pinnochio
page 1 of 2a story about a dream
When the wooden boy withdraws a strand still dangles between him and her: his dick is wood and his cum is a silk thread that still connects them, lengthening as he stands and regards her. Her neck is at the strange angle of broken, minute by minute she is growing as stiff as he is, although in a more ordinary way. He touches her chest: the heartbeat has stilled. His own body still moves to the rhythm of the wooden clock in the wooden cage his clockmaker father built for it: he could open the door with the key he keeps around his neck if he wanted. Instead he brushes a strand of her hair, moves his hand lower, touches the springy pubic hair, touches the silver thread. From a distance it could glisten and look almost liquid, it is the most human thing about him. He pulls it from her, he kneels next to her and looks at her.
He thought that this is what it would take to make him a boy but now she is no more real than he is.
He is drawn again to her cunt, which is cold now and so differently textured. He probes with his fingers, he imagines that he can see the clockwork turning round and round, you can put it fingers and phalluses and small stones and watch them ground to fine powder. Thinking, my dick is wood and her cunt is a stone mill. Together we produce flour. Thinking, this is the rhythm of the world.
She is so still, it doesn't matter how he touches her, fingers or dick or wooden nose.
She lies there and becomes more and more wooden.
Her cunt is a waterwheel, turning.
Her cunt is of intricate metal gears, interlocking.
Her cunt is a mill, grinding. I kneel beside her, lay my head close to her cunt, peering, looking for the wheels. What is just under the flesh, hidden by hair and by purple, but gleaming a little, further inside? Wondering, must she be wood before I can touch what is inside her, what is inside me?
Tentatively, I put my finger inside her. The wheel turns, drawing me in, to warmth, to moisture, to a small surrounding space, widening, drawing more of me in to fill. The wheel rocks me back and forth, is it warmth and moisture, opening for me I feel? or is it silky cool wood, the clicking of metal gears? Does she toss beneath me, flesh going both heavy and light and neck lengthening, stretching back to expose her throat? Or does she lie there going more wooden moment by moment, neck at the angle of broken, going cold going stiff? Am I killing her?