This story is erotic gay fiction and is for mature audiences only. It may contain supernatural themes, sex scenes, violence, coarse language, drug use, and other adult themes.

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Long in the Tooth

by Calamity King

Walter “Smiley” Jacobs was pissed off.

As he barreled down I-70 in his battered truck, he puffed away on his pipe until the bowl was blazing hot and the smoke was bitter. He just couldn’t stop thinking how much he hated the cheapskate manager of the “Knick Knack Shack.” Actually, he couldn’t decide which he despised more: the manager’s lilting, phony voice or his fat, stupid face. The fucker had sent Jacobs and his sample cases packing. And although Jacobs had been dimly aware of some glib apologies on the manager’s part, the main thing he took with him was the sight of the bastard’s mouth – the tiniest mouth he had ever seen. The lips were shiny and pink, and they made a perfect, dainty “O” as they opened and closed. They put Jacobs in mind of an anus which was hungry for Jacobs to shove his cock into it.

Around the highway, the Missouri hills piled up. The leaves had turned, but the autumn color was dulled by the lead-gray light of the sky. It was getting dark. Jacobs tried to remember what it had said in the book his counselor had given him, the one about anger management. Breathing exercises, or some lame-ass shit. And “immersing one’s mind in beauty.” He recalled some of the beautiful young men he’d fucked. All taut, shivering muscle and awe-struck respect. The tattoos and piercings that somehow conspired to make them look more boyish and not less. Like little boys clomping around in daddy’s shoes, he thought. He cherished them. Their plump, perfect asses. Their surprised, happy yelps as he had broken them in.

But their features kept sloughing off their heads, revealing the smarmy face of the “Knick Knack Shack” manager.

Jacobs shivered – all over, like a wet dog. Hot ash spilled onto his shirt. He ripped the pipe from his mouth; threw it to the floor. The rage came up then, like nausea. The accelerator pedal sank beneath his huge foot. He pretended he was stepping on the manager’s neck. Take that, motherfucker.

He forced himself to slow his breathing. The hard, sharply-defined ridges of his stomach relaxed, just a bit. He rolled his neck around; stretched his brawny, 6’4” frame. In the rear-view mirror, his reflection mocked him. He grunted as he regarded his graying, buzz-cut hair. His upper lip and chin were ruddy, and still irritated from the morning’s shave. Only a month ago, he’d sported a shaved head and a massive, jutting VanDyke beard. Shaving his face and growing out his hair was his counselor’s idea – or rather, his command. In job interviews, conservative looks were considered more “honest.” The same tired notion held true for sales. And the inspirational figurines he peddled certainly had a right-wing, tight-ass clientele.

Jacobs didn’t much care for his customers. Hell, he fucking hated them. But after a few decades of wild living, he was deeply in debt, and he needed a steady job. So he’d ditched his biker gear for some cheap suits from the Salvation Army, wrangled himself a position as a sales rep, and hit the road. The suits were itchy and the shirt collars were never quite tall enough to hide the tattoo on his neck, but he did the best he could. The truly fucked-up part, though, is that his “best” was pretty goddamn lousy. And the “Knick Knack Shack” was merely the latest in an unbroken run of failed sales calls. The whole deal had gone south as soon as Jacobs had said to the salesgirl, “I want to talk to your manager.” He’d meant it kindly enough – hell, he’d even made an appointment to see the man, weeks earlier – but somehow, it had come out sounding like a threat.

Jacobs felt like a sham. His suit may as well have been a Halloween costume. Even his face was a detriment: long and angular, with deep-set eyes under a beetling, hairless brow, making him seem permanently angry. (And earning him the oh-so-hilarious nickname, “Smiley.”) His eyes were dark brown – nearly black – with a hard, reptilian quality. When he tried to act “jovial” and “nice”, it just came off as creepy. His coworkers – on the few occasions he saw them – were pleasant, but aloof. Jacobs carried a sense of doom with him, the same way others carry a rabbit’s foot or a Saint Christopher medal.

Trailing ash, the pipe rolled across the floor of the truck. “Immerse your mind in beauty,” Jacobs thought. A highway sign announced a scenic detour. Jacobs followed the exit, leaving the main road and the other drivers behind him.

That’s when the blizzard started.

