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"I have become weary of being a puppet, and I wish at any price to become a boy.”

Pinocchio: The Tale of a Puppet, by Carlo Collodi

The alchemist smiled. Finally, after years of painstaking research and heartbreaking trial and error, he had accomplished the impossible. Running an appreciative finger over his handiwork, he marveled at the warmth and resilience of his creation. Soft to the touch, just like real flesh. Even the most observant of his colleagues would be hard pressed to tell the difference between this automaton--made up of metal, clockwork mechanisms and a mastery of higher spagyrics--and a real human being.


That is IF he were planning on making his breakthrough common knowledge, which he most definitely was not. This creation was for him and him alone. Wrapping his hand around the enormous erection of the naked automaton, his smile grew broader and blood began rushing to his nether regions.


And so it was that within hours of taking its first labored breath, the automaton was pressed into the service for which it was created: satisfying the insatiable lusts of its creator. With practice, it learned to perform admirably and within a week, had earned the praise of its human host.


"You are perfection," the alchemist said, as he ran his fingers through the golden tresses of his creation. Emerald eyes, empty of emotion, stared back at him. The alchemist wiped a glob of his essence from the automaton's lower lip. "Would that you could understand more than that which has been taught you."


"There is more?" the automaton asked.


The alchemist smiled. "So much more."


"Then teach me."


It was only because of the inquisitive nature of the alchemist himself that such an odd request was granted.


After a month of tutelage, the automaton raised a sticky hand and asked the alchemist, "Is it this which defines life?"


The alchemist nodded. "In part, or so it is speculated. There is also the anima, or soul, which is the spark of life."


"Have I a soul?"


The alchemist pondered. "The materials from which you were made had souls. The distillations and recombinations used to create you served to strengthen and regenerate the life that gives you mobility. Logically, it stands to reason that you are the sum of your parts and, thus, in possession of a soul, which is unique only to you."


The automaton turned its attention back to the congealing semen plastering its hand and smiled for the first time ever. Then proceeded to lick its fingers clean thoughtfully.


After six months of continued tutelage, the automaton asked the question it had been harboring from that day when it had discovered that it had a soul. "Will I ever be a real boy?"


The alchemist, who at the moment was thoroughly engrossed in a much baser pursuit, grunted, "You are as real as any boy I have ever lain with, now pick up your pace and give me the release I need."


The automaton complied and, when the alchemist lay spent and sweating, asked the question again, "Will I ever be a REAL boy?"


Filled as he was with contentment and satiated in ways he had never been before the creation of this blond giant, the alchemist pulled the automaton down and kissed its soft, warm lips. What he felt could not be called love, so much as magnanimity. "Is that your only wish?"


The automaton thought about it. "That and to know more of the world outside this chamber."


"The world is an evil place, my son," The alchemist replied. "where such as yourself would never be understood."


"So you have told me," the automaton said quietly. "It is for this very reason that I ask the question. For I know that without the former, I will never achieve the latter."


The alchemist smiled. "Logically deduced."


"And the answer?"


The alchemist's eyes narrowed and took on a faraway look, his head filling with formulas and heretical invocations. "Perhaps."


And so it went, for years after. The automaton would ask the question and the alchemist would ponder. Eventually, curiosity gave way to actual practice and the alchemist found himself truly contemplating the impossible. He'd done it once, with the creation of his perfect golum. Why, then, couldn't he do it again and complete the process he'd started?


From that point on, the automaton became not only the alchemist's willing love slave, but his laboratory assistant, as well. Because the automaton was tireless and never needed more than a few hours in the sunlight streaming in through the high windows of the bed chamber, many of the more repetitive and menial tasks were left to it to perform.


In those moments, the automaton would dream itself more than a collection of gears and plant matter. It would contemplate the meanings behind the poetry and literature the alchemist gave it to read. And it would repeat the mantra which had become its affirmation: "Some day, I shall be a real live boy."


And, as so often happens when a pursuit becomes an obsession, after a while, the alchemist became so engrossed in his alchemical calculations that his physical needs began to take second place. Which left far more time for the automaton to read and dream and imagine.


Eventually the day came when the alchemist, burdened by the distillation of tinctures and the correct combination of kabbalistic symbols, snapped at his assistant, "Your nakedness distracts me, put some clothing on!"


