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Pinocchio has a new favorite book.
He still finds home and identity in the story of the wooden marionette whose name he’d claimed, but this new book is simply fascinating. Incredibly unique from any other he’s seen, containing only pictures. His interest was drawn from the moment he’d snagged it from an apartment’s nightstand and flipped it open to an odd depiction of a man and a woman. At Gemini’s frantic insistence, Pinocchio had agreed to only look at it in the privacy of his room.
A human manual, he thinks as he lies in bed, book held close to his face. His eyes trace over the printed illustration before him; a detailing of a woman’s features, her mouth open wide around a long, hard appendage. A finger, perhaps? Pinocchio looks at his own hand and ponders the thought.
He imagines your lips, wrapped around just before the first knuckle, slightly pursed.
The page flips over.
He stares at a woman cupping her hands over her bare chest, nipples peeking from behind locks of hair.
Another page.
A fully nude couple, the woman bent forward at the waist with the man pressing his hips into her from behind.
Pinocchio sits up at the sound of your door opening in the room beside his. He glances out the window, and – yes, the moon has climbed high into the sky, the hour your restlessness seems to pull you toward the hotel’s kitchen.
Tucking the book back under his pillow, Pinocchio pauses, exhaling slowly to ease the strange pressure in his lower stomach before he rises to follow you.
He tracks you to the pantry, where you’ve pulled a platter of cupcakes recently made for a resident’s birthday. You beam as soon as you spot him, and a fluttering teases in Pinocchio’s chest.
“Can’t sleep either?” you ask, your usual greeting for these midnight encounters. He observes you meticulously selecting which cupcake to eat, settling on one with a tower of frosting. Your thumb slips into the whipped cream as you pick it up.
“Oops,” you mutter. Your hand rises, and Pinocchio watches as your lips circle around your finger, cheeks gently sucking in to clean the frosting away.
Interesting.
Slowly, he reaches for the untouched cupcakes sitting on the plate. His finger presses into a swirl of cream before he lifts it back up, a large dollop balanced at the tip. He holds it toward you.
“Pinocchio”, you scold lightly, “now you have to eat that one.”
He tilts his head and nudges his hand closer.
Pinocchio focuses carefully on your mouth as you lean forward with a giggle. Your lips graze against the tip of his finger, collecting the frosting in one quick motion. Soft, warm, and brief enough that he barely processes the sensation before you pull back.
“There”, you say with a smile. “Better?”
He considers your question for a moment before scooping his fingertip into the cupcake again.
Your laughter comes instantly. “Now you definitely have to eat it.”
Instead of offering the cream to you this time, Pinocchio lifts his hand to his face and positions the glob on the tip of his nose. He looks back at you expectantly.
Shy rosiness spreads across your cheeks. “You are unbelievable,” you murmur, though your voice sounds far more amused than upset.
Pinocchio remains still as you step closer. The contact is impossibly light, the way your lips barely skim his nose. When you lean back, your giggle is quieter than before.
“Happy now?”
Pinocchio thinks he might be, but something compels him to act greedily. He swipes his finger into the whipped cream once more.
Your eyes narrow. “Pinocchio, I swear to–”
He drags the frosting across his bottom lip.
Your voice catches, and the air in the pantry warms with the flush radiating from your neck. Pinocchio studies your expression, confused when your gaze darts away from his mouth almost as quickly as it landed there.
“You…” A flustered laugh escapes you. “You can’t just do things like that.”
He frowns, remaining where he is, waiting patiently.
Your shoulders rise with a sigh, and after several more fleeting glances his way, you lean in again.
This kiss lingers, not long, only a few seconds at most, but enough for something to bloom through Pinocchio’s chest as your lips press gingerly against his own. The frosting disappears between them, sweetness briefly touching his tongue before you pull away.
Your face burns brighter now.
“You’re rather demanding,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ruined cupcakes beside you.
Unfortunately, before he can attempt any more demands, the coiling pressure low in his stomach returns stronger than before. He backs away.
“Pinocchio?” You blink at him, your smile faltering, and he rushes out of the kitchen.
He retreats to his room, the knots in his stomach twisting tighter with each step as the heat of your mouth hovers on his lips, around his finger.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Pinocchio falls backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling while the unfamiliar sensation churns through his frame.
His fingers grasp the hidden object beneath his pillow, and the book reappears in his hands. He opens it somewhere near the middle, pages rolling beneath his thumb before stopping on a flagged corner, an illustration bookmarked from earlier.
A woman reclines across a mattress, bare skin exposed beneath the careful grip of a man positioned between her thighs. His face disappears against the apex of her body while the woman arches into the sheets, fingers tangled in the man’s hair.
