NARRATOR: Today’s episode centers on MANDI and MALORY, twin sisters who do everything together. Including getting consensually raped to hell and back. It’s their first time at the CNC-BNB but they’ve heard great things about the BNB and how wonderful it is to act out fantasies. Their twin pussies are both already soaking wet as they leave the consent foyer and enter The Rape House.
FAITH: Hello and welcome to Pearly Gates BNB. Carl will show you to your room.
CARL leads MANDI and MALORY to their room and drops off their bags. While MANDI looks for cash to tip, CARL puts a chloroform cloth over MALORY’s face and she drops heavily to the floor. The thud makes MANDI look up.
CARL slaps MANDI on the face and then gags her with MALORY’s panties before tying her to a chair.
CARL: Suck on your sister’s panties, you bitch! And watch your daddy rape the fuck out her tiny pussy.
CARL pulls out his ugly mean monster cock and starts fucking a passed out MALORY. While we watch CARL shoving cock into the guest, we hear NARRATOR (voiced by @tracyxxx).
NARRATOR: Mandi did not expect the raping to begin so soon but ever since the shocked scream she has been into it and having a difficult time faking it.
CARL: You don’t have to fake scared, bitch. We all know why your here. Do you want me to remove her panties from your mouth so you can tell me what to do to her?
MANDI (muffled through panties): Nnaywnnuhdaserrwayuurayher
CAPTIONS: *No I wanna taste her while you rape her*
CARL: You sick slut.
NARRATOR: Carl knew how to translate pantytongue. He was quite the pro. Carl was going to rather enjoy fucking Mandi next. He also found himself genuinely turned on by a guest for the first time in a while. It was the way Mandi wanted to taste her twin sister’s pussy while watching and listening and even smelling Malory get fucked consensually unconscious. He appreciated the way Mandi used all of her senses to get soaked down below. Carl knew her pussy was going to be pussy heaven.
CARL: Your slut of a sister isn’t even dry. She’s wet as fuck!
MANDI (still gagged): Shhwzrllyxitdtuhcmhrr
CAPTION: *she was really excited to come here*
CARL: Well I like it fucking dry, you whore. Why else do you think I work at a rape house? To fuck slutty wet pussy all day?
CARL flips MALORY over and shoved his pussy wet cock inside her tight asshole.
CARL: Much better! Fuck!!
MANDI (captioned): *what about my pussy, Carl? I think I’m wetter than my wet pussy has ever been. Do you still wanna fuck my pussy?*
CARL answers by cumming in MALORY’s passed out pussy.
NARRATOR: Carl did not mean to cum in that butt so soon but this bitch Mandi has him worked the fuck up. He was improvising at this point and goddammit Carl is real bad at improv. That local improv show your coworkers made you go to? Yes it’s worse than that.
CARL: Dang I love . . . doing cums in butts. You ready for your raping, you fuck?
CARL removes MANDI’s panty gag.
MANDI: Oh what you want me to answer? You’re not just gonna rape me with that gross dick? Oh that’s right you can’t bc you already busted nut in my twin sister’s butt. Also did you say “dang?” What kinda rapist says dang?
NARRATOR: Carl was at a loss for words. Not only bc he’s bad at the whole “yes and” thing but mostly bc he was turned the fuck on by Mandi talking shit to him. And the crazy thing is his drained cock was already getting hard again. Carl was ready to rape again. But then something unexpected happens.
REMY, another guest, busts in the door. He is 500lbs and already naked as fuck. He immediately kicks MANDI’s chair over. She crashes to the floor. REMY picks her off the floor like she’s weightless, puts her on her back on the bed, chokes her and rapes the shit out of her before MANDI can even realize what’s happening.
CARL: Who the fuck are you??
NARRATOR: Remy didn’t answer. Remy only fucks. And fucks and fucks and fucks. Pummeling Mandi’s pussy as she loses control already and climaxes on Remy’s dick so hard she blasts piss against Remy’s big hard belly. You see at the CNC-BNB you consent to getting raped at any time by anyone. You can request denials to specific people in your contract. Mandi and Malory had no denials. No hard limits. That’s why they were on floor three. The free for all floor. Where even guests can rape each other. Remy had seen Mandi’s huge titties bouncing up the stairs and knew he had to fuck her immediately.
