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A puppet lay across my desk in the dim light of my office at Tracen Academy. Late evening, everyone else had gone home. The building was silent except for the hum of the vending machine down the hall. I had it propped up on its back, those vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, that sweet painted mouth slightly open.
I ran my hand down it's body, and my cock throbbed. I was already hard. I had been hard since I locked my office door.
I unbuckled my pants and pushed them down, my cock springing free, thick and aching. I wrapped my hand around it once, twice, just to feel the heat of my own skin, and then I positioned myself over the puppet. It's face vaguely resembles Marche's. Those soft and calm magenta eyes rendered in glass and paint, that gentle mouth that called me "Trainer" every morning with such trust in her voice.
I pushed inside.
The puppet gripped me. I closed my eyes and let myself believe. Let myself imagine that it was really her beneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her soft voice whispering my name. I thrust, slow at first, then faster, the wet sound of my cock sliding in and out of the puppet filling the quiet office.
"Marche," I breathed.
I opened my eyes and looked at the puppet's face. That stupid, sweet, innocent face. Was it judging me? Guilt-tripping me? I imagined her real face instead, the way she blushed when I complimented her times, the way she looked at me with those big doe eyes full of trust and admiration. Trust I was betraying with every thrust.
It made me harder.
My breath hitched. My hips slammed forward, burying myself deeper into the puppet. I was close. So close. I could feel the pressure building in my balls, the electric tension coiling at the base of my spine. I imagined her voice, that sweet, melodic voice, moaning my name, begging me to fill her up, telling me she wanted it, and so I ejaculated, but...
"T-t-trainer?"
A voice came from behind me.
Real. Not imagined. Not a fantasy. Real.
My blood turned to ice. My orgasm didn't just pause, it died, crushed under the weight of pure, cold horror. I froze, my cock still buried in the puppet, my hands gripping it.. I turned my head slowly, dread thick in my throat.
Marche stood in my doorway.
Her eyes were wide, fixed on the scene in front of her. On the puppet. On me. On my cock, slick and glistening, halfway out of the puppet. Her mouth was slightly open, a soft pink O of shock. She was still in her training clothes, a light sweat on her brow, she must have come back for puppet itself that she forgot in my office.
I pulled out of the puppet with a wet sound that seemed deafening in the silence. My seed leaked from the puppet's opening, dripping onto my desk. I scrambled, my hands shaking, my cock still painfully hard and exposed, and grabbed the puppet by the arm.
"Ah, Marche!" My voice came out too high, too fast. "I noticed a tear! On the... on the puppet. I was just trying to fix it with some glue."
I held the puppet up like a shield. My lie hung in the air between us, pathetic and transparent. My flushed face, my heaving breath, my cock still standing at attention, the obvious evidence of what I had been doing smeared across the puppet's body there was no lie that could fix this.
She stared at me. That unreadable expression on her face, not angry, not disgusted, not crying. Just... still. Processing. The seconds stretched into eternity, the silence so thick I could feel it pressing against my skin. I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I wanted to take it back, every minute of it, every fantasy, every time I had touched myself thinking about her.
Then she moved.
Her hands went to the hem of her training top, and she pulled it over her head. The fabric lifted, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the curve of her ribs, and then her bra, a simple white cotton thing that barely contained her. Her breasts were large, heavy, spilling over the edges of the cups. I had seen them before, in glimpses, in fantasies, in her recorded measurements. But seeing them now, real and warm and attached to her, was nothing like my imagination.
She reached out. Her fingers closed around the puppet's arm, and I let go of it without thinking. She took it from me, held it in her hands, looked down at the mess I had left on it. My cum was cooling on the puppet's body, smeared across the thighs and dripping from between its legs.
Silence.
Then she looked up at me, and her voice was soft. Soft and certain and absolutely devastating.
"Trainer, you filled me up." She held the puppet up, her eyes meeting mine. "Now you have to fill up Marche too."
My brain stopped working. My mouth opened and closed. I stared at her, at the way her fingers gripped the puppet, at the flush spreading across her face, at the way her nipples were hardening under the thin fabric of her bra.
"W-what?"
She stepped closer. The door clicked shut behind her. She tossed the puppet onto my desk chair and reached behind her back, unhooking her bra with a practiced motion. The straps slid down her shoulders, and her breasts fell free, full and round, tipped with pink nipples that were already tight and peaked.
She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I had just been caught with my cock inside a toy made in her image, and she was standing in front of me with her tits out, telling me to fuck her for real.
"I mean it, Trainer." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it filled the room. "I want you to make love to me. I want to feel you inside me, really inside me. Not a puppet. Me."
Her hand dropped to the waistband of her shorts. She pushed them down, along with her underwear, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Her pussy was bare, the soft pink lips already glistening in the dim light. She was wet. She was wet for me.
I couldn't breathe. My cock was still hard, still aching, still wet with the my own cum from the puppet. But now she was real in front of me, naked, waiting, her thighs pressed together as if she was holding back a need she had been hiding for just as long as I had.
"Marche, I..." My voice cracked. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... I didn't mean for you to find out like this..."
She stepped forward and pressed her finger against my lips, silencing me. Her skin smelled like sweat and flowers, the scent of a long day of training. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
"I'm not mad, Trainer." She lowered her hand and took hold of my cock. Her fingers wrapped around the shaft, warm and real and nothing like the puppet. "I'm not mad at all. I've wanted this too. I've dreamed about it. About you."
She stroked me once, slow, and I groaned, my hips bucking into her hand involuntarily. She smiled, not the sweet, innocent smile I knew from the racetrack, but something darker, hungrier.
"So don't apologize. Just make love to me."
She pulled me toward the desk. My legs moved without my permission. She pushed the puppet aside, it fell to the floor with a soft thump, forgotten, and climbed onto the desk, lying back, her legs spread wide open. Her pussy was exposed to me, pink and wet and glistening, her clit peaked and swollen, her inner thighs slick with her arousal.
"Come on, Trainer." She reached down and spread herself open with her fingers, showing me exactly where I belonged. "Fill me up."
I couldn't resist. I couldn't think. I stepped between her legs, my cock brushing against her wet heat, and I pushed inside.
She was so much better than the puppet. So much warmer, so much tighter, so much real. Her walls clamped down around me as I sank into her, her back arching, a sharp cry escaping her lips. I buried my face in her neck, breathing in her scent, feeling her pulse hammering against my lips.
"Marche..." I groaned.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, Trainer, yes. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. I pulled back and thrust forward, burying myself to the hilt, and she cried out again, her nails digging into my shoulders.
This was real. This was happening. And it was so, so much better than the fantasy.