After almost 20 years of living in such a state, the automaton was at a loss. Rummaging through its father's closet, it found shirt, shoes and pants. Years of watching its father dress had given it an understanding of how buttons and ties worked. The problem it ran into was where to put the enormous erection, which was an ever-present part of its physiology. Settling on a solution, it presented itself to its father for approval.


Focused though he was, the alchemist stopped what he was doing to look with surprise and amusement on his creation. To accommodate the mammoth erection, which had caused it such concern, the automaton had simply cut a hole in the front of the pants it wore. The erection emerged from the fabric, just as impressive and distracting as it had been before. For the first time in years, the alchemist felt movement in his own pants.


That night, the automaton happily provided him with hours of pleasure, just as it had in the early days of its creation. It would be the last time for many years to come.


Eventually came the day, in the alchemist's winter years, that the solution finally presented itself to him. This was not a pursuit for the laboratory. Life was not speculative, it was organic and must be conducted in a natural setting. It also required a sacrifice. Something he would have been unwilling to provide in his earlier, more selfish years, but now found to be completely within the boundaries of possibility.


Consulting kabbalistic and astrological charts, the alchemist calculated and performed the necessary invocations necessary for the ceremony. Then, on a sultry summer evening, with a joy approaching ecstasy, he ordered the automaton to clothe itself for only the second time in its life. This time, he took the time to help the creature bind its erection to its body, so as to hide it from view, then dressed it in the plain clothing of a working man.


Slipping out of the building that housed his laboratory and home just an hour before midnight, the alchemist led the automaton through the darkened streets and into the park. The automaton's eyes widened at all that presented itself and it would have been lost had the alchemist not taken it by the hand and guided it like a child.


"Do all of the things I see have names?" the automaton asked.


"Of course they do," the alchemist answered. "All of which are known to you."


"Tell me!" the automaton demanded.


"Later," hissed the alchemist. "First we must perform the ceremony. Everything must go according to plan. We will not have a second chance."


Sensing the import of the words, the automaton held its tongue, though its mind roiled with questions and excitement. So distracted was it that, when they reached their destination, it missed the alchemist's order to disrobe. The alchemist busied himself with vials and potions produced from the satchel he had brought with him for this very purpose. Symbols were drawn in the grass with colored sand and powders were blown into the air. Looking up at the stars, the alchemist finally turned to the automaton.


"You're still dressed!"


The automaton looked confused.


"Hurry, lummox!" the alchemist barked, yanking the tie at the automaton's waist and loosening the bindings within, The enormous erection bounced forward, ready for the task at hand. Ripping his own clothing off, the alchemist handed the automaton a vial and ordered it to drink, then followed suit with a vial of his own. Tossing the vials aside, the alchemist laid down on the grass, amid the symbols, and pulled the automaton down on top of him. Taking its cue, the automaton fell into its natural rhythms and soon the two were coupled in the moonlight.


The alchemist felt it first as a tightening in his chest, then a clenching in his bowels. Looking up with love and apprehension, he said, "I grant you your wish, my son" and promptly expired. A fact that was lost on the automaton, for at that very moment, it felt a tingling in its loins unlike anything it had ever felt before. The tingling gave rise to sensations that were completely unfamiliar to him.


Gutteral sounds began to arise from his throat, becoming growls and eventually howls of pleasure as he pumped in and out of the shell which had once housed his father's soul. The onset of his very first orgasm took the blond beauty so completely by surprise that he shrieked his pleasure out into the night, then collapsed in a sweaty heap on top of the body.


It wasn't until a voice commanded him to "get up slowly" that the young man realized he was no longer alone. Bewildered, he forced himself to get groggily to his feet. The policeman stared in horror at the old man with the ripped clothes lying on the grass, then up at the strapping, young behemoth with the enormous softening erection. Fury filled the officer's face as he brought his gun up and pulled the trigger.


The beautiful giant registered surprise at the new sensation and looked down in wonder at the dark liquid pumping out of its body and staining the front of its shirt. Blood. Real blood. Looking up, the creature smiled, even as its eyes became glassy and began to lose focus.


"I'm a real live boy!" were the last words it ever uttered.

                                                                                                     *  *  *


© David Salcido, 1996. Published in my anthology Dimensions of Desire, Renaissance Books, 2010. Registered with the Library of Congress and the Writers Guild of America. All rights reserved.

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