REMY (to CARL): Come fuck her mouth.
NARRATOR: Remy and Carl double raped Mandi who again didn’t hide the fact that she was fucking into it. Mandi had a thing for fat guys she needless to say she was cumming harder and harder and losing all control of her body and mind.
MANDI: *cumming and screaming and moaning around CARL’s dick*
NARRATOR: If Mandi was good at talking with a dick in her throat she would say “I can’t stop pissing on you mister I am so sorry godammit you feel so fuckkkkkkkking gooooooood agendidnsksje eisjen fuckfuckfuckfuck. Cum in me daddy! Please cum inside my pussy!”
REMY cums in MANDI’s good pussy
CARL cums in MANDI’s mouth pussy
MANDI continually cums piss on REMY’s big belly
GOD looks down and jacks off
MALORY’s passed out pussy drips with CARL’s cum
NARRATOR: You’ve been watching another episode of CNC-BNB. Join us tomorrow when a couple of ex-convicts come to the rape house for fluffy syrupy wet pancakes and tight fat assholes.
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(written for September 14th prompt for @whataboutthebard, Wreck: Sex with a stranger)
(predator/prey, rimming, rough sex, unnegotiated breathplay, elements of consensual non-consent, geralt/jaskier, explicit)
Geralt sees the man across the fire and knows him to be the one.
He is tall. Sturdy and well-fed, with a dark dusting of hair across his body, striking among the other soft, waifish Prey.
In his coarseness, Geralt thinks, this boy is made to take a fucking.
He will be a perfect mate, for a Predator such as Geralt.
Predators and Prey are not allowed to speak, kept apart across the fire. Separately, they feast and drink, dance and cavort, but there is a growing anticipation in the air as the sun begins to fade and the Wilding draws near.
From the Prey, Geralt can smell fear and excitement, breathless, tentative arousal as sharp as broken blades of spring grass. Even the other Predators, with their instincts mere shadows of Geralt’s own, can sense this, and seethe with their violent lust, prowling their side of the fire as they tear into their suppers with a savagery that belies what they wish to do to their Prey’s soft, quivering flesh.
Geralt sits apart from the other Predators, filling his belly with ale, intent only on the hunger he came to feed. The pack of Prey all skitter from Geralt’s gaze, fearing to be chosen by the likes of a Witcher.
All except one.
Geralt’s chosen boldly raises his eyes to meet Geralt’s across the fire. His gaze is steady. Unafraid. He even offers a challenging smile, raising his chin to draw Geralt’s eye to the pale line of his neck, the expanse of untouched skin that makes Geralt grind his teeth in grim arousal.
Even his dress is made to stir a frenzy. Though he wears only what the other Prey wear, the length of his limbs make the white shift skirt the top of his thighs, offering teasing glimpses of the shadows between. It is a mere scrap of fabric - meant to be shoved aside, torn away. He has decorated his hair with a crown of yellow flowers. A delicate, whimsical thing which will not survive the night. At least his boots are of a fine, sturdy make. Laced tight to give a good chase.
His Prey is no Hare, Geralt thinks, no twitching nervousness in his stance. Perhaps a Hart, with the coltish slimness of his legs, the grace of his body under the moonlight.
Or perhaps there is some predator-warm blood in him yet, and hidden teeth behind those curled pink lips. No meek-raised Prey would flirt as this one does, flicking his gaze over to Geralt from under his dark eyelashes, then inclining his head with an unmistakable invitation.
Never in all of Geralt’s Wildings had a Prey invited him ... to what?
Glancing around to make sure that no wandering eyes were watching things they shouldn’t, Geralt finished his tankard of ale and stood, following the shadow of the slim-hipped boy through the crowd.
Even at the edge of the field, within the fold of shadow, it was not safe for them to speak openly. Still, when Geralt sees the boy standing like an alabaster statue under the moonlight he cannot help but stalk forward on pure instinct, eyes flashing gold in the low light.
He sees the boy smile - a flash of teeth, deliberately dropping something before turning and striding back into the safe boundaries of the Prey’s territory. Amongst the sharp blades of grass is a flash of white. A handkerchief.
Geralt bends to retrieve it, staring after the sway of his Prey’s hips under his shift until he disappears from sight. Straightening slowly, Geralt returns to his seat before unfolding the fine, silk cloth.