Pinocchio finds it natural to picture you there instead, sprawled across his bed with his head nestled between your thighs.
He contemplates the thought for several long moments, the tension circling between his legs, before turning back a few pages to inspect similar images. For reasons he doesn’t understand yet, these are the pictures that excite him the most.
The hotel kitchen is quiet beneath the weight of midnight.
You sit atop the granite counter with a jar of ice cream stationed at your side, one leg swinging idly while the other hooks around the cabinet below. The spoon clinks against the glass as you scrape another bite free.
Your gaze drifts toward the empty doorway again.
Perhaps you had misunderstood last night entirely.
Heat creeps faintly beneath your skin at the memory anyway; velvety cream inviting across Pinocchio’s mouth, the hesitant breath of his lips against yours, the way he had fled upstairs immediately after like some startled alley cat.
Your spoon stills halfway in your mouth.
…Had you frightened him?
You stare down at the ice cream, mulling it over.
Ridiculous. He kissed you first.
Technically.
Mostly.
Your shoulders sag as you defeatedly plop the spoon into the jar. Maybe the puppet simply no longer wishes to spend his evenings stealing sweets with you.
The pantry door creaks behind you. Shyness spreads in your throat before you can stop it.
“You’re here,” you sigh, trying very hard not to sound relieved as you glance over your shoulder.
Pinocchio stands in the doorway, watching you silently. His eyes drop to the jar beside you as he approaches.
“You disappeared so suddenly yesterday,” you say, timid through your apology. “I didn’t mean to…”
But you did mean to. You rephrase, ”I’m sorry if I…”
Pinocchio stops in front of your knees. He reaches for the spoon abandoned inside the ice cream, and you watch him scoop up a small mound of vanilla.
“What are you–”
Cold strikes against the side of your neck. A startled shiver races down your spine as Pinocchio drags the spoon slowly downward, leaving a streak of vanilla melting across your skin.
You freeze, and your eyes meet his.
“Oops,” he says, without even the faintest trace of remorse.
You stare at him in disbelief.
Something almost triumphant flickers across his expression before he leans forward. He pauses only inches away from your throat, blue eyes lifting to yours in silent question.
The opportunity to stop him hangs between you. Pinocchio angles his head and closes the remaining distance when you don’t take it.
The first touch of his tongue against your neck sends another sharp shiver through you, chilled cream and moist warmth mingling together as he traces upward along the dripping line. His hands settle carefully against the edge of the counter beside your thighs, grounding himself while he explores the taste with quiet concentration.
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.
Each pass of Pinocchio’s tongue leaves tiny shudders beneath your skin, the cold sweetness melting beneath his mouth. Your fingers twitch uncertainly against the countertop before drifting upward. They land at his shoulders.
Pinocchio stills, then exhales softly against your throat. The sound blanks all chances at coherent thought.
Heat rushes furiously into your face as his mouth traces higher along your neck, provocatively slow now, finding the tender crook beneath your jaw. The hand braced beside your thigh grips harder against the granite.
“Pinocchio…” you whisper.
Whether it’s a warning or encouragement, you’re no longer sure.
Only when the last traces of vanilla disappear does he lean back, and your pulse stutters at the sight waiting for you.
A droplet of cream remains at the corner of his mouth, right near that one stray freckle. You stare at it for a second too long.
“...Missed a spot.” Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt to pull him in.
The kiss is slow at first, hesitant, but it deepens quickly beneath a yearning you didn’t know a puppet could possess. Pinocchio presses into your lips with a desperate, clumsy sort of hunger, smooth vanilla eagerly licking at your teeth.
The pretense of innocence shatters, and your hands grip around his shoulders as you taste him back. An intoxicating flavor, sweetened faintly with ice cream. The gentle, wet smacks of moving lips echo through the kitchen.
You focus on the warmth of his venturing tongue, closing your eyes tightly, trying, trying not to notice the subtle, rhythmic tugging at your thigh.
But it’s impossible to ignore.
Your nightgown shifts around your ankles. Pinocchio’s left hand, the heavy, metal prosthetic arm, moves with delicate precision. You feel the cool, unforgiving bite of his steel fingers gathering the cotton in small pinches, drawing the hem higher up your calves.
It reaches your knees, and Pinocchio steps in closer.
Heat floods your face again when your legs instinctively part to make room for him, how naturally your body accommodates his presence there. The movement, however, causes your nightgown to ride up even further.
His hands slip beneath the barrier of the cloth.
