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It arrived in a plain brown box, addressed to a pseudonym that wouldn't trace back to the main laboratory. Eighteen-year-old Dottore, the youngest adult segment, the one who still felt the ghost of a blush when Pantalone's gaze lingered too long, had spent three restless nights researching, comparing materials, reading reviews and looking through manufacturers before buying.
Oh what he was buying? He had saved up enough money and got himself a fleshlight. Nothing too crazy for an 18 year old right. It was natural to have such urges.
His long fingers trembled as he tore the tape on the box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay the silicone. The outer labia were molded with painstaking realism, the slit a soft cleft that parted under gentle pressure. But it was the hair that made his breath catch, a small, short patch of dark, silken fibers glued strand by strand across the mons, it was almost the same shade as Pantalone's.
The thing is, every segment could easily come up to Pantalone and ask him for a sexual favor or sex, it was common. Pantalone rarely declined but he was too embarrassed. Just the thought made his face turn beet red. He couldn't, so, he turned to these toys instead.
He locked the door to his private quarters that first evening, hands shaking as he peeled off his gloves. His room was small, just like any other segments. A bed with a drawer, a desk and everything else was a choice put in by the segment themself. The separate rooms were mainly for research reasons, and also to avoid fights.
Nonetheless.
The toy sat on 18's desk under the lamp, and he couldn't stop staring. His cock had already begun to thicken in his trousers, a damp spot forming at the tip. He stripped slowly.
Then he took the toy and settled onto his bed, knees bent as he laid on his back, the fleshlight held in both hands like something sacred. He brought it to his face first, pressing his nose to the silicone. It had a faint, clean scent, manufactured, not real but he closed his eyes and imagined lavender soap and the subtle musk of Pantalone's skin after a long day.
"Mm" he breathed, rubbing his thumb over the parted slit. His cock twitched, already leaking pre-cum against his stomach. He spread the labia with two fingers, examining the artificial tunnel inside. Ridges lined the walls, textured to mimic a real cunt. He'd chosen this model specifically for that detail. Of course Pantalone had a different private organ but it's not like he could find any anuses and instead settled on this. It was close enough.
He slowly lowered the toy to his groin, pressing the opening against the head of his cock. The silicone was cool, but it warmed quickly against his skin. He didn't push in yet, just rubbed the tip along the slit, coating it with his slickness, biting his lower lip to stifle a moan.
"Fuck..Pantalone" he whispered, the words barely audible. He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. Not yet.
He eased inside.
His mouth fell agape at the feeling.
The sensation was overwhelming, tight, textured, the slight resistance as his cock slid past the entrance. He gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. The toy gripped him tight, and he had to stop moving to keep from coming on the spot.
"Hah! Pantalone—" The name slipped out before he could stop it, and his face burned with shame even though no one could hear. But it felt good to say it. To pretend.
He began to move, shallow thrusts at first, watching the dark hair around the toy's base shift with each movement. It looked so real, so much like his crush... if he had a vagina that is.
The more he moved, the more his eyes grew hazy.
"Your hair" he murmured, reaching down to stroke the dark fibers with his thumb. "It's so beautiful. So soft. I love the way it—" He thrust deeper, cutting himself off with a moan. "Fuck, I love the way it frames you. How it curls at the edges. I want to—" He loved the reminder of how older Pantalone was, how mature both his mind and, probably, body were. Who cares if a guy was a bit too much into pubic hair, it was sexy and rather innocent.
"I want to–" he began again but he couldn't finish the sentence.
He fucked the toy slowly, savoring every ridge and bump, whispering praise into the empty room. "You feel so good, so tight around me."
His hand drifted up his own chest, finding a nipple. He pinched it, rolling the nub between his fingers, his breath hitching. Another pinch, harder, and his hips sped up. He imagined it was Pantalones hand or lips instead of his own.
"Oh—fuck—Pantalone, I'm—" He felt the pressure building in his tummy, that familiar tightening. But he didn't want it to end. He slowed again, breathing through his nose, forcing his body to obey. "Not yet" he whispered to the toy, to the phantom of his crush beneath him. "I want to stay inside you a little longer." Yet he whined at his own denial.
