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Snow White was sitting on Pinocchio’s face, grinding her hips like a pestle and grunting “Tell a lie! Tell the truth! Tell a lie!” Gepetto permitted himself one long, lustful survey of her porcelain buttocks, impaled on Pinocchio’s nose, before closing the door in disgust. The little bastard, he thought. I make the boy out of nothing but an armload of planks, give him the gift of life, and what does he do? He whores his novelty nose to a train of slutty princesses and blushing damsels. First there had been Little Red Riding Hood, that jailbait minx with her tote bag full of goodies and her thighs scissored around the lad’s pencil neck for hours at a time. She had stamina; Gepetto had been kept awake entire nights by her wolfish howls. And then Briar Rose, who had woken up with years of repressed libido bursting her breast: far too much for that staid prince and his chaste good-morning smooches. She’d wanted it all, had ordered the boy through cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, missionary, and doggy-style nosejobs along with positions Gepetto couldn’t have identified with the aid of the Kama Sutra. Their affair had reached a level of kinkiness Gepetto had never imagined. Briar Rose had nearly flooded him out of his room when they’d experimented with watersports, and then the brat had the nerve to ask Gepetto for weatherproofing.
After that energetic fling had come Cinderella, with her shy-girl act, ragged Emo wardrobe, and pumpkin-sized hooters. She had almost turned the casual sex into a relationship. Then one day Cinderella had squealed to a stop outside the house in her mouse-powered sports car and climbed though Pinocchio’s window to find him giving a throbbing snoot-ride to her fairy godmother. Pinocchio had tried to weasel his way out of it, but the same feature that kept him up to his eyebrows in muff had proved his undoing. By the time he had finished explaining, his nose had been so swollen even Alice, with her talent for making holes stretch, couldn’t have fit it anywhere.
And now Snow White, the hottest disenfranchised princess in all of Fairyland. God damn. According to Sleazy, whose foul mouth and vivid imagination had gotten him banned from all the storybooks, Snow White could take all eight dwarves in a night and still have enough energy for three rounds behind closed doors with a Rampant Rabbit. But Sleazy had been known to lie almost as much as Pinocchio; according to the woodsman, Snow White never touched those dwarves. The one thing Gepetto knew for sure was that she gave Pinocchio’s face regular and thorough workouts.
Aw fuck it. Gepetto knew the score: he was jealous. The last time he’d lubed his crankshaft, Rapunzel had been wearing a bob. And look at her now: Gepetto couldn’t help remembering the time he’d been working on the fence in the front yard and glanced in the window to spy her mounting Pinocchio. Blond hair that cascaded over the two of them like a shifting blanket and a completely shaved snatch, gleaming with dew. It was almost more than he could bear to think about. Just listening to the wooden brat reaming his way through the Fairyland phone book was the closest Gepetto’d come to a sex life in decades. If he weren’t so disgusted by the lad’s antics he’d probably have been whacking off with his ear to the wall, imagining that it was his own lined face plumbing all those pink and puckered girl-parts. Maybe he could drill a hole in the wall… Too late to find out if the rumours were true about Little Red Riding Hood taking it in the butt, though, unless she came back for another round.
Gepetto rummaged noisily in his cabinets, hoping to remind the kid he was still alive but knowing Pinocchio wouldn’t be able to hear anything with Snow White’s thighs clapped over his ears. He emerged with a bottle of apricot brandy and a chipped mug. He had given up drinking years ago, hoping to make himself a role-model for Pinocchio, and look where it had got him. Why deny himself any longer? Life had to hold some pleasures. The bottle had been in his cupboard for ages; the three bears had presented it to Gepetto in appreciation after he made them a wooden cage for that thieving Goldilocks. Goldilocks: even she’d be grown up by now. Wouldn’t be a surprise to find her getting the nasal probing one of these days. The right combination of fibs and part-truths and Pinocchio’s face-mounted dildo would probably be just right.