A gasp is startled out of your mouth, lost entirely against his lips as his palms press flat to the top of your thighs. He squeezes, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs drawing slow, mesmerizing circles into your skin as the kiss grows breathless.
Your hands leave his shoulders to slide through his hair and crane his face ever closer to yours. The pushes of his tongue soften into something deeper, a needy intensity that has your heart hammering against your ribs.
Pinocchio’s palms glide higher, a dangerous crawl on the forbidden skin of your upper thighs. When he reaches the band of your undergarment, he pauses, his breath hitching against your mouth before his fingers hook firmly into the material.
You fight to contain the shiver that teases at the bottom of your spine again.
Driven by an impatient wave of want, you tilt your pelvis, lifting your hips slightly from the countertop. You have no idea how, but Pinocchio catches the invitation.
With a smooth tug, he slides the fabric down the length of your legs. The material laces around your ankles before it’s kicked away entirely.
The sudden rush of cool kitchen air against your bare skin leaves you exposed, vulnerable to the unblinking, half-lidded gaze that meets yours as he finally breaks the kiss.
You’re both panting, chests rising and falling in mismatched rhythms. Yours comes out frantic, while he draws in shallow, measured breaths that puff warm against your face.
With his eyes fixed onto yours, his hand drifts blindly to the side, searching the granite until his fingers find the jar of ice cream. He dips into the container, coating his fingertips in the melted cream.
Your head is too fuzzy to question him, and his hand disappears beneath the bunched-up cotton of your nightgown. You barely have time to prepare yourself before the first cold droplets of ice cream land directly on your most sensitive center.
The shock of the chilled liquid against your burning skin makes you jolt. You gasp, your fingers digging into the curls of his hair as a sharp, whimpering shudder racks your frame. It’s sinfully pleasurable, the sudden spark of ice in the middle of your heat.
“I’m starting to think…” you choke out, your voice trembling as you try to piece together any kind of defense, “...you’re doing this on purpose.”
Pinocchio’s lips skim against your cheek.
“Maybe,” he breathes.
Your heart stops in your chest. For a terrifying, dizzying second, you’re convinced you must be dreaming, that the puppet you’ve watched navigate the world with such careful, innocent curiosity couldn’t behave this delightfully lewd.
But you’ve imagined it before, admittedly, and your heart resumes its nervous trilling as one of your more lustful fantasies comes to fruition.
Pinocchio sinks down, lowering onto one knee on the kitchen floor between your parted legs. He gives you little time to recover your breath before his hands wrap around your thighs.
With a strong tug, he drags you forward until your hips are resting at the very edge of the countertop, completely open to him.
Pinocchio stays on his knee, looking up at your flushed face before his attention drops, landing between your legs. His eyes spark eagerly, glowing bright, like someone who’s finally opened a long-awaited present and is marveling at their gift.
Hot air gradually fans across your skin until the first swipe of his tongue arrives.
It’s a cautious, slow lick. He traces upward, catching the dewy vanilla cream along with your own heat, before his tongue retreats back into his mouth. His jaw shifts slightly as he ponders the taste.
The brief deprivation is torture. You let out a soft whine, your hips twitching on the granite, silently begging for him to return.
He doesn’t make you wait long.
He leans back in for more, his tongue sweeping over you with a renewed, bolder confidence. Your hands find his hair again, fingers dragging over his scalp, searching for any kind of purchase as pleasure ebbs in. He licks everywhere, attentive and patient, still learning which touches reward him with bigger responses.
Pinocchio presses closer, his nose brushing against your skin as he begins a slow, intimately thorough path up the length of your slit.
He maps the shape of you with devoted focus. His tongue dips experimentally into your opening, and the slick, velvety intrusion makes your thighs twitch around his ears.
He glides his tongue back out, trailing higher and higher up the seam until the pointed tip flicks against a tightly hooded, sensitive bundle.
A stuttering moan escapes your lips. Your fingers, already tangled in his hair, grip into fists against the nape of his neck as your hips wrench off the cold granite.
It’s the exact reaction he was looking for.
He hones in on the spot. Careful wandering gone, his mouth latches onto you, closing around the bud. The full, concentrated steam of his breath caresses you as much as his tongue does, and you hold another groan in.
He begins to suckle, a gentle, rhythmic pulling. His tongue curves to swirl the hood out of the way.
The sensation is immediate, a heavy, throbbing pulse that hums through your lower stomach. You bite your lip to hush the little noises from escalating into loud whines.
Pinocchio’s lips seal tighter around you as his tongue laps in a steady, unhurried cadence.
Wet, firm, and agonizingly deliberate.
