Geralt appreciate her large, thick thighs and hips and she moved towards her stove. She grabbed a cup, and poured Geralt some tea.


“You know, your cynicism even gives mine a run for its money.” He said, taking the tea graciously.


“Is it really cynicism if it rings true?” She questioned, taking her seat again, and crossing one leg over the other. Those pants REALLY did her curves wonders, Geralt thought.


“Hm, I suppose it’s not.”



The pair ended up talking for several hours. Geralt felt it was nice to talk to someone as worldy as he was. Tomira made for good company; she was charming and funny. Another trait she shared with Yennefer. They talked a bit about Yennefer. He noticed the slight facial tick that came to Tomira’s face when he mentioned her; a normal man might’ve missed but the witcher knew it was a sign of displeasure. She was too polite to voice it though, and asked about her, listening intently as Geralt spoke of her, and his intentions. 


Tomira also told Geralt a bit about her life too. How she trained under Mother Nemeke, a priestess Geralt was all too familiar with; He probably owed Nemeke his life many times over. She told him how she fell in love, had her heart broken, and only just recently moved to White Orchard. Bad timing coming to the small village on the precipice of a war, but Geralt knew all about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, so he couldn’t very much judge, now could he.


Geralt realized that hours had past, and the sun was beginning to set. He figured it probably was a good time to go back and check on Vesemir.


“Bout’ time I head back to the inn.” He said standing. “Thank you for your hospitality.” 


“Think nothing of it. Your is the most interesting thing to happen in ages that didn’t include someone dying horribly.” She said, standing as well. She stepped closer to Geralt, so she was only an inch or two away from him. “Come see me again maybe?”


She looked up at him a bit hopefully, and Geralt smiled at her


“I’m sure I can make the time.



“Well, look who decided to come and check in on an old wolf.” Said Vesemir. He was feeling better, able to sit up without much pain, but still a day or two from being ready for the saddle. “Come to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep.”


“Lost track of time” Geralt answered plainly. Vesemir just shot him a smirk.


“I’m sure. You after all had good company.” Vesemir gibed.


“Just had some friendly conversation, that’s all.”


“Yes, we all know you have a tendency to conversate all night lon-”


“Vesemir, do I have to use Axii on you?”



“What are you brewing there?”


Tomira jumped, startled, and nearly knocked over the concoction.


“Witcher! You scared me. These are much too tumultuous of times for you to be sneaking up on poor young women living alone.” She chided, readjusting her alchemy station.


Geralt sensed a hint of teasing in her voice and smirked at her.


“My apologies. Figured you wouldn’t mind me coming in without knocking. Though you didn’t answer my question.” 


Geralt peaked over Tomira’s shoulder at the potion in her cauldron. It was light blue, almost reminding him of Petri’s Philter, but it was slightly luminous, emitting a small glow. He could smell it, and could recognize some of the ingredients in it: some alchemist powder and paste, allspice, and a hint of cave troll liver, but there were many unfamiliar scents in there, which was a rarity. 


“Just a small experiment I’m working on.” She stated. “Something I’ve been working on for a while


“Having any luck?” 


Tomira gave him a sad smile.


“No, not really,” She admitted. “But I have nothing but time on my hands to perfect it.”


“What is it supposed to do?”


“Is there something you need Geralt?” She asked, a bit defensively. Geralt raised an eyebrow, but decided not to push the issue.


“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrogate you.” He reassured her. “Just that me and my companion are likely leaving tomorrow.”


“And you felt the need to come see me, the humble little herbalist. I’m honored.” She said, stepping toward Geralt. She places a light hand on his chest. “Though I doubt you just want to bid me farewell.”


Geralt raised an eyebrow at her.


“What do you mean?”


“Come now Witcher. Coy doesn’t suit you well.” She drawled, as she ran her hand in circles over his chest. “You think I didn’t notice, you looking at me? You basically were staring holes in my ass.


This one is REAL observant’


Tomira pressed herself into Geralt further, allowing their chests to meet. Geralt let his hands come to Tomira’s waist, ever so lightly gripping them.


“You have me dead to rights. Now what?” He questioned, already knowing the answer.


“Now, I send you off right.” And with that she pressed her lips to Geralt’s. 


He kissed her back fiercely, using his greater height as leverage to press against her mouth harder. His tongue shot out his lips, pushing against hers for entry, which she seemed all too happy to oblige. He let his hands on her hips, wander down to her glorious bubble-ass. He pressed his palms flat against each cheek, before sinking his fingers into them. Even through her leather pants, he could feel how incredibly soft and supple her ass was. He kneaded and played with it, feeling it move and form in his hand. This was likely the singular best ass he’d ever seen or felt. Yennerfer was a close - but not too close - second.




One might think that what the Witcher was doing with Geralt was tantamount to cheating, given his history with the sorceress. To put it plainly, their relationship is….complicated. It had been years since he saw her last. He didn’t know how’d she greet him when he’d finally meet her again. Not to mention that their relationship wasn’t without turmoil: Many lies and deceptions, some unavoidable, some by choice. He without a doubt had love for her, but he’d be lying if he said it never strained his heart.


Besides, they had an...understanding of sorts. 


As long as they were together, they’d be faithful to each other. When they were together. There were long stretches in their relationship where he wouldn’t see her for ages, 0 contact of any sort, and Geralt after all was just a man. During these stretches, Geralt was free to partake in the stream of women that came his way. 


Yennefer was close, but she wasn’t there quite yet.


Geralt was pulled from his mind by Tomira taking his bottom lip between her lips and pulling. She let his lip go and looked up at him with half lidded eyes.


“You seem distracted.” She remarked. 


“Sorry, just-” He started before she pressed a finger to his lips.


“You obviously need something to focus on.”