At first, it was just a scattering of flakes, dancing on the wind and skittering playfully over his hood. But soon enough, the storm began in earnest. The snow pelted his windshield, melting and freezing again, shrouding the glass in layers of ice. Crowded by bur oak and pine, the highway slithered higher and higher into the hills. The wipers slapped feebly at the snowfall. With his headlights barely piercing the storm, Jacob was forced to drive at a crawl. On either side of the road, the scenery blurred, became solid white. He searched for a spot where he could park and wait out the blizzard. A sudden opening in the white wall revealed a precipitous, pants-shitting drop. The metal barrier had been ripped away. Barely visible under a powdering of snow, black tire marks curved sharply off of the asphalt. The vista disappeared, hidden once more by a curtain of snow.

Jacobs’ hands gripped the steering wheel. His palms felt clammy. Even if he could find a spot to pull over, he reasoned, what could stop another vehicle from slamming into him? Besides, he could still see far enough ahead to drive safely.

The blinding whiteness crept in closer to the sides of the truck. The snowflakes glistened; trapped the meager sunlight; turned it blue. Within the cab, the air was heavy. The furnace roared, belching out heat. Percussive sounds, motor sounds, the hollow vibration of the wipers, all of it combined to create a deep, rattling groan. Jacobs felt like he was sitting in the skull of a mournful giant.

Doggedly, he maneuvered the truck over potholes and slick patches. He had to swerve to miss the carcass of a doe; its head was mangled, the eyes eaten away. The snow thinned again, so that he had a view of a valley to his right. A dark cloud hung over the distant trees, so low it crept into their branches. It boiled upward, like a thunderhead. Then, the world went black, like somebody had flipped a light switch. The truck lurched to the right. He stomped on the brake pedal. It was soft. Branches slammed into the truck and snapped loudly into pieces. The snow thinned, surrendering to total darkness. The black void was all around him – even below him, where the road should have been. The snow rose up in a cloud. He had a brief sense of falling, as when an elevator car stops its descent. The truck jerked forward.

He was on a one-lane dirt road. It wasn’t even as wide as his truck. Jacobs guessed it was a private drive, or maybe just a wilderness trail. He jerked his head around and searched for his point of entry. He couldn’t find one. Behind him, the road disappeared into the woods. Much further away, above the trees, he could see the highway. And just for a moment, Jacobs thought he could glimpse something else: an enormous shadow, sinking down into the woods. It was colossal, whatever it was, and shaped like a man. Atop its head was a tall, spiky crown -- or antlers. Jacobs gritted his teeth, looked straight ahead. He had blacked out, he thought. That would explain it. The truck had gone off of the road, into the trees, but had soon enough found this back road. And in his shock, he had forgotten how he’d gotten there.

The sunset was a thin smear of blood on the horizon. His headlights – why weren’t his headlights working? Smashed, probably, when he went through the trees. Grimly, he steered the truck around a blind curve. And saw the house.

It was unreal. He’d only seen structures like it once before, and that was in a book. It was a classic Black Forest lodge: five stories tall and even wider than that, with a peaked roof that came down nearly to the ground on the sides and which covered the top two stories on the front, like a hood. A row of windows perforated the stone wall of the lowest level; the other floors were constructed of a weathered, grayish wood. Balconies ran the whole width of the second and third stories. The rear of the house backed into a hill. Jacobs couldn’t shake the impression that the house hadn’t necessarily been built into the hill, but that the hill was, instead, slowly devouring the house. No light shone from the windows.

Jacobs parked the truck and inspected the damage. The headlights were totaled, sure enough, and the sides bore huge dents: one on the driver’s side and four on the passenger’s side. He checked underneath the truck. Fluid gushed from several points. Opening his phone, he saw that not only was there no signal, but the images on the screen were scrambled. “GODDAMMIT!” Jacobs screamed. He punched the hood of the truck and studiously ignored the pain in his knuckles. Warily, he turned towards the house.

Finding no bell, Jacobs rapped on the door. A minute passed with no response. He raised his fist to knock once more, when the door swung open. The home’s inhabitant was a pale, pudgy bastard, with a candle in his fat little hand. He was young, too. Early twenties, maybe. His hair was a shaggy mop – surfer-blond, of fucking course – and his face was half-hidden by a scruffy beard. He wore lederhosen and a white peasant shirt, both of which were just a tad too small for him. As he stared at Jacobs, his mouth worked silently, as though he were trying to think of something to say. At last, he emitted a single, nearly inaudible, word. It sounded like “Amen.”