Every stroke of his tongue feeds the fire. A low, rolling heat spreads outward from where his mouth is locked, melting down the inside of your thighs and climbing up into your chest.
Your fingers knot harder into his hair. You want him to move faster, to quicken the pace, but he’s unyielding. He stays committed to that slow rhythm, mastering the pressure, completely consumed by the wet sounds echoing between your legs.
When a breathy, whining sob slips past your teeth, his hands tighten around your thighs.
His thumbs press hard into your skin, bolting you against the counter so you can’t twist away from the friction. He tilts his head slightly, shifting the angle of his mouth to pull a fresh, sharper gasp from your lungs.
The heat inside you builds, layering over itself until your skin almost feels too tight. Your hips give a helpless, involuntary rut against his mouth, a beg for release.
He swiggles his tongue flat against the sensitive bud again before easing, letting the tension coil and loosen repeatedly.
You know you’re at his mercy, but nothing stops the whimpering please from leaving your chest anyway.
Pinocchio hears it, and he’s gracious enough to grant your request.
His tongue broadens to deliver a hard, sweeping press directly over the peak of your tension. Pleasure crests.
You let out a fractured cry as the orgasm crashes over you in rocking waves. Your hips convulse off the counter, your body alight with an unbearable, shuddering sensation.
Overwhelmed by the intensity, your hands tangle frantically in his hair. The desperate embrace turns into a weak attempt to pull his head away from you.
He doesn’t budge, the brass and iron of his strength holding you in place. He drinks through your contractions, tongue continuing steady strokes against your spasming center, forcing you to feel every individual throb.
Before you can descend from the climax, the sound of his sucking shifts. The heat between your legs becomes torrential, and the neat pulls of his mouth are replaced by loud, wet slurps as he chases the flood of your arousal.
New waves of orgasm hit you, these ones striking harder, quivering through your entire body.
Your spine arches so drastically that your head nearly touches the cabinets behind you. You lose all concept of boundaries, your thighs shaking uncontrollably against his cheeks as a continuous string of ruined noises pours from your lips.
Beneath the roaring pulse in your ears, you hear the sound of stray liquid splashing onto the kitchen floor below.
Pinocchio keeps his mouth clamped against you until the very last tremor wriggles out of your legs. He slowly removes his lips, the separation leaving you slumped against the counter, chest heaving for air.
When he leans back to sit up on his knee, you force your heavy eyelids open to look down at him. Your thundering heartbeat falters.
Pinocchio’s lips, his chin, his jaw, all glisten heavily with a dripping sheen, the lower half of his face painted in the evidence of how you had broken down under his mouth.
The hush of the late night kitchen returns all at once, broken only by the uneven rasps of your breathing as you stare down at him, your hands still limp and shaking where they rest in his hair.
You can’t take your eyes off him. The sight of his drenched jawline makes it impossible for your body to calm.
His tongue darts out to lick a large drop of your wetness from his upper lip. He swallows it, his throat bobbing, and the corners of his mouth tilt upward.
It isn’t his usual innocently affectionate smile that lured your heart. It’s a proud, wicked little smirk, one that tells you he somehow knows exactly what he did to you.
It makes you want to do things back to him.
And you realize you can do things to him when he stands up and you see the shape, the size, of what strains against his pants.
A needy surge of desire fills your chest, your previous exhaustion forgotten, and your fingers find his belt loops to pull him back into the space between your thighs.
Pinocchio follows your touch eagerly, tilting his chin down to claim your lips once more. But as his face draws close, the reflection of moonlight on his wet skin makes you hesitate.
Shyness lodges in your throat and you lean back slightly. He blinks, noticing the way your attention won’t leave his jaw.
“It’s sweet”, he reassures, his voice lowered into a murmur.
You wouldn’t say you agree with his assessment as you taste yourself through the kiss.
The flavor is faint with the lingering vanilla of melted ice cream, but mostly savory, with a hint of tangy richness. Certainly not sweet, although you won’t deny it’s utterly maddening in its indecency.
Your hands dare to leave his belt loops and slide to the buckle. You fumble with the leather, the clasp eventually popping free, and your thumbs move to the front of his pants to unlatch the first button.
You manage to undo a second one before Pinocchio’s steel hand comes down to rest firmly below your elbow.
You freeze.
You’re already in a rather compromising position, his face coated with your cum, but perhaps you’re pushing your luck too far and he’s not as ready as you thought he was.
As luck would have it, his hand doesn’t stop you.
The smooth metal trails over the crook of your elbow, tracing up your arm to your shoulder. His palm slides against your upper back to pull you inches closer.
Permission granted.