There is nothing inside, but in one corner is embroidered a small yellow flower. Geralt brushes his thumb across the delicate stitching before bringing scrap of fabric to his nose. This was held close to his Prey’s pulse. Geralt can scent warm skin with the rush of blood just underneath, clean sweat and the faint suggestion of flowery body oil.
It’s a message indeed, a clear challenge. Come find me. Catch me if you can.
Geralt tucks the handkerchief away after memorizing his Prey’s scent, a faint smile on his face. His little Hart doesn’t know who he’s messing with, flirting with a Witcher.
No matter how fast he runs - or how far - Geralt will bring him down before the end of the night.
Jaskier hears the distant sound of horns and begins to run, grass whipping his ankles, breathing deep of the cold night air.
Around him, the other prey are scattering, their shifts shining like beacons under the bright disc of the moon. Some, fleeter than he, are already disappearing into the dark boundary of the woods. Others pant behind, and Jaskier can hear the occasional wail as one is brought down and mounted within full view of the fire.
Lazy, weak, or simply lustful? Jaskier did consider such a tactic, but then he thought of the man across the fire, the Witcher with the yellow eyes.
He is a Predator deserving of true chase ... so Jaskier will give him all he has.
The Wilding brings the populace base, makes clear their farce of playing at being civilized animals. To hunt, to fight, to fuck ... such instincts run deep under the skin, cut close to the bone, are braided into their very marrow.
They respect the rhythms of nature as in the old tradition. This violent cycle, this pain of birth and death and renewal. Played under the gaze of the spring-new moon.
Jaskier laughs, exhilarated, as he leaps over a sharp rock and pushes into the treeline, following the sound of his compatriots’ footsteps deeper and deeper into the woods until they fade into the thick underbrush. Pausing to draw his breath, Jaskier rests his weight against the thick trunk of a tree as he examines his surroundings. Distantly, he hears the snapping of branches, the sound of ripping cloth and heady laughter.
In the darkness beyond, Jaskier thinks he sees a flash of gold ... but when he squints, it disappears completely.
Is his Witcher out there even now? Stalking his steps, following the warm bead of Jaskier’s scent?
Laughing quietly to himself, Jaskier bends briefly to tug fast the laces of his boots. If his Witcher is on his tail, perhaps he will be invigorated by the sight of Jaskier’s chiton, pulled high to tease a peek of his pale thighs, the curve of his bottom.
Boots safely laced, Jaskier begins moving again at a slower, but steady clip, careful with his footing in the rocky soil. He remembers dreamily the breadth of his Witcher’s shoulders, the sharp lines of his face ... as if cut from some brittle stone, which ne’er before cracked with a smile. The soft, vulnerable place between Jaskier’s legs throbs, sluttish and oozing oil from where he earlier prepared himself.
True Prey he is, to fall weak before power - men with cold eyes, women with sharp smiles.
True Prey he is, desperate to be devoured completely
The stir of leaves. Jaskier whips around, scanning the darkness behind him. Was that just the wind? Or was someone following him in truth?
He sees nothing, but still quickens his pace, his breath catching in his throat. The sound comes again, slow and deliberate. There is no doubt now that he is being pursued.
With a burst of energy, Jaskier begins sprinting, glancing behind himself periodically to gauge the length of his lead.
The moon is high in the sky, the woods eerily quiet but for Jaskier’s footfalls and the heaviness of his breath. Either the other Prey have all been brought down elsewhere, or Jaskier has rushed into a part of the forest he will find hard-pressed to find his way out of the next morning.
The noises behind him grow louder, and Jaskier’s chest begins to burn, each step jarring his body until he can feel it in his teeth. He’s not going down without a fight, he’s-
A hand on his shoulder, and Jaskier feels himself yanked suddenly backwards, tumbled into a hard patch of dirt.
“Got you,” a rumbling voice says, and Jaskier looks up dizzily to see a man with dark hair, dark eyes. Decidedly not his Witcher.
Swallowing his momentary disappointment, Jaskier inclines his head and smiles invitingly at the Predator. “And now that you’ve got me,” he says silkily. “What do you mean to do with me?”
