[ The need in Wriothesley's voice, so keen, so unabashedly raw, makes him hasten to get a more secure grip on him. His metal fingers sink into warm, pliant muscle, keeping him held up off his feet, knees bent and feet left to dangle in the air. He forces Wriothesley back against his chest, folded nearly in half, helpless but to endure.
The wolf's hot breath gusts over his throat, the position all but demands Wriothesly throw back his head over Pinocchio's shoulder, or let it swing as each slap of skin on skin makes his head bob forward. He pistons into him, driven by a primal hunger he could never have been made with. To take, to claim, to fill, and every cry torn from Wriothesley is one that sounds to his altered ears like sheer gratification.
This is what he was so desperately hungry for, and now he will feast.
He's every bit the beast this hunt demands of him, has made him into, marking up his neck, his shoulder with snaps and nips and bites hard enough to bruise. Holds his muscular thighs open, as though he won't let Wriothesley chase pleasure with the friction against his own skin, no, that all the pleasure he takes will be from the puppet's cock, brutal and unrelenting. ]
[All his senses feel like they're on fire. Every thrust shakes him to the core, carving him deep and leaving him empty when they pull out. It feels so good to be eaten up like this. To be of use to feed the wolfish man making him fall apart is the greatest thing he could be doing right now.
His head drops onto Pinocchio's shoulder, drools dripping down into sweat damp fur, his entire body only seems to know the pleasure being wrought through him and the shape of Pinocchio's cock. Pinocchio seems to take as he pleases and Wriothesley is nothing but ecstatic to offer it to them.
Their refusal to let him seek pleasure in any other way is almost humorous. He doesn't need anymore than whatever the beast gives him. He comes with a broken sob again, spilling more of his seed onto sheets. Every thrust and every bite is only fuel to his arousal and Wriothesley wonders how many times he might come before he's either milked dry or before Pinocchio is fully sated.
[ The Hunt makes him savage. Wriothesley's suit makes him insatiable. He's slick and perfect, taking the relentless pistoning of his cock like he was made to be bred like this. Pinocchio can't spare a thought beyond how desperately he wants to fill him full. His ecstasy isn't the only goal; the puppet wants him consumed, utterly, shaking himself to pieces on his knot.
It's impossible for him to gauge how long it is before he finally feels orgasm approach. In the interim, he has brought him back down to the debauched bed, has flipped him onto his back to hilt himself into Wriothesley again, his knees pushed up towards his generous chest. Wriothesley's long hair fans out behind his broad shoulders like a pale corona, the tufted fur over his chest and around his neckline clumped together with sweat.
He has him by the legs, just behind the knees, each pounding thrust clapping into his seat so roughly that Wriothesley's heels bounce off the backs of the puppet's shoulders each and every time. Sweat drips from him, but not from Pinocchio, whose pants and growls emit from lips parted around sharpened canines, wolfish ears pricked to catch every moan. ]
[Wriothesley has lost count on how long they've been at it. His body is completely pliant under Pinocchio's weight, hands unable to even cling to the sheets underneath him. Whimpers and moans to sobs and whines spill from his lips like an unending river. His gaze is unfocused, expression blissed out as Pinocchio fills him with their cock over and over again.]
P-Pinocchio... [He doesn't even know if he can feel pleasure so much his body just accepting what the puppet will give him. He's soaked in sweat, his pheromones heavy in the air, as though to entice the other to breed him full.
He writhes a little, shaky hands trying to reach out to them.] C-Come on...fill me up.
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armwriostle) wrote2024-07-22 12:13 am
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The wolf's hot breath gusts over his throat, the position all but demands Wriothesly throw back his head over Pinocchio's shoulder, or let it swing as each slap of skin on skin makes his head bob forward. He pistons into him, driven by a primal hunger he could never have been made with. To take, to claim, to fill, and every cry torn from Wriothesley is one that sounds to his altered ears like sheer gratification.
This is what he was so desperately hungry for, and now he will feast.
He's every bit the beast this hunt demands of him, has made him into, marking up his neck, his shoulder with snaps and nips and bites hard enough to bruise. Holds his muscular thighs open, as though he won't let Wriothesley chase pleasure with the friction against his own skin, no, that all the pleasure he takes will be from the puppet's cock, brutal and unrelenting. ]
no subject
His head drops onto Pinocchio's shoulder, drools dripping down into sweat damp fur, his entire body only seems to know the pleasure being wrought through him and the shape of Pinocchio's cock. Pinocchio seems to take as he pleases and Wriothesley is nothing but ecstatic to offer it to them.
Their refusal to let him seek pleasure in any other way is almost humorous. He doesn't need anymore than whatever the beast gives him. He comes with a broken sob again, spilling more of his seed onto sheets. Every thrust and every bite is only fuel to his arousal and Wriothesley wonders how many times he might come before he's either milked dry or before Pinocchio is fully sated.
When he'll be fully sated himself.]
no subject
It's impossible for him to gauge how long it is before he finally feels orgasm approach. In the interim, he has brought him back down to the debauched bed, has flipped him onto his back to hilt himself into Wriothesley again, his knees pushed up towards his generous chest. Wriothesley's long hair fans out behind his broad shoulders like a pale corona, the tufted fur over his chest and around his neckline clumped together with sweat.
He has him by the legs, just behind the knees, each pounding thrust clapping into his seat so roughly that Wriothesley's heels bounce off the backs of the puppet's shoulders each and every time. Sweat drips from him, but not from Pinocchio, whose pants and growls emit from lips parted around sharpened canines, wolfish ears pricked to catch every moan. ]
no subject
P-Pinocchio... [He doesn't even know if he can feel pleasure so much his body just accepting what the puppet will give him. He's soaked in sweat, his pheromones heavy in the air, as though to entice the other to breed him full.
He writhes a little, shaky hands trying to reach out to them.] C-Come on...fill me up.