───
The second session came two nights later. He'd brought the fleshlight to bed once more, laid it beside him while he looked through his notes from work, pretending he wasn't counting the minutes until he could touch it again.
This time, he started slower.
He positioned the toy closer to his face. He had washed it since last time, using Pantalone's soap. "You always smell so good" he whispered against the silicone, pressing a kiss to the fake mons. "Like money and ink and your soap. I want to bury my face here forever." He traced the slit with his tongue, tasting nothing but silicone, but his mind supplied the salt-sweet tang of Pantalone's skin. He sucked gently at the labia, his eyes closed, lost in the fantasy. The soap added to the feeling of Pantalone, he trailed his lips upwards, sucking on the prominent clit.
When he finally pulled away and lined his cock to the toy and pushed in, it was with a reverence that bordered on worship. "Mm, so tight" he breathed. "You're always so tight for me, aren't you? Hah.." He said it with a confidence he never had in real life. Here, in the dark, he could be bold.
He fucked the toy with long, languid strokes, his hands gripping the edges of it, imagining Pantalone's hips in his grasp. "Look at you, taking me so well. Your cunt is perfect. Fuck, I can feel you squeezing." He tossed his head back against the pillows as he picked up speed, the wet sounds of silicone and precum filling the room. His balls slapped against the base of the toy, a rhythm that matched his racing heart.
"Yes, yes, yes—" He was babbling now, sweat beading on his forehead. "Pantalone, I'm going to fill you up. I'm going to—"
He came with a strangled cry, burying himself as deep as the toy allowed, his hips grinding in small circles as he emptied into the artificial tunnel. He stayed there, panting, his forehead pressed to the pillows, whispering things that no one would ever hear.
───
It was midday. The laboratory's main hall stood empty, the murmured conversations replaced by stillness. Most of the segments were occupied elsewhere. The eighteen-year-old had checked. Once. Twice. Three times, even, peering around corners and listening for footsteps. It was rare for the lab to be quiet in the middle of the day so he took that time to indulge a bit.
He was alone after all so why not.
The door to his private quarters clicked shut behind him, and he let out a shaky breath. His hands were already trembling with anticipation, his cock half-hard in his trousers. The thought of enjoying that feeling again had him hard in seconds.
It was the same ritual, lie on the bed, undress and use the toy.
The wet sounds filled the small room soon after, the slick schlick of silicone and lubricant, the soft grunts escaping his throat, the whispered words that grew more desperate with each passing minute. He was lost in it, completely, utterly lost, his world narrowed to the heat between his legs and the fantasy in his head.
So much so that he didn't hear the footsteps in the corridor.
The 25 year old segment had come back earlier, he was passing by the segments quarters, intending to grab a specific reagent from his shelf for a certain mixture he was doing. His room was right next to 18's. And...the door was slightly ajar, a mistake, a carelessness born from thinking he was alone.
25 wanted to check in, how he usually does, to ask where the others had gone or if he had some work to do while they were away.
He pushed the door open without knocking.
The sight stopped him.
18 was on his bed, trousers around his ankles, one hand wrapped around a silicone toy that looked unmistakably like a cunt. Dark hair matted against the base. His cock was buried inside it, his hips moving in a frantic rhythm. His head was tilted to the left, eyes closed, lips parted, whispering something that the older segment caught on the third repetition.
"...love you, Pantalone. Love you so much. Please—fuck—please don't stop—"
And then, in a rush of breath, "Pantalone. Pantalone. Pantalone—"
25's laughter cut through the room.
"Oh, this is adorable." He said while pretending to wipe a tear from beneath his glasses.
18 froze. His eyes snapped open, wide and terrified. For a long, horrible moment, he didn't move, didn't even breathe, didn't turn his head. The toy was still on him, yet his movements had stopped, his cock softening inside it, and he was so exposed, so caught, that his entire body turned the color of a bruise.
"I—this isn't—you weren't supposed to—" His voice cracked, spiraling into incoherence.
"No, no, no—" He scrambled to pull the toy off, but it was slick and his fingers slipped, trembling, and the older segment just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning.