The man opens his mouth, but then his expression changes - his face going pale as his widening eyes flick to something just beyond Jaskier’s shoulder. Alarmed, Jaskier pushes up on his elbow, turning to see a mane of white under the moonlight, savage yellow eyes and a mouth pulled back into a snarl.
“He’s mine,” the Predator crouching over him protests, an edge of a whine in his voice. “I caught him first!”
His eyes still on the Witcher, Jaskier puts his hand on the man’s shoulder and shoves him off, climbing easily to his feet. With a final, snarling complaint, the other Predator slinks off. Neither Jaskier nor the Witcher watch him go.
“He’s right, you know,” Jaskier says, taking one step back, then another, as he eyes his avenues of escape. “He did catch me first. You weren’t fast enough.”
The Witcher’s mouth notches up in a dangerous little half-smile.
“Run,” he mouths, and Jaskier does.
The Witcher brings Jaskier down in a moonlight glen, tears his shift in twain with a loud rip down the back. Jaskier continues to fight even when he is thrown upon the cold, bone-white grass, laughing savagely when he manages to land a hit upon the Witcher’s ribs which makes him grunt.
Finally, the Witcher pins Jaskier with his arm twisted behind his back, knees bruised, blood in his teeth.
“Submit,” the Witcher growls, and Jaskier finally goes limp, panting happily in the dirt. He shivers as he feels the man’s hot breath rolling over his neck.
The sudden bite rips a scream from his mouth, inhumanly sharp canines pressing just above his pulse, claiming him just as the fox claims the hare, the wolf his fleeting hart. A savage communion.
The Witcher releases his arm and Jaskier shivers, laying still. The fighting is finished. Now, he just wants to get fucked. Behind him, Jaskier hears the jingle of a belt, feels the prodding of fingers down his cleft.
The Witcher makes a surprised sound. “You’re prepared,” he rumbles.
“I have not the taste for pain as some of my peers,” Jaskier replies dryly, widening his knees and hitching up his hips. “Not all who give chase have the consideration to bring oil.”
The Witcher hums guiltily and Jaskier laughs, gasping when he feels himself being spread, the Witcher’s breath blowing across his hole. There’s scarce warning before the hot, wet flat of a tongue is on Jaskier’s entrance.
Jaskier moans, clawing at the grass with his fingers as the Witcher slips the thick of his tongue deep inside, fucking Jaskier open in preparation for his cock. Jaskier reaches a hand back desperately to help himself, freezing when that triggers a low growl from the Witcher.
Whining, Jaskier submits as he promised he would, folding his arms to pillow his forehead as he balances on trembling knees. Oh but he needs to spill! The wet, shameful pleasure is growing unbearable, not enough and too much all at once. Fortunately, the Witcher allows him some small mercy a moment later, his fingers wrapping Jaskier’s cock in a firm, dry grip.
But that is as far as the assistance goes. Jaskier is forced to chase his own pleasure, fucking into the Witcher’s fist and sawing back on his tongue. Epithets and sobbing moans escape Jaskier’s lips as he spends himself in the dirt, bare thighs trembling against The Witcher’s leathers.
The Witcher mounts him after, while Jaskier is still whimpering with oversensitivity, bracing himself to take the Witcher’s thrusts. Jaskier cries out as he feels a hand knot in his hair, drag him backwards while an iron arm pins him back against the Witcher’s strong chest.
The new angle makes Jaskier howl, turn into a feral thing as his skin begins to drip with sweat, his nails biting crescents into the Witcher’s corded thighs.
“Touch yourself,” the Witcher growls, and Jaskier palms his half-hard cock protectively, his ginger strokes soon turning greedy and desperate as he feels a heavy hand at his throat.
All of Jaskier’s senses are alight at the perilousness of the situation. A complete stranger, in the dark of the wild with naught but the moon for witness. As the Witcher begins to cut off his air with delicate control, Jaskier gasps and shakes, spilling more powerfully than he ever has in memory.
And the pleasure seems to go on, pulling peak after peak from his body like a string of pearls. He is only dimly aware of being released, desperately drawing breath back into his lungs, his belly splattered with seed as the Witcher fucks him like a rag doll, ruining his neck and and shoulders with deep, hungry bites.
In the aftermath, Jaskier lays upon the grass, still panting and shaking as his hole seeps with the Witcher’s spend. His body will be hurting tomorrow, but adrenaline is still running high, and within him is a deep satisfaction, unmatched by simple orgasm.
