Pinocchio's Palace

Just a quick disclaimer everyone featured in this story is over 18 without exception. Enjoy.

Adrift in a moonlit field was Pinocchio's Palace. With its name nailed in large brass letters on the door, the old building looked like a squat antiques shop that had long since faded into antiquity itself. The sagging walls were a faded burgundy colour, and the roof was an unkempt mop of jagged black tiles. Two grimy windows were cut into the walls either side of a small green door and just in front of the palace stood a large black sign. A circle of small candles flickered anxiously along its perimeter and a few others mingled just in front of the large black sign.

On the sign's face was written golden text in ornate, spidery letters. Mortimer traced the text with his eyes thrice. At the summit was written Pinocchio's Palace in fat golden swipes and below that was a verse sprawled in thin text:

"abandon all pretence ye who enter here,

for as night falls and heaven's gaze disappears,

only the children of dust shall be named puppeteers."

While reading and re-reading, Mortimer's eyes would keep flicking down to his phone. 'no new messages'... again. Mortimer's friends had apparently been just around the corner -- fully stocked with weed, snacks and a Bluetooth speaker -- since 10. It was now midnight and Mortimer had reached his limit. With a sigh, he slipped his phone into his pocket and began to march through the long dry grass back to society.

"Oh my..." began a wirery voice from somewhere to Mortimer's left. He turned and saw an elderly man trudging into the moonlight. He wore an old fashioned red-and-white striped shirt and a worn-out straw hat. In his wrinkled grip was a thin white cane that flicked through the air with each of the old man's hobbled steps. "Now what's a handsome young spade doing out here at the witching hour hmm?"

"This your place?" Mortimer asked plainly. The old man smiled broadly flashing his teeth.

"I live and work here boy. I have done for a very long time." The old man pulled a pocket watch out of his trousers -- it was stained with a coat of rust and general wear all over. He paused to consider something, and his eyes rolled about in his head so that the pupils were fixed on the moon as she slowly waddled across the empty sky.

"Pinocchio's Palace!" the old man said suddenly and loudly as though for an audience."A home for dreams and wonders where time is forgotten and modesty too! Come. Fill your eyes with the rarest of nature's pleasures from vistas unimaginable!" The old man started walking cheerfully to the Palace, pulling out a large black key as he went. "It truly is a wonder that you found this place boy. We haven't had a devotee since the war. Oh, she was a prized cow in her day... Ah, but don't you worry -- the beef within is far sturdier than the cracked leather you see before you!" he said as he turned the key, laughing into the air.

After the door had creaked open, and the man faded into the Palace, Mortimer paused and crooked an eyebrow. He spared a thought for his own safety and to imagine what kind of danger he might be provoking by going alone. Ultimately though -- despite the flab around Mortimer's gut and thighs (a constant reminder of his athletic shortcomings) -- he decided there was nothing to fear from a strange old man. Mortimer followed the tapping of the thin white cane into the dark.

Initially, there was a moment of blind disquiet. Mortimer stood by the door and waited for the old man to turn on a light. Soon the old man could no longer be seen under the steady beam of moonlight that leaked in from the open doorway to stain the floor with silver. There was a second of silent darkness, then the hiss of a lit match and finally the room began to eb with light and heat from a fire that the old man was feeding. The warmth of the Palace was an inviting change from standing outside. Even though Mortimer was loitering beneath the doorway; he could still feel the stale air throb.

Mortimer started to look around, accompanied now by the helpful orange glow. It was clear that Pinocchio's Palace was an antique toy shop. From where Mortimer stood began a web of paths through which a young child could quest for any old knick knack under the sun: There were teddy bears, tin soldiers, trainsets, toy planes and so on -- displayed in neat arrangements on shelves and tables. The toys, the whole room in fact, was showing its age. Everything was weathered and stained. They looked more like museum pieces than actual working toys waiting to be used.

"Ah, you have a good eye my boy." The man said. Mortimer had stopped to admire a small wooden doll. She was about the height of his forearm with light brown paint for skin and black eyes that quivered in time with the fireplace. "That one's Lila. She is the newest piece in the collection, only about a month old."

"Where did you find it?" Mortimer asked, resisting the curiosity that was pulling his fingers toward Lila's sleek downpour of straight black hair.

"I didn't find it, oh no. I made her. I make all my toys." The man said chipperly with a wind sweep of his arm. "In fact, since you have such a good eye spade-"

"Mortimer."

"A splendid name, I'm sure. Since you have such a good eye Mortimer, how about I show you my workshop. I'm working on something new and quite special right now." Mortimer assented noncommittally and together the men descended a flight of stairs hidden under a trap door in the centre of the room. The man went first and by the time Mortimer joined him, the workshop was already well lit by a menagerie of lamps and candles. There was more than enough light for Mortimer to make out the thin skin of sawdust that coated the floor, a cork board which hung from a wall displaying a collection of tools, and a couple sturdy work benches standing to attention at the corners of the room.

Lastly, he saw the thing in the centre of the room. She was life-size - about 150cm tall - with ivory skin and large milk-coloured eyes. Mortimer almost tripped when he saw her.

"Isn't she wonderful!" The man said excitedly. Mortimer took a moment to accept what he was seeing then moved closer to the doll, probing the mock woman with his eyes. The surprise had passed through him, quickly replaced by fascination.

"I've been working on her for a very long time" The man said dreamily, a finger curling the doll's pale white hair while another tugged at the frilly, knee length dress she wore.

"It's not made of wood?" Mortimer asked.

