[ In Pinocchio's urgency and eagerness, he's reckless even at the best of times. It's the echo of someone else's memory that has him puffing a cough around the passion-engorged flesh filling his mouth, a phantom feeling that he should gag at odds with a body that's never had such an urge. All the signs are there that he's starting to choke, the flood of sticky spit, the tightening quiver of his throat, and he leans into the novelty instead of flinching away.
His sense of self-preservation might need a little work, but there are far more dire situations than this where caution might be warranted. For now, he feels like a kite whirling in a high breeze, dizzy on his recent release, drunk on the validation of hearing the lust and pleasure thickening Wriothesley's voice. He's done this, him. Each word, each breath and moan he pulls from Wriothesley with each wet gulp, each lash of his tongue is praise to his ears. He smothers another convulsion while he's trying to figure out just how deep he can swallow him down, eyes spilling, another reflex he isn't sure he owns.
Without the distraction of learning something for the very first time, Pinocchio has the luxury of fully appreciating this sense of power, one he isn't used to. It seems a contradiction, when Wrio's hands are in his hair, pulling and tangling with dark locks, guiding and enjoying at once. ]
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His sense of self-preservation might need a little work, but there are far more dire situations than this where caution might be warranted. For now, he feels like a kite whirling in a high breeze, dizzy on his recent release, drunk on the validation of hearing the lust and pleasure thickening Wriothesley's voice. He's done this, him. Each word, each breath and moan he pulls from Wriothesley with each wet gulp, each lash of his tongue is praise to his ears. He smothers another convulsion while he's trying to figure out just how deep he can swallow him down, eyes spilling, another reflex he isn't sure he owns.
Without the distraction of learning something for the very first time, Pinocchio has the luxury of fully appreciating this sense of power, one he isn't used to. It seems a contradiction, when Wrio's hands are in his hair, pulling and tangling with dark locks, guiding and enjoying at once. ]