Jaskier makes a soft sound, opening one eye when he feels a hand running through his hair. It is the Witcher, more man than beast, smiling in the moonlight. He truly is gorgeous, and Jaskier captures his hand, pressing a kiss to every knuckle.
The tenderness seems to unsettle the Witcher, but he accepts Jaskier’s insistence on resting a while together. He shuffles Jaskier to a cleaner spot and wraps them both in his cloak.
Dreamily, Jaskier turns in the Witcher’s arms and seeks his mouth for a kiss. This, too, seems to give the man pause, but he humors Jaskier well enough, cradling his jaw before opening his lips under Jaskier’s. Unlike his coupling, the Witcher’s kiss is slow and deliberate, as if he is determined to learn the interior of Jaskier’s mouth and commit it to memory.
“My name is Geralt,” the Witcher murmurs, pulling back.
“Jaskier,” Jaskier returns, strangely thrilled. He has never bothered to exchange his real name with a Wilding partner before.
“I’ve named you Dandelion in my head,” Geralt says, smiling like he does not get the practice often. “After the flower on your handkerchief.”
“Quite close,” Jaskier whispers, and kisses him again.
Geralt awakes alone, with the wet of dew upon his skin and the yellow dawn filtering through the leaves above. He must have truly spent himself last night to not have stirred when Jaskier left his side, or perhaps they had spiked the ale with something to heighten the events of the Wilding.
Slowly, Geralt gathers himself and his belongings, wondering at the sharp, hollow feeling in his chest. Village boy or hedonistic pilgrim, Jaskier is a stranger indeed, and such couplings are not made to last, no matter how unusually intense this coupling felt, different from any other Wilding in Geralt’s memory. The slim strength of Jaskier’s legs, the music of his pleasure under the moon, the eager heat of his mouth ... Geralt knows that he will remember this night for a while.
Evidently, it was not the same for Jaskier, Geralt chides himself dryly, brushing the dirt from his cloak. A rustle in the bushes makes Geralt turn, his hand falling to his hip though he had left his swords in his inn room.
Jaskier steps from the underbrush with a carefree smile. He is wearing his half-laced boots but otherwise nothing else, remarkably casual in his nakedness as he wrings a cloth between his fingers that Geralt recognizes as what is left of Jaskier’s ruined shift.The morning sun alights upon the droplets of water sluicing down his his bare skin, the trails of moisture making his berry-dark bruises gleam.
He is even more beautiful than Geralt remembers, an elfin thing among the dappled green.
“There is a spring just over the hill,” Jaskier says, slinging the damp cloth over his shoulder with a wet sound. “You should bathe.” His eyes rove over Geralt’s body critically. “You really should bathe.”
Geralt grunts, but finds himself following Jaskier into the woods, stripping to step into the small spring which only comes to his knees, but with water cool and clear, sweet from the mountain snows. Geralt cups his hands under the icy run-off and drinks as deeply as he desires, then scrubs his face, looking up when Jaskier hands him a handful of soft soap from Geralt’s pack.
“I borrowed a bit,” Jaskier says unapologetically, stretching out under a sunbeam.
“Why are you still here?” Geralt asks gruffly. Though they are both bare, it seems as if the dynamic of their previous coupling has been reversed, with Jaskier watching Geralt lazily from atop a boulder near the shore as he dries himself in the sun.
“Why would I?” Jaskier returns carelessly, combing through his wet hair with his fingers. “Where would I go?”
“Don’t you have your people?” Geralt asks, clumsily soaping his chest. From the gleam in Jaskier’s eyes, he would be quite willing to contribute to such a task, but Geralt does not ask, and Jaskier does not offer.
“I left them long ago,” Jaskier says vaguely, and in the bravado of his youth it might have been either years or months of which he spoke. “Jaskier Alfred Pankratz the traveling bard, at your service.” With a theatrical sigh, Jaskier crosses his arms behind his head, closing his eyes as he reclines upon the sun-warmed stone. “I have my voice, I have my lute and that is all I need. Though,” he slits one eye open and sets upon Geralt with a proprietary air. “I have been thinking of taking on a muse.”
“Hmm,” Geralt says dryly, wondering who, in this moment, was truly the predator and who the prey.
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