With a sigh like an asthmatic tea-kettle Gepetto plunked his tired ass onto the workbench and poured himself a generous shot. Then another. He kept knocking them back until the bottle was empty. Shit, was that all he had? He tossed aside work gloves and sketchbooks until he found several dusty bottles of cheap vodka and whiskey. Not the good stuff, but it would do for an all-night bender. If he wanted to restock on quality hooch, he’d better make something else for those bears. Or maybe the three pigs had a stash. Those talking pork chops always needed something built, the way they went through houses.
Make something – yeah, that’s what he should do. No more wallowing in self-pity. He was Gepetto, the finest damn woodcutter in the land. Who needed the ungrateful brat? He could build a new and better marionette, one that didn’t fuck off with half the neighbourhood. Gepetto grabbed his toolbox and staggered towards the woodpile. Not just a surrogate son, this time, or a pathetic little buddy – a broad. Why should Pinocchio be the only one around here getting laid?
Gepetto assembled several blocks of wood – torso, arms, legs, head, and a short connecting plank for the neck. It took all of his willpower to start carving at the head, the way he normally did. This wasn’t going to be a block of wood with two holes and a pair of tits, he told himself. It would be a masterpiece, like the boy. Better than the boy. Gepetto worked with maniacal energy. “Busy as a beaver,” he cackled to himself as he chipped and shaped his wood. The clich?urned into a chant: “busy as a beaver, as a beaver, a beaver, beaver, bea-ver, BEA-VER…” Woodchips rained onto the floor and sawdust coated Gepetto’s beard. His wrists ached but he drove himself onward, stopping only long enough to gulp the occasional frantic mouthful of booze. His mallet rose and fell in a rhythmic blur, the chisel penetrating and shaping wood with urgent but tender ease. Gepetto worked without fatigue, fuelled by lust and alcohol. Hammering sounds drowned out Snow White’s frantic grunting, then later Pinocchio’s satisfied snores.
Gepetto stepped back to study his progress so far. The creature taking shape under his hands was beyond beautiful. Wide eyes with lashes like flowerbeds, full lips of dark rosewood. The cheekbones sculpted her face into a luscious pear shape framed by a torrent of sandalwood hair. The limbs were smooth and delicate yet muscular; he had modelled the legs after Gretel’s. Strong thighs and calves from tireless walking, supple, with elegant feet. The torso was proportioned but unfinished: Gepetto had saved it for last so he could concentrate on it exclusively, make it his finest work.
After two deep, mind-clearing slugs of whiskey he was ready for the challenge. Gepetto chose his best carving knives and started with a perfectly round but discreet indentation for the belly button. Then he set to work shaping the breasts into buoyant half-globes, like grapefruits lifting their faces towards the sun to say hello. He teased them into peaks topped by nipples alert with passion and promise. Not as prominent as Cinderella’s eye-popping rack but subtler. Gepetto was convinced Cinderella was magically enhanced, anyway.
Gepetto switched to a fine whittling knife for the details of the pubis. He was decorating the cleft with a cloud of curving hairs when a wicked thought struck him: he’d give her a landing strip! That would be far sexier and more womanly than Rapunzel’s little-girl look. And then the labia. Gepetto was sweating as he incised a delicate slit between the legs before feathering it into lacy folds and crinkles and topping it off with a budding clitoris: the cherry atop the sundae.
Before he could get too entranced by his own creation Gepetto flipped it over and shaped the ass into ripe mounds. Using his hammer and chisel with deftness a pointillist painter would have envied he split it with a deep, straight crack, then canted the edges. And then, the finale. Probing to the bottom of the crack with his thinnest awl, working by touch alone, Gepetto produced a ring of tiny creases, even and symmetrical, radiating like petals from the pistil of a tantalizing flower. Gepetto stood for a second and gawked, slack-jawed. The ass was stunning: it possessed its own gravity. The woman herself was an orrery, a perfectly aligned set of spheres: breasts, mound, buttocks.