Your fingers work the remaining buttons, parting the fabric and pulling down until his length is fully freed.
Your hand curls gently around him, the grasp eliciting a sigh from low in Pinocchio’s chest. You give him a few soft, slow strokes, reveling in the way his lips tremble slightly each time your thumb grazes his blushing head.
The tension in the pantry returns to a boil, and the ache between your own legs grows back into a fierce, demanding throb.
Loosening your grip just enough, you guide the broad tip of his shaft to your opening. The space between you narrows to nothing as you prepare to take him in.
The kiss breaks the moment Pinocchio sinks into you, neither of you able to hold in the groans of relief.
You tilt your head back as you feel the thick, wide length of him stretching your walls, filling you so perfectly that another breathless moan spills from your lungs. He reaches deep, spreading you open until the smooth skin of his groin presses flush to your hips.
Pinocchio stills, and his hands grip around your waist to keep you both leveled.
For several long, anticipating seconds, he doesn’t move. Resting inside of you, he pants out shallow, erratic breaths as he processes the warmth that encases his length.
He pulls back slowly, almost entirely out, the drag of his exit pulling a whimper from you before he pushes back in.
He tests the sensation, adjusting his hips to try slightly different angles, his brow furrowing as he explores the interior shape of you. He starts his forward thrusts at a sluggish pace, settled on the exact position that suits him.
The change in direction hits a spot that makes your toes curl and your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. A high, lewd moan echoes through the pantry.
Evidently, the position suits you quite nicely too.
Pinocchio responds by maintaining that punishingly slow pace, and you deem him a sadist for how he seems to take pleasure in watching you squirm.
He commits to the rhythm, not rushing the ecstasy, drawing his cock back until the tip is nearly teasing your entrance before burying himself in deep again. With every roll of his hips, his head bumps into just the right spot inside you.
Brilliant jolts of pleasure spread to your core, and the repetition unravels you.
You fall back onto your elbows and stare at the ceiling, your mind searching for something, anything to focus on other than his cock easing into you. You fail miserably, and your chin lowers to your chest so you can shamelessly watch the puppet fuck you.
He slides in and out of you again, and again, and again, his wet shaft gliding against your lips. Milky dribbles of your arousal leak around him.
The urgency inside you coils into a frantic knot, and Pinocchio loses himself before you can open your mouth to whine for a quicker pace.
He thrusts into you harder and faster, his hips slamming against yours. Low, stuttered gasps leave his parted lips with every frenzied drive.
The girth of his shaft grinds lightly against your swollen bud, and you toss your head back as your vision blurs.
“Pinocchio–!” You blindly claw at his back as the pressure reaches a breaking point.
His hands slide from your waist to hook beneath your thighs. He lifts you off the counter to draw you in close, your weight supported around his hips.
The shift forces him in even deeper, and you yelp as it brings you to another climax.
You bite into his neck to stop yourself from screaming. The bliss ripples through your body, your walls spasming around him as you quiver against his chest.
Your clenching wrings Pinocchio's cock, and he tenses before shoving his face into your hair. With a muffled, ragged moan, he spills into you in hot bursts.
He holds you trapped against his frame, hips driving upward as you both drown in the hazy lust of midnight desire.
Gradually, the pulsing heat of his cock tapers off into a slow, lingering throb. Pinocchio’s grip on your thighs relaxes, and he lowers you back down until your feet touch the kitchen floorboards.
The moment your weight settles, your knees buckle. He squeezes your waist to steady you.
Your legs are weak, thighs already aching and tender from being spread for so long. You draw in a shaking breath, foolishly thinking you might finally be allowed a moment to recover.
The puppet has other plans.
He spins you around to face away from him. Your back leans against his chest for a brief second before his palm slides against the center of your spine. He pushes downward, and you're bent over the edge of the counter.
Your stomach meets the granite, now warm and soaked in your juices.
You twist your upper body around, your hand flying back to grab onto his wrist to halt his movements. “Pinocchio, wait–”
The words die in your throat when your sight drifts down.
Below his shirt, his cock still stands at attention, fully erect. The weeping head is flushed a bright pink, the shaft slick with a mixture of his cum and your wetness.
You exhale a laugh as you look from his hard length back up to his blue eyes, blown out with a greedy hunger. Insatiable, you’re discovering.
“We should…” you pause, trying to leverage reason into your own want. “We should take this upstairs. To your room.”
Pinocchio releases you and quickly buttons his pants. He wonders, as he feels you stuff your underwear into his pocket, which position from the book might be your favorite. Maybe you’ll even want to look at some pages with him after.
He makes sure to grab the jar of ice cream on his way out.