"There's that good eye again; a poet's eye. No: I got this stuff decades ago, much softer. Have a feel," The man offered through a large grin, holding it's small palm for Mortimer to inspect. Mortimer ran his fingers over the faux skin and smirked when he felt how supple she was. He poked like a child at the palm's heel, then moved upward to pinch some flesh on her forearm. "Nice, isn't she?" The man said, but Mortimer mostly ignored him.

The man talked for a long time, letting his words spill out of him as though all of it had been on his mind for the past hundred years. As things progressed however, his jittering voice faded away like TV static.

Mortimer had begun moving the doll around. He could see himself doing it; splaying her fingers until she was waving excitedly; rolling her large head on its joint to let her gaze around the room; allowing a curious finger to go explore the cartilaginous canyons of her ear - then excitedly allowing another to explore her faded pink lips.

Up until now, Mortimer had been focusing on the doll's bust. Her eyes, her soft pale lips and the little ivory nose all had him transfixed. Now, his hands travelled downward. His fingers curled around the cream-coloured ball joints of her shoulders then dropped to play xylophone on the bumpy denotations of her ribcage. Down again they went, until they were over her hips (with a small detour to feel the softness of her butt).

A hand landed on the doll's toned thighs. She began walking backwards with clumsy steps - Mortimer's fingers pressing into the backs of her knees - until her butt reached the edge of a workbench.

Mortimer surged upwards and the doll followed, plopping her soft butt on the large bench surface and spreading her legs so that the dress rode up her thighs. Possessively, Mortimer caress the doll, his palms drawing lines over her skin, until he couldn't take it anymore and pushed the hem of her dress upwards toward her stomach.

She had a perfect pussy Mortimer thought. It was trim and neat and - as per the report of a dampened finger - as soft as the rest of her. Mortimer's prick agreed at the first hot thrust, prompting a second and then a third until he was rutting with the creature like an animal. As the doll was walking back, the man said a phrase or two before disappearing up the stairs. Mortimer hadn't been paying attention, but he felt the absence; the sublime emptiness of a dim room with nothing in it save himself and his fantasy. Now, Mortimer filled that emptiness with the squeak of the workbench against the stone floor, the hard slam of wood against the wall and his own throaty.

The doll was soft and warm and open. She clung tightly to Mortimer's shaft in a damp embrace that grew even more wettish as the seconds rolled on, prompting him to press harder and extract more pleasure.

A distinct thud now resounded, as the doll fell back onto the broad slab of wood - her long pale hair spilling in all directions, dust clinging to the white fabric of her dress. Mortimer, with his trousers down by his ankles, gently guided the doll's body further inland of the workbench before joining her. He pulled the frilly white dress off the doll's body and for a few moments, admired what he saw; the delicate waist - the smooth thighs - the nipples; turgid little pearls of pink.

Then, Mortimer feasted: he drew his lips around one of the doll's breasts and began to play with the little promontory furiously. He swirled the bead with his tongue then sucked hard with the passionately.

After a few seconds - still suckling softly - Mortimer plunged back into the doll's chasm and echoed his previous thrusting. His legs were between the doll's and as he pistoned, she gave way for him, spreading her own limbs and draping them other his naked thighs.

Mortimer brought his lips to the doll's and bathed in the petal-like texture - pushing anxiously forward into the doll's embrace. His tongue flicked and toyed with hers, his thighs rubbed her own and through his hoody, Mortimer's heart pulsed powerfully and resonated in his partner's bosom. As Mortimer came closer and closer to the peak of desire, he descended further, feeling the cool press of a heel against his lower back and the loving stroke of long elfin fingers across his traps. The doll's soft inanimate tongue, came alive in a burst of chimerical movement, accepting the swirled advance of Mortimer's, and matching it with just as much fervour.

* * * * *

Suddenly, they were on their feet with the doll's little ivory fingers splayed like crushed flowers against the walls. She had sawdust under her fingernails and a thin needle of saliva trickle from her moaning maw as Mortimer thrust into her from behind, revelling in the pocket of moist pleasure he'd found. Once or twice the thought struck him, she's moving? I'm fucking a moving doll... But a moment later, his consciousness would be pulled back to sensation - the raw, illogical vibrancy that was washing over his whole being.

They were on the floor now. They'd collapsed like one large creature, four arms and four legs spread this way and that over the grime of centuries. A couple breaths were had before they resumed thier rut - never once disconnecting, but instead moving in supernatural unison without word or thought, until the doll was on top of the man grinding his tool into her. A few times she spoke. Mortimer couldn't tell what she was saying: it sounded like the crack of ice above water and seem quite involuntary.

After a while, the doll - who was riding her lover passionately, with a hand on his chest and another running through her hair - began to breath in heavy exhalations before her body grew tight and forced her to shudder like a leaf in a storm.

Below her, Mortimer was reaching his own zenith and as his companion climaxed, he roared and filled her. It felt like he was pouring his life into her, all his energy and all his soul and thus everything went dark.

* * * * *

It was a week later. That's what Mortimer's phone told him, though he could scarcely believe it. His mother and his friends rushed to see his face that day, to hear his voice and feel his skin and reaffirming the truth of his unexplained arrival after such an unexplained absence.

On the day that Mortimer travelled back to that field, the sky was overcast, cloaked in a thick gown of heavy grey clouds. As Mortimer trudged through the damp grass, it began to rain yet he searched for hours and hours - treaded the same ground a million times. The shop was gone. There was no trace that it had existed and no trace that Mortimer himself had been there. Nothing remained of that night with the doll.

End.

I hope you enjoyed. If you didn't, tell me why.