"So that's what you do in here all night? Fucking a piece of rubber? And you're talking to it?" He tilted his head, his grin widening. "What was it you said? 'Love you, Pantalone'? Oh, this is cute. This is the best thing I've ever seen."
"Please—don't—" The eighteen-year-old's voice cracked. He finally managed to yank the toy free, throwing it under the bed as if that somehow erased the last thirty seconds. His cock was still half-hard, shamefully wet as he tried to grab anything to cover himself.
"Don't what? Tell Pantalone? Oh, I'm definitely telling Pantalone." 25 took a step into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. "Imagine his face when he finds out his sweet little virgin has a collection of cunts under the bed. How many do you have? Four? Five? Do you line them up and kiss them goodnight?"
"Stop."
The younger segment's eyes were glistening. His face burning. His hands shook as he fumbled to pull up his trousers, but his cock was still half-hard and the fabric caught, and he nearly toppled off his bed.
25 got closer and reached under the bed with his gloved hand, pulling out the fleshlight the younger had just been using. He held it up, examining it with mock fascination.
"Oh" he said. "You had them add hair? To make it look like Pantalone?"
The youngest segment wanted to die. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him into the abyss. He wanted to be anywhere but here, caught in the act by the one person who would never, ever let him forget it.
25 continued. "Mm, not bad. The texture looks adequate. But you know, the real thing is better." He dropped the toy onto the bed, then leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And the real thing actually moans for you. Doesn't just lie there and take it."
The eighteen-year-old's face crumpled. A single tear escaped, trailing down his cheek before he wiped it away with a shaking hand. His chest heaved and his face burned. "I hate you" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I hate you so much."
25 sighed. "How you wound me. Now, what do you think, 18? Should I bring it to dinner? Set it at the table? Tell Pantalone it's his new identical twin?"
18 opened his mouth to say something but instead he shoved past the older segment and fled the room, leaving the fleshlight lying on the rumpled sheets.
The twenty-five-year-old stood there for a moment and sighed, the silence closing in. He looked at the toy again. He thought of Pantalone, of how he'd tell him, of the teasing he'd dole out for weeks, maybe months.
The door slammed against the wall as 18 bolted out of the lab entirely, his footsteps echoing down the corridor in a frantic rush. Where he was going was unknown. To confess? To get away?
25 also stepped out of the youngers room, but then he heard the sound of a collision.
A sharp gasp. A muttered curse.
He disposed of his gloves in a nearby bin and then rounded the corner to the exit just in time to see 18 stumbling backward, having barreled straight into 45. The older segment stood with a stack of papers clutched to his chest, inkwell balanced on top, his expression that of irritation and surprise.
"Watch where you're—Eighteen?" His voice sharpened as he took in the youngers flushed red face. "What's wrong?"
But the other didn't answer. He didn't even slow down. He simply shook his head and sprinted past, disappearing around the next corner.
45's gaze followed him, then slowly shifted to 25, who was now striding casually down the corridor, hands in his pockets.
"What's with Eighteen?" 45 asked.
Twenty-five shrugged, the motion nonchalant. "No idea. Maybe he's just having a rough day."
45's eyes narrowed. He fixed the stack of papers in his arms so it was more comfortable to hold. "Don't bully him."
"I'm not" 25 said, his voice dripping with false innocence.
"And where are you going? Weren't you supposed to be mixing some vials?"
"Pantalone's office." Twenty-five didn't look back. "Important financial documents. Very boring. You wouldn't be interested."
Then they walked in separate directions.
And 25 made his way through the corridors with a spring in his step. The ends of his coat billowed behind him. He made it to the office first.
Pantalone's door was closed, the sound of shuffling papers spilling out. Inside, the banker sat behind his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose, a pen moving in elegant strokes across a ledger.
25 paused, hand hovering over the brass handle. His fingers twitched. He could turn back. He could pretend nothing happened, let 18 stew in his shame until the memory faded.
But that wasn't who he was.
He pushed open the door.
Pantalone looked up from his desk.
"25, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked.
25 strode in, boots clicking against the polished floor. He placed both hands on the edge of the desk, leaning forward with a glint in his crimson eyes. "Pantalone, I need to tell you something."
