Ezio, unsure of just how to go about properly fucking a bowl of spaghetti, chose first to bring the dish down to his ridiculously turgid dick. He glanced up nervously once more, checking that Leonardo was still busy. He was.
Ezio tentatively slid his member into the pile of noodles. He stifled a groan that welled up in his chest suddenly, biting on his unused fist.
He thrust experimentally, once, twice, trying to set up a good rhythm. It felt spectacular, but Ezio had to admit that the angle was awkward and the bowl wasn't nearly deep enough to accommodate his entire length.
He shifted around, removing his hardness from the bowl and setting the dish back on the table. Ezio considered his options---get out now, you fool! After he took the next step, he new there would be no going back. He had finally sunk to the lowest levels of his own depravity. It was truly no use to resist, however.
With a slightly shaking hand, he reached out and dipped his fingers into the bowl, fisting a lump of noodles and sauce, savouring the satisfying squish and the warmth against his feverish skin.
He bit off another groan of anticipation.
Eying his readied hand warily, he made up his mind. He broke. He gave in. It was sick and wrong, and he needed it so badly that he couldn't think straight.
He wrapped his handful of noodles around his cock, thoroughly coating himself in red sauce. Moaning a low string of expletives as he began to gently hump his hand.
It was just like he had dreamed. The long, stringy noodles slid across his dick, caressing the sensitive head in a hundred different ways at once, each noodle producing a new sensation has it moved. The moist, gooey sauce helped the noodles wrap around his cock and created a delightfully shudder-worthy vacuum suction in his clenched hand.
Knowing he wouldn't last long if he completely abandoned himself, Ezio instead chose to have a little resolve and use slow, languid thrusts. He fantasized about so many more dishes. Fettucine, penne, bowties, macaroni---all of it. He needed to try them all.
He grunted and picked up the pace, only distantly in recognition of the fact that the red sauce had now been smeared and ground into the front of his pristine white assassin's robes. He arched his hips up off the chair, meeting his handful of noodles again and again, knowing that the coiling tightness in his muscles and his belly signaled delicious release was near.
He soon fucked his hand feverishly, losing the final threads of his self control, chanting to himself---yes, yes, there, once more, more, more, more, please! Merda! Yes! And he crested and came hard and fast into his hand. The sensations wrapped around his dick were overwhelming, and he felt suddenly too sensitive. His whole body wracked with shudders after release, he eased his hips back down the chair's seat and sat there in post-coital bliss, eyes heavy-lidded and brain swimming with pleasure.
"Ezio?"
Oh, fuck.
Ezio's gaze shot toward the doorway to the back of the workshop and he nearly leapt out of his own skin.
Leonardo stood at the edge of the small kitchen, eyes comically wide and expression aghast.
FILLED: Noodlefucker (2/2)
Ezio, unsure of just how to go about properly fucking a bowl of spaghetti, chose first to bring the dish down to his ridiculously turgid dick. He glanced up nervously once more, checking that Leonardo was still busy. He was.
Ezio tentatively slid his member into the pile of noodles. He stifled a groan that welled up in his chest suddenly, biting on his unused fist.
He thrust experimentally, once, twice, trying to set up a good rhythm. It felt spectacular, but Ezio had to admit that the angle was awkward and the bowl wasn't nearly deep enough to accommodate his entire length.
He shifted around, removing his hardness from the bowl and setting the dish back on the table. Ezio considered his options---get out now, you fool! After he took the next step, he new there would be no going back. He had finally sunk to the lowest levels of his own depravity. It was truly no use to resist, however.
With a slightly shaking hand, he reached out and dipped his fingers into the bowl, fisting a lump of noodles and sauce, savouring the satisfying squish and the warmth against his feverish skin.
He bit off another groan of anticipation.
Eying his readied hand warily, he made up his mind. He broke. He gave in. It was sick and wrong, and he needed it so badly that he couldn't think straight.
He wrapped his handful of noodles around his cock, thoroughly coating himself in red sauce. Moaning a low string of expletives as he began to gently hump his hand.
It was just like he had dreamed. The long, stringy noodles slid across his dick, caressing the sensitive head in a hundred different ways at once, each noodle producing a new sensation has it moved. The moist, gooey sauce helped the noodles wrap around his cock and created a delightfully shudder-worthy vacuum suction in his clenched hand.
Knowing he wouldn't last long if he completely abandoned himself, Ezio instead chose to have a little resolve and use slow, languid thrusts. He fantasized about so many more dishes. Fettucine, penne, bowties, macaroni---all of it. He needed to try them all.
He grunted and picked up the pace, only distantly in recognition of the fact that the red sauce had now been smeared and ground into the front of his pristine white assassin's robes. He arched his hips up off the chair, meeting his handful of noodles again and again, knowing that the coiling tightness in his muscles and his belly signaled delicious release was near.
He soon fucked his hand feverishly, losing the final threads of his self control, chanting to himself---yes, yes, there, once more, more, more, more, please! Merda! Yes! And he crested and came hard and fast into his hand. The sensations wrapped around his dick were overwhelming, and he felt suddenly too sensitive. His whole body wracked with shudders after release, he eased his hips back down the chair's seat and sat there in post-coital bliss, eyes heavy-lidded and brain swimming with pleasure.
"Ezio?"
Oh, fuck.
Ezio's gaze shot toward the doorway to the back of the workshop and he nearly leapt out of his own skin.
Leonardo stood at the edge of the small kitchen, eyes comically wide and expression aghast.
"Ezio, what are you doing?"
How would he explain this?