Just the once, [ he recalls from earlier, a breathy laugh tumbling out of him when Wriothesley pulls him along by the towel he's slung around the puppet's neck, offering resistance for a moment, not enough to do more than perhaps make them stumble a little.
He's pointed out before that Pinocchio could be handsy. That observation appears to be more than a little astute; the puppet spreads his palms over the body turned so considerately toward him, appreciating the knotted muscle, the swell of his chest, how his skin still hangs onto the warmth of their recent bath. It's with curiosity, not trepidation, a smile crinkling his blue eyes as he crowds after Wriothesley and asks: ]
And how will you have me?
[ It's possibly a little unfair that his voice is still so clear after he attempts to batter his throat with Wriothesley's cock, earlier.
Pinocchio's still keeping one metal palm — mercifully not yet cool again — over the plane of his belly, feeling him shift and flex as he moves. The other peels the towel hanging from his shoulder and consigns it to the floor in his wake. Beads of water that had been caught in the crevices of his prosthesis crawl down in slow rivulets over his toweled-off skin, cooling in the air.
His lessons haven't wrapped yet, and the anticipation is a joy, a warbeat thudding in his chest. Each time they come together like this, Pinocchio learns something, and refines these newly-discovered delights a little more. Eager to prove himself, and even more eager to satisfy Wriothesley's generous heart, his interest is avid, keen. ]
no subject
He's pointed out before that Pinocchio could be handsy. That observation appears to be more than a little astute; the puppet spreads his palms over the body turned so considerately toward him, appreciating the knotted muscle, the swell of his chest, how his skin still hangs onto the warmth of their recent bath. It's with curiosity, not trepidation, a smile crinkling his blue eyes as he crowds after Wriothesley and asks: ]
And how will you have me?
[ It's possibly a little unfair that his voice is still so clear after he attempts to batter his throat with Wriothesley's cock, earlier.
Pinocchio's still keeping one metal palm — mercifully not yet cool again — over the plane of his belly, feeling him shift and flex as he moves. The other peels the towel hanging from his shoulder and consigns it to the floor in his wake. Beads of water that had been caught in the crevices of his prosthesis crawl down in slow rivulets over his toweled-off skin, cooling in the air.
His lessons haven't wrapped yet, and the anticipation is a joy, a warbeat thudding in his chest. Each time they come together like this, Pinocchio learns something, and refines these newly-discovered delights a little more. Eager to prove himself, and even more eager to satisfy Wriothesley's generous heart, his interest is avid, keen. ]
Since I'm on your menu.