She pushed him lightly on the chest and he took a step back. She moved over to her work station, bending over and placing her hands on the wood surface, and sticking out her ass. She gave a slight shake, enticing the witcher. She looked over her shoulder and smirked at him.


“Well? Waiting for an invitation?” She asked in a sultry whisper. He didn’t need to be told twice, walking up behind her, and placing one hand on the small of her back. Using the other he grabbed the waist of her pants, and began to drag them down her hips, exposing her fat heart shaped ass to him. He pulled them down her legs and she stepped out of them.


“No underwear?” He asked with a smirk


“They chafe something awful in these pants” She replied, matching his smirk. “But I doubt you’re complaining.


He certainly was not.


 Geralt took in the sight of her pale ass and thick thighs. It was love at first sight. He crouched down behind her, eye level with her backside and brought his hands. He quickly removed his customary gloves, so that there would be no barrier between him and her ass. He brought his hands up, cupping the underside of her cheeks. He bounced them in his hands a few times, enjoying how they jiggled, feeling the weight in his hand. He kneaded her cheeks in his hands, eliciting small gasps and moans from the herbalist. He pulled her ass cheeks apart, revealing her puckered asshole to him. Letting go, he brought both his hands up over his shoulders, and slapped down and her ass cheeks with a loud *WHAP*! Tomira jumped and moaned, enticing Geralt to do it again and again, watching her ass jiggle and shake and turn red as she casually spanked her.


“Dammit Geralt” She said breathlessly. “Quit teasing and get up here and FUCK me already!”


Once again, he did not need to be told twice.


Geralt stood, and undid his belt. He slid down his pants and knickers past his hips, just enough to fish his cock out. He slotted himself between her legs, letting his cock flop down between the valley and her ass and lower back. Tomira gasped, and grained her neck to look over her shoulder at his manhood. 


Witcher by nature have superior bodies, muscled and hardened, peak specimens of man, or the men they used to be. 


Geralt however was gifted in other ways as well. 


Though he may be a wolf, stallion would be a better descriptor of his lower half. Geralt’s cock was well over 12 inches in length, and thick as Tomira’s wrist. It was no secret to those who knew Geralt or heard stories of him, that his cock was magnificent, one of the many legends that the Witcher built for himself over the years. While some legends were embellishments, this one rang completely true.


Tomira grinded back against Geralt’s dick, feeling it grow and slide between her generous ass cheeks. Geralt grabbed her by the hips and held her there.


“Stay still” He growled out, and immediately Tomira ceased moving. Satisfied, Geralt lined his cock up with her now dripping cunt. 


“You ready?” He asked her. 


“Yes, yes! Get on with it!” She demanded needily. With that, Geralt began to drive his hips forward, sinking into her wet folds. Geralt hissed and Tomira gasped as she was penetrated. Geralt continued pushing forward being swallowed by her cunt. 


Eventually he managed to cram his massive cock all the way into her, resting his hips against her bubble butt. She felt like a velvet vice around him, wet and warm. He drew back his hips, nearly pulling all the way out of her, before driving forward and resheathing himself. Geralt set a slow deliberate pace, with long full strokes. He wasn’t in any hurry. He wanted to enjoy how it felt when Tomira’s cunt dragged along his cock, milking and grasping around him. Tomira moaned and whimpered at his slow fucking, being driven mad by his manhood slowly sawing in and out of her, and stretching her tight snatch.


They fucked liked that for a while, slow and sensual, before Tomira groaned in lusty frustration. “Dammit Geralt. Faster. HARDER.” 


“I don’t want to hurt-”


“I’m not a fucking porcerlian doll! Now come on wolf! Fuck me already!”


Grunting affirmative, Geralt pulled his hips back and slammed back into her as hard as he could, knocking the air out of her and nearly knocking her on her face; luckily she was able to catch herself on her forearms. He began to thrust his hips quickly, pulling out of her about halfway before thrusting back in. 


“Yessssss” Tomira hissed letting her hands rest on her forearms, and obediently staying still allowing Geralt to drill into her. The added roughness and force of Geralt’s thrusts caused Tomira’s workstation to shake, knocking over ingredients and vials. 


“Uhgn….Uhgn….Uhhhgn….UHHGN….” Tomira grunted as Geralt slammed his cock in her. “F-fuck! You’re so good-” she moaned lewdly.


Geralt knew he was a great fuck, but it was always good to hear as an ego booster. He palmed her ass as he fucked her, spreading her cheeks apart so he could see his cock slide in and out of her. He lifted one hand, and reigned a smack down to her right ass cheek.


“NYUUH!” Tomira yelped. “Again!”


Geralt was happy to oblige. He slapped her ass once again, rewarding him with another moan and he felt her legs begin to shake under him. He had fucked enough women to know what that meant. He began to really rail her, sliding a hand in her glossy black her and using it as a reign as he fucked her.




Tomira spasmed and her legs went poleistraight. Her cunt tightened and quivered as she came, and she squirted her juices all over his hips and the floor. Geralt closed his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the feeling of her pussy tightening around her. She was so tight. Tight…




She was too tight.


Something was wrong.


Geralt’s hand on her ass felt around. Her body, it had changed. Her backside felt less pronounced and smaller. The hand in her hair felt different too. The style was different. Instead of holding one chunk of long flowing hair, it felt like he was holding…..pigtails.


“Oh fuck me….I needed that.”


Tomira’s voice. It wasn’t Tomira’s


It was…..


No. It couldn’t be.


Geralt’s eyes shot open, and much to his surprise, he wasn’t staring at the ass of Tomira, the local herbalist of White Orchard.


He was staring at the ass of none other than Philippa Eilhart.


Wanted Sorceress. 


“What in the fuck-”

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