Jacobs started to explain himself, but he only managed to say a few words before the young man ushered him inside.

“C’mon outta the cold, mister!” the kid cried. Despite his exotic costume, his voice had the twang of a Missouri native.

For all the grandeur of the home’s size, its interior was claustrophobic as hell. The ceilings were low, and constructed of the same dark wood as the walls and floors. In the meager light, Jacobs could see little in the way of furniture; only a few benches and a large table. The air was heavy: unnaturally humid and musky, with a smell somewhere between a swamp and a locker room. Still, animal skins were strewn freely about, a fire flickered cozily, and the walls were adorned with fanciful carvings.

Jacobs forced his hard face into a smile. “I hate to bother you,” he said, “but my truck’s about totaled, and my phone is messed-up. I don’t suppose I could use your phone…?” But the young man just shook his head.

“I –I don’t got one of those,” he stammered.

“Oh! Um… well, could you maybe drive me to a mechanic’s, I mean, when the storm lets up, or whatever?”

“I don’t got nothin’ to drive you with, either, mister. S-sorry. But, but I could lead you back onto the main road, I bet. I bet I could! I know these woods real good.”

“Aw, fuck! …Sorry. I guess, um…!”

“Why don’t you—why don’t you just sleep here for the night?” the youngster suggested, before adding, “If, th-that’s okay?”

Jacobs had a naturally suspicious mind, and he wondered what the kid’s angle could be. He didn’t want to get jumped by a gang of hillbillies. Still, the youngster seemed harmless. Something about him struck a chord in Jacobs; whether it was a kindred sense of sadness or desperation, he couldn’t say. And besides, he didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter. He breathed deeply, pulled his shoulders back, smiled. “That sounds fine,” he said, decisively. “I’ll just grab my stuff.”

Jacobs had only packed for an overnight hotel stay, so his luggage consisted of a suit bag that currently held only a second dress shirt tie; a gym bag with undershirts, boxers, socks, his shaving kit, condoms, and lube; and his pipe pouch. “Here, let me h-help you with some of that,” said the young man. He grabbed the pouch. “There, now,” he grinned. “Isn’t that, isn’t that better?” His yellowing teeth were haphazardly crowded together on the right side of his mouth, spaced quite far apart on the left side, and in dire need of flossing all over.

Jacobs laughed, weakly.

The young man’s smile curdled, became a frown. “Just, j-just my little joke,” he pouted.

Jesus, thought Jacobs. With the kid’s chubby face and quivering lips, he looked like an oversize, bearded baby.

The youngster’s bloated fingers caressed the pouch and tapped at the spot where the leather smacked against his pipes. He raised the pouch to his nose, and sniffed at it. “Wow… that’s p-pretty good!” He let his nose rest on it, and dreamily inhaled. Then he farted, nonchalantly.

Jacobs snatched the pouch from his hands. “I’ll take that, thanks,” said Jacobs. He tried to give this a charming, devil-may-care delivery. But the words still came out sounding like a prelude to violence. “Sorry,” he muttered. He had the feeling that he’d be saying “sorry” a lot, that evening. “I should probably go ahead and just introduce myself. Walt Jacobs.” He stuck out his lean, muscular hand.

The young man stared at Jacob’s hand for a moment, before clamping one of his chubby mitts onto it. “I’m, I’m Arthur Dooley,” he said. “L-look, why don’t I, why don’t I show you around, real quick? I-it’s a pretty cool house!”

Jacobs put his things down and let the kid lead him on a tour of the first and second floor. Despite Dooley’s stammer, the kid wound up being pretty goddamn talkative, and he told Jacobs a lot about his day-to-day life. It sounded like he was a real backwoodsman. Just self-sufficient as hell. The great, dark house boasted neither electricity nor plumbing. But there were fireplaces, a wood-burning stove, chamber pots, washstands, and a tub. Beyond the lodge, there was a well, an outhouse, a smokehouse, and a sprawling garden plot. Dooley claimed to be an expert hunter, fisherman, and gardener. His pantry was stocked with preserves, pickles, and dry sausages. Furthermore, Dooley took credit for all of the furniture and the decorative woodworking in the house. Jacobs asked Dooley if he made his own clothes as well. The younger man said “No” – but with a peculiar edge to his voice that tempted Jacobs to press further on the subject. But Dooley refused to elaborate, saying only, “They’re given to me.”