Before he could continue, the door slammed open again, and the eighteen-year-old burst in, chest heaving. He must have sprinted the entire way from the other way around in the building. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
"Don't!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please—don't! Don't tell him!"
Pantalone's pen stilled. He looked from the young segment to the twenty-five-year-old one, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Tell me what? What's going on?"
25 straightened, his grin never faltering. For a long, agonizing moment, he just stood there, letting the tension build. 18's heart hammered so loud he was sure everyone in the room could hear it. His palms were slick with sweat.
"Oh, just that your coat looks incredible today" 25 said smoothly, gesturing at the banker's clothing. "Really brings out your eyes."
Pantalone blinked, clearly thrown. "...Thank you? Is that all? All this way and this entire show for a compliment?"
18 let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging with relief. He didn't tell. He didn't tell. Oh, thank you—
But then the twenty-five-turned, heading for the door. He paused at the threshold, hand on the frame, and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and 18 fucks fleshlights thinking it's you."
The words hung in the air like a bomb's final tick.
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his giggles echoing down the hallway.
Silence.
Pantalone stared at the closed door, then slowly, very slowly, turned his gaze to the youngest segment standing frozen in the middle of the room, his face drained of all color.
He looked like a cornered animal. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands trembled at his sides, and his eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape that didn't exist, looking anywhere but at Pantalone. Like for example, did the corner of that rug by his desk always have that cigarette burn on it?
"18." Pantalone began as he watched him. "What did he mean by that?"
"I—" The word came out a croak. The segment swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "I can explain. It's not—it's not what you think—"
"Not what I think?" Pantalone leaned back in his chair, his expression neutral. His fingers templed beneath his chin. "Enlighten me then. Was he joking? Thought thats rather out of character for him to do."
Shame crawled up the teens neck, staining his cheeks crimson. "There's... there's nothing to explain" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It's exactly what you think. I—" His breath hitched. "I bought toys. To—to pretend. Because I couldn't—" Couldn't ask you.
The words lodged in his throat. His tongue felt so dry.
Pantalone was silent for a moment.
The clock on the wall ticked.
It felt like an hour had passed.
"Look at me" Pantalone said softly, not intending to humiliate.
18 shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut now. A tear slipped out, tracing a path down his cheek. "I can't. Please. Just—please don't look at me. I'm so embarrassed."
"Look at me, sweetheart." Pantalone repeated as he stood up.
The use of the endearment broke something in the younger. He lifted his gaze slowly, his face wet, his lips trembling. Pantalone's expression was soft. There was no anger in his eyes, no mockery. Just curiosity, and something that looked almost like sympathy.
"How long?" Pantalone asked.
"A—a few weeks. Maybe less." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I didn't know how to ask you. You and the others—the older ones—they just go up to you and ask for what they want. But I—" His voice broke. "I can't. I freeze up. I can't even say the words without wanting to die from shame."
Pantalone walked around the desk. He stopped in front of the segment, close enough to touch, and reach out to cup his cheek.
Pantalone's thumb brushed away a fresh tear.
18's entire body shook. Pantalone's hand was warm and real and there. He choked on a sob and forced the words out. "I'm sorry if i-it makes you uncomfortable, I just..really like you, like everyone else." The last part was so silent Pantalone barely even heard it. He reached out slowly, burying his face in Pantalone's shoulder. The older man's arms came around him, holding him without hesitation.
To Pantalone this changed nothing.
"I'm sorry" The teen whispered into the coat. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
"Hush." Pantalone's hand rubbed over his back. "I'm not angry. I understand, you're young and get embarrassed about sexual stuff, that's alright." His voice was soothing and 18 almost melted upon hearing that the man wasn't upset and wouldn't cast him aside.
"We'll talk about this more later. But for now—" Pantalone pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "If you want me, you come to me. Understood? I'm quite certain I can do better than a toy."
The eighteen-year-old nodded, his throat too tight for words.
Pantalone's lips curved into a small smile, his lips pressing against the boys forehead. "Good boy. Now go clean yourself up and rest a little. I'll find you in a few hours when I'm done with work."
18 nodded.
Now, whether 25 wanted to tease or actually help 18 make that bridge between himself and Pantalone happen, who knows.