Disney Pinocchio Coachman Novels & Stories

"And I became a single father trying to raise two kids while building a coaching career. It wasn't easy. Still isn't." "Sounds rough," I say, my voice flat. "It was. But we managed. Beck and Quinn are strong kids. Stronger than they should have to be." I nod absently. There's a long pause. Coach seems to be waiting for me to say something. "John Ford." The silence that follows is heavy. Uncomfortable. I turn to look at Coach and something flickers across his face—so quick I almost miss it. Recognition. Maybe pain. "What?" His voice is careful now. Guarded.

Erin and I look at each other, and I can tell that the first thought in our minds is that we’ve been caught. However, the coachman is still visible from here. He’s just not moving much. I can see his hands clenching around the handle of the whip, but it seems that he’s petrified by something. “What’s going on?” Pearl asks the coachman, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, someone else answers her, a familiar deep voice, speaking softly like he doesn’t want to startle anyone or anything. “It’s all good, ladies. We just need to stop for a while. No need to panic.”

I clenched my pussy down around him. "What?" gasped the coach. "Holy shit! What is going on!" "Mr. Curtis is enjoying my free-use pussy!" I moaned as Coach Rodriguez rose. The short and brawny man stared at me. He was a Latino hunk with brown skin, his head buzzed short. "Ooh, ooh, he's doing such a good job." "Shit, can you suck my dick while he does that?" the coach asked. "Let me just reposition," I moaned as Mr. Curtis thrust into me.

JASMINE The coachman didn’t speak. His jaw clenched for the briefest of moments but then he rolled his eyes dismissively. Before they glazed over as Elsa’s had not long before, I extended my already long, sharp claws, and then dug them deep into his belly. The coachman shrieked as blood splattered out and my voice hardened. “Don’t play tricks or attempt anything stupid,” I warned him. “Next time, it’ll be your neck. I don’t want to repeat myself again. Answer my question. Who is your Master?”

Arlo continued to dig up information from the coachman. “Can’t you see anything from that person at all? For example, the color of his eyes or what about that person’s clothes?” The coachman was silent. He seemed to be thinking, then a few moments later, he said, “I don’t really remember the color of his eyes, but I think it’s brown or maybe black. I don’t know. I don’t remember much. Please, forgive me.” Arlo sighed. “No problem. You can calm down first in the break room, Uncle. if you remember anything, please tell us right away.”

“The display showed a single name: Coach Reynolds — Riverport Hounds.” Dante’s entire frame went instantly still as he swiped the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. "Cole," he said, his voice entirely even. Ariana held her breath, watching the small scar above Dante's left eyebrow twitch once as the coach's gravelly voice filled the line. It was the voice of a man who had spent decades behind NHL benches—calm, demanding, and impossible to ignore.

By the way this fat little balding pig looks, he masturbates every night; there's no fucking way he's touching me. "Well, sit down." he says, awkwardly retracting his arm and coach glares at me. Sorry not sorry. Arnold sits down and I sigh, hating to sit down into the old chair, but kind of afraid of the coach if I do. I don't want him to make me run for half an hour the way he did last time, when he thought I was too rude. "Hi, Peter, we got another troublemaking soul right here that needs to delete their past." coach smiles at the fat pig and he immediately starts nodding.

Startled, I halted my movements and looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice and spotted Clark, waving his hand and running towards me with a smile on his face. "How did it go with the coach?" I asked, a mischievous grin playing on my lips. Clark rolled his eyes at me, but his grin gave away his amusement. Catching his breath, he replied, "Oh, you know, Coach just loves putting us through our paces. It's always a blast." I chuckled, knowing that Clark's statement had more than a hint of sarcasm. Our coach, Coach Ramirez, was known for being exceptionally demanding, and homophobic. He had a relentless passion for pushing us beyond our limits, always striving for perfection.

Saying that, the coachmen went inside. I found myself impressed by the coachman's composed reaction to the situation. When Wise introduced him, I glanced at his status, discovering he held the rank of a D-rank warrior. However, Wise highlighted that despite his perceived weakness, this individual had extensive experience as a soldier in multiple wars before retiring and arriving at Ice Demon City. Understanding this context explained the coachman's apparent indifference to the woman's demise and his astute assessment of the situation. "Umm," I acknowledged with a nod.

The door was shut, the noise from the hockey arena was just a distant hum, and he was looking at me like I was a play he was drawing up. “She does not know I am asking you,” he said. His voice was low. He slid a photograph across the polished wood. It felt slimy. Like a secret handshake or a backroom deal. Not a favor from a coach to his team captain. I looked down. The girl in the picture was laughing. Her head was tilted back, her dark hair swinging. She wasn’t just pretty. She was the kind of pretty that made you stare. My eyes stuck on the curve of her smile, then drifted down to her hip before I jerked them back up.