Dooley’s bedroom was a cramped, monkish affair on the second floor, with a single narrow bed and a plain, boxy armoire. Dooley led Jacobs down the hall, into a similar room. He gestured for him to put his things on the bed. “This is, this is like a kid’s room,” Dooley explained, with a shrug. “But I g-guess it’ll have to do.”

Dinner was sausages and potatoes, with tall glasses of a pale, cloudy alcoholic beverage that Dooley called “new wine.” They dined in the kitchen, eating off of metal plates, and sitting on benches on opposite sides of a picnic-sized table. The fireplace provided a cozy light, which was complimented by occasional pillar candles. As the two men ate, Jacobs told the kid about his life. He skirted around his homosexuality, to avoid putting off his backwoods benefactor, and he tried to keep his stories light and funny. But his anecdotes kept turning into complaints, full of bitterness and self-hatred. It hadn’t occurred to Jacobs before, but he now realized that the fucking was the only part of life that he didn’t regret. And he couldn’t help but notice a familiar look of admiration in the kid’s face. He’d seen it plenty of times before… in all of the young men he’d screwed.

Dooley wasn’t exactly his type – too fat, for one thing. But on the other hand, he figured, why the fuck not? Jacobs leaned forward, stretched his arms out, and clapped his big hands down on the table. Dooley shrank from him, smiling shyly. Jacobs’ could hear his own voice getting deeper and firmer as he began to question the lad: “You live alone here, do you?”

“Y-yeah. This place, this place, it used to be my parents’ house. It’s – it’s been added on, some. Anyway, they’re gone now.” Dooley tried to meet Jacobs’ intense gaze. And faltered. He glanced away, shoving another helping of potatoes into his mouth.

“No wife or kids anywhere?”

“N-nope.” Dooley let the fork drop onto his plate.

“Really? It must get awfully lonesome, just you all by yourself in this great big house. You ever bring your girlfriend out here?”

“I don’t, I don’t, I don’t g-got no girlfriend, mister.” He stared at his hands. His thumb rubbed at a pink spot on his index finger. It looked like it had been bitten by a small animal.

“You don’t have one right now? Or ever?”

Dooley’s hands writhed. “P-please, mister… I-I don’t know! I mean, I mean, I never even thought, really…! I guess, I guess, I…! I don’t really have much use for girls. They don’t do nothin’ for me.”

Jacobs thought about all of the carvings he’d seen on the doors and walls of the peculiar house. There were trees and animals and men – men in fancy Bavarian costumes, some of them shirtless, even – but never any women. It occurred to Jacobs that Dooley’s first word to him hadn’t been “Amen”, after all. It was “A man.” But it still sounded like Jacobs was answering the screwed-up little fucker’s prayers.

Jacobs leaned back, and let the shadow of a smile touch his lips. “Yeah… they don’t do anything for me, either.”

“Honest?” Dooley looked supremely relieved. “’Y’know, y’know, I… I never told nobody that before.”

“It’ll be our little secret,” said Jacobs.

Dooley beamed. “I m-might have dessert. I’ll go check.” The young man bustled over to another table, where a big, toll-painted box sat. Dooley lifted the lid and peered inside. “What do you know…? Strudel!” He removed a ceramic dish from the box and set it down in front of Jacobs. “Still warm, too! You—you want some?”

“No thanks, Arthur. But I normally like to have a pipe after dinner. Is it okay if I smoke? I can go outside, if you don’t want me doing it in here.”

Dooley gaped. “Y-you’re a pipe smoker?”

“Yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”

“No! It’s awesome!” Dooley’s face glowed, from more than the firelight. “I d-don’t mind at all! I mean, I don’t smoke, myself. But it’s cool if you, if you want to! Totally… um, totally cool!”

Jacobs took a candle, and went to retrieve his pipe pouch from his room. In the gloom, he made a wrong turn, and found himself before a set of double doors. Each was decorated by a mammoth carving, one mirroring the other. They were finer and more detailed than anything else he’d seen in the house. Each carving depicted a nest, and a parent bird feeding its offspring. But for some reason, the younger bird was three times larger than the older one.

