[ He exhales evenly. No pressure, right? Perhaps he isn't feeling as much as he should, but they're both new to this, and mistakes, missed steps, and poor judgment come with the territory. There's enough he is certain of. The hunger to touch, to experience this together is mutual, as is their trust. He hasn't broken such a fragile thing nearly enough to learn just how delicate it is. ]
Yes, [ he answers without hesitation. ] When you say you're ready.
[ There's something he said he wanted to do, and he's had it on his mind since it arrived there. Pump bottle, gently used. Environmental storytelling that only blows oxygen to the glowing embers of arousal. Where someone else might have balked at the very idea of letting his thoughts run unfiltered from his lips, Pinocchio has no such sense of shame; he nudges the side of his metal palm to the bottle, pumping the clear gel into his waiting palm to warm against his synthetic skin. ]
You've been busy. [ There's no air of judgment. His head ducks. Remembering how it had felt that time, the first time, when he first felt the pink velvet of a tongue drag a wet stripe up his own cock, he parrots it now. Slower, because he wants to remember this, every inch of skin his tongue paints wet along the way, the way she tastes, and sounds, and moves. All of it. ] ...Did you ever think of me?
[ He doesn't have his father's narcissism. It's not vanity or insecurity that demands her validation, but curiosity. Did he ever cross her mind, when she was alone and wanting?
It's quite the picture, the way his hair falls before one eye, the other blue craned up to look at her expression, her blushing cock jutting across his face and the spit-damp bow of his freckled lip. ]
no subject
Yes, [ he answers without hesitation. ] When you say you're ready.
[ There's something he said he wanted to do, and he's had it on his mind since it arrived there. Pump bottle, gently used. Environmental storytelling that only blows oxygen to the glowing embers of arousal. Where someone else might have balked at the very idea of letting his thoughts run unfiltered from his lips, Pinocchio has no such sense of shame; he nudges the side of his metal palm to the bottle, pumping the clear gel into his waiting palm to warm against his synthetic skin. ]
You've been busy. [ There's no air of judgment. His head ducks. Remembering how it had felt that time, the first time, when he first felt the pink velvet of a tongue drag a wet stripe up his own cock, he parrots it now. Slower, because he wants to remember this, every inch of skin his tongue paints wet along the way, the way she tastes, and sounds, and moves. All of it. ] ...Did you ever think of me?
[ He doesn't have his father's narcissism. It's not vanity or insecurity that demands her validation, but curiosity. Did he ever cross her mind, when she was alone and wanting?
It's quite the picture, the way his hair falls before one eye, the other blue craned up to look at her expression, her blushing cock jutting across his face and the spit-damp bow of his freckled lip. ]