Reaching into a closet under the stairs, Buratina splashed on the floor near the leg of the chair. In the wooden head turned the experiences of today. She did not know what Papa Carlo was doing to her, which was why it was so nice between the legs. Although the thumb of the moustached policeman clarified the situation a bit, and now Buratina realized that Carlo also inserted his finger into it, only he had it even longer and thicker. At the bottom of the tummy nicely tickled.
- What else would you think of this?
Do not forget that Pinocchio was just the first day of birth. Her thoughts were small, small, short, short, trifling, trifling.

Next to the chair, covered with a pile of sawdust, lay a hammer. An ordinary hammer, with an old polished handle, not thick and not thin, but one that was comfortable to hold it. Buratina turned it over, felt it, hit the floor several times. Boards deafly hooted and fell silent. Silence reigned in the closet, only quietly crackling the fire of the candle, which had already turned into a candle. A wooden girl drove her palm over the smooth handle, which gradually became warmer. She thought about the pleasant feeling that she had visited her twice today, and, focusing on the memory of the fat finger in her hole, felt how a large droplet protruded from the trembling vagina slid down and pleasantly tickled her ass, fell onto the dusty floor. And behind her fell the second.

Buratina put the rounded end of the heated hammer handle to the bleeding hole, and, closing her lovely eyes, slowly began to press. He disappeared in it millimeter by millimeter, until a cold metal hammer touched her crotch. The girl gasped a little, savoring the sweet sensation. It was not clear how Pope Carlo managed to make such a deep hole, because the pen knife was very small. Grabbing the firing pin with her thin fingers, she pulled the hammer back, and when he almost slipped, she pushed it inside again, only now it is more energetic. The wooden head went round. Buratina spread her legs wide, boldly thrusting a plump handle and saying:
- What a good finger, probably even more than Papa Carlo.

At this time I heard:
- Kri-kri, kr-kri, kr-kri ...
Buratina shook her head, looking around the closet. The hammer, tucked all the way into the wet hole, was slightly trembling.
- Hey, who is here?
- Here I am, - kri-kri ...
Buratina saw a creature a little like a cockroach, but with a head like that of a grasshopper. It sat on the wall above the hearth and crackled softly, “kri-kri,” looked out of glass, with iridescent eyes, moving its antennae.
- Hey, who are you?
“I am the Talking Cricket,” the creature replied, “I have been living in this room for more than a hundred years.”
- Here I am the mistress, get out of here.
“Well, I’ll leave, although I’m sad to leave the room where I lived for a hundred years,” said Speaking Cricket, “but before I leave ...”
One long jump, he overcame the distance separating them, and, landing on a small cliff, he deftly began to paw.
“But before I leave,” continued Cricket, “listen to useful advice.”
- Ochchchchen I need tips Staaarogo cricket ...
From these small mischievous paws, her breathing finally got off, and waves of a strange sensation, unfamiliar to her, ran all over her wooden body. The girl felt even more brightly the grip that was bursting at her from the inside and, obeying the impulse, again took hold of the hammer and began to move it slowly.

“Ah, Buratina, Buratina,” said Cricket, smiling slyly and continuing to tickle the excited hillock, “give up the pampering, listen to Carlo, do not run away from home and start going to school tomorrow. Here is my advice. Otherwise terrible dangers and terrible adventures await you. For your life I will not give you a dead and dry fly.
“Why is it?” - asked Buratina.
“But you will see it - to the pochchchemu,” said the Speaking Cricket.
He lowered his small mouth to her clitoris and, softly crackling cry-cree, began to chill it with his insistent tongue. Buratina went crazy. She jerked awkwardly and moaned loudly, continuing to ram her crack with her grip.
- Oh, you, a hundred year old bug-cockroach! - shouted Buratina, not realizing herself in a fit of passion. - More than anything, I love scary adventures. Tomorrow I’ll lightly run out of the house - climbing the fences, ravaging bird nests, teasing boys, carrying dogs and cats by the tails ... And letting everyone put their fingers in my holes! Thin and fat, young and old, everything that I just meet, will tickle me inside. I will not think of something else! ... Just do not stop, please !!!
- I feel sorry for you, sorry Buratina, you will shed bitter tears.
“Why is it?” - again asked Buratina.
“Because you have a stupid wooden head, and you think with your lustful holes.” Because, like any urban whore, you will know many members, but you will not know happiness. Because...

He did not have time to finish. Buratina accidentally turned the hammer head in such a way that with another blow Sverchka pressed her clit into her clit. Distraught, from indescribable pleasure, the girl rushed on the floor. Her hands were spread wide, legs bent at the knees, the liquid sprinkling from the vagina broke against the hammer head and fell abundantly on the floor.

The old clever cricket fell to the floor and stopped motionless, and taking with it the meaning of the words new to Buratina ... Lust, whore, members ...

After the incident with Talking Cricket in the closet under the stairs, it became quite boring. Day stretched and stretched. At the bottom of the belly Buratina was also boring.
She closed her eyes and suddenly saw a fat finger insistently penetrating her crack.
Vividly opened her eyes, - the finger disappeared, only the hole became wet.
She closed her eyes again, - saw Cricket. He sat on her knoll, safe and sound, and quickly went over his paws, delivering unearthly bliss.
She opened her eyes, - there is no cricket and its nimble little paws, only excited pea of ​​the clitoris pulses.
Then Buratina guessed that she wanted terribly to feel something long and hard in herself. She ran up to the hearth and stuck her nose into a kettle boiling on the fire, but Buratina’s long nose pierced the bowl because, as we know, both the hearth, fire, smoke, and the kettle were painted by poor Carlo on a piece of old canvas. Buratina pulled out her nose and looked into the hole - behind the canvas in the wall there was something like a small door, but there was so tight with a web that nothing could be disassembled.

Buratina started fumbling at all angles — if there was anything else like a hammer handle or a strong, impudent finger. Ah, nothing, nothing, something poor Carlo had reserved for such a case! Suddenly she saw a chicken egg in a basket of chips. She carefully took it with her wooden handles. Slowly stroking, the girl felt a faint warmth. Buratina timidly licked the shell with its rough tongue. Licked again. And the third. When she came to herself, the egg was glistening with her drool, a puddle was formed on the floor. The second appeared under her oozing cave.

Buratina lay back and deftly threw her legs back, from which her little hole all tensed, and the girl felt how sweetly she ached and itched. Then she put a chicken egg at the entrance and, smoothly pressing, plunged it into herself, shuddering at the excitement that swept over her. The walls of the young vagina tightly and eagerly wrapped around a foreign object, inviting him to enter deeper. Buratina strained, and the testicle slowly crawled out.It slipped into the friendly handle of a wooden doll, accompanied by the savory sound of a squished hole. The girl exhaled, enjoying the moment, and again shoved the testicle into herself. For a few minutes she enjoyed this game, until she was too tense. The egg popped out like a cannon and, hitting the wall, broke.
- Thank you, wooden man! ...