Gepetto mopped his brow. His heart thudded and his cock strained against his woodworking apron. What would he name her? Julietta. That had the right ring to it. Gepetto was ready for action. He groped under the workbench for the bag of magic dust gifted him long ago by good-witch Glenda, the dust he had used once on Pinocchio and then never again. He scooped a handful and sprinkled it over the mannequin, then waited, holding his breath, while she stirred. The wooden woman turned over and sat up, blinking and looking around her. Gepetto was transfixed by the movement of her breasts as she breathed. Her dusky nipples hardened in the cool of the workshop’s night air. So like flesh: she was far more realistic than Pinocchio! As the doll pivoted to dangle her feet over the edge of the table, Gepetto stared at her cunt. Had he really sculpted that? A neat arrangement of downy pubic hair framed the soft bulge of labia majora. And those slim inner lips, just barely protruding in a teasing display of pink. Julietta shifted, taking in Gepetto and her surroundings, and her thighs parted, pulling the labia apart into a vibrant, gleaming vista that reminded Gepetto of his first dawn.
Introductions and explanations would have to wait, because Gepetto could not. He stripped off his leather apron and yanked his belt free, letting his trousers tumble into an ankle-deep canvass pool. Under the workbench he kept a pot of grease – that would do the trick. He slathered a dollop over his glans and a handful over Julietta’s crotch and levered her upper body back onto the table. Then he parted her legs by shuffling forward, trousers snagging at his feet, until he was between her thighs, pressed up against the warmth of her belly.
One smooth thrust and Gepetto’s modest (at best) dick was embedded to the balls in Julietta’s crevice. Julietta gasped with surprise and delight, her fingers digging into Gepetto’s shoulders. Gepetto moaned. The tunnel was so deep and tight; it gripped his cock with fierce strength. He eased himself back out and then plunged in again. He clasped Julietta’s hips and lifted them off the table as he began a frenzied thrusting. “Oh yeah, oh yeah baby,” Gepetto grunted as his cock hammered in and out of Julietta’s virgin hole. “Who’s your daddy? Huh, doll? Who’s your daddy!” Gepetto built to a frantic rhythm, his buttocks clenching with each deep stroke. He released Julietta’s hips with one hand and rummaged for the grease again, coating his fingers. While his prick soaked in the warmth of Julietta’s pussy he reached beneath her trembling hips and fondled her ass until his fingers had wormed between the cheeks. He rubbed his gooey fingers in circles around the firm ring of her anus, spreading lubrication. His forefinger dipped inside and Gepetto wiggled it, trying to match the urgent quiverings of his cock in Julietta’s quim.
Julietta was panting, tossing her head from side to side. Gepetto struggled not to come. “You want wood, baby? I’ll give you wood!” He spun Julietta over and slipped out of her oozing vagina. Taking her ass in a fierce grip he rubbed his greasy cock between the smooth mounds of her buttocks, exploring the deep cleft like a snake probing the burrow of its prey. The engorged head of his prick nestled against her puckered rosebud and he pushed. Julietta made a shocked yipping noise, arched her back, and shimmied her ass towards Gepetto, engulfing his entire penis. Their moans mingled with the creaking of the table as they rocked themselves together. Dear God, her ass was tight! It reminded Gepetto of that drunken night years ago when he had tried to fuck his wood vice. Of course, the wood vice hadn’t thrashed with delight, squirming and rotating against him while alternately clenching and relaxing around his shaft.
Gepetto’s balls were slapping against Julietta’s slick pussy lips and swollen clit as he drove himself harder and faster into the depths of her asshole. He released his grip with one hand to slap her ass, keeping time with Julietta’s pants and contractions. He could feel the climax building within him; the need to come was almost intolerable. His cock burned. With a guttural howl Gepetto exploded into climax, pumping gout after gout of thick semen into Julietta’s ass. The relief was minimal; Gepetto’s penis still throbbed with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. No, it was pain! Gepetto felt as though he had thrust himself into a wasps’ nest. He looked down as he slid out of Juliette’s anal grasp, and screamed.

When Pinocchio and Snow White tip-toed out for breakfast, they found Gepetto curled in a pool of blood at the feet of a sobbing, exquisite woman made of wood. While Snow White draped a blanket over the woman’s shoulders, Pinocchio looked down at his creator with pity and a touch of scorn. The poor fool – had he never noticed Pinocchio sanding and varnishing his nose twice a day? Now the old man was dead of the worst case of splinters Fairyland had ever seen.
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