Jacobs returned to the kitchen, to find Dooley energetically forking the strudel into his mouth. “I-I wish I didn’t have to eat this,” he offered, between bites.

“I guess we all get cravings sometimes, don’t we?” Jacobs tried not to smirk. He unzipped the pipe pouch, removed a bent Dublin from its holster, and packed it. He fired it up with a silver-plated pipe lighter. Dooley chewed slowly and stared at him, enthralled.

Jacobs savored the pipe smoke, and he savored the looks he was getting, even more. He rolled the smoke around on his tongue; let it slowly curl from his mouth. When he still had his beard, he would make a point of stroking it while he smoked – in front of a sex partner, anyway. The boys always liked to see a show. Hell, there were even a few videos of him floating around on the web, just showing him smoking and petting his beard. Jerk-off material. Now, he settled for massaging the stubble on his chin. “Nothing like a good pipe,” he purred. “Let me tell you, Arthur, it’s nice to finally meet somebody else who can appreciate this sort of thing.” He thought the “finally” was a good touch. Let the kid think he was special.

Dooley blushed.

“Do you want to sit over here?” Jacobs asked, patting the bench.

Silence. Then the answer came, in a dry-throated voice: “Yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Dooley only shook his head.

“Come here.”

Dooley mumbled something.

“I SAID, ‘COME HERE.’ COME OVER HERE AND SIT DOWN.”

Dooley stood up. The crotch of his lederhosen bulged. He shuffled over to Jacobs’ bench and sat next to him.

“You want me to touch you, don’t you?” Jacobs’ voice was hard and prodding, but not unfriendly.

Dooley nodded.

Jacobs leaned into the younger man, and hissed into his ear, “Say it. And say ‘please.’ Say, ‘Please, touch me, Sir.’”

“P-please, t-touch me, Sir.”

“Louder. And don’t fucking stammer, goddamn it!”

“P-please, TOUCH me, Sir!”

“Say, ‘I want you, Sir.’ Tell me that you want me to breathe my smoke into you. Say, ‘I want your smoke inside me, Sir.’”

Jacobs could tell that the words were excruciating for Dooley to say. But he didn’t care. And anyway, Dooley went ahead and said them: “I w-want you, Sir! I want your sm-smoke i-inside me, Sir! Please, Sir! Please, Sir, Please--!”

Jacobs drew on his pipe once more; put his lips around Dooley’s open, waiting hole of a mouth; and shotgunned his pipe smoke down the young man’s throat. While Dooley shuddered with pleasure, Jacobs kissed him all over, violently; licking him; nibbling at him; and breathing his pipe smoke onto him, into his hair and his beard, immersing him in the smell of it. Dooley returned Jacobs’ passion – hungrily. Jacobs slid a finger into Dooley’s mouth. “Suck it,” he commanded. He undid the buttons of his dress shirt with his free hand, and guided Dooley’s hands up and under his undershirt. “Play with my nipples,” he growled. As Dooley rubbed, tweaked, and flicked at Jacobs’ nipples, Jacobs put his free hand on the side of Dooley’s head. He stroked the young man’s hair; lingered on his ear; found the soft place behind it; touched it tenderly, lovingly. Jacobs’ sweaty, equine cock throbbed.

But now, Dooley’s hands had left their station, and were running over Jacobs’ scalp. He was crying. “Oh, I wish, I wish…!” He pulled away from Jacobs, and sobbed.

Jacobs touched the young man’s arm. Dooley flinched at this, and shoved Jacobs’ hand away. “This ain’t n-no good,” he said, quietly. “N-no good at a-all.”

Something else I’ve fucked up, thought Jacobs. He had been a selfish bastard, and he knew it. “Shit, kid,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I just thought you could maybe use a little loving.” He wondered if “loving” was the right word.

“Forget it,” said Dooley, dejectedly. “I’m, I’m g-going to clean up here, and then I’m going to bed. It’s getting d-dark. You ought to, you ought to go to bed, t-too.”

In his room, Jacobs had only started to put his things away, when Dooley knocked on his door. His face was taut, and his voice was toneless, apparently feigning disinterest. “Th-this room is kind of tiny and sad,” he said. “I’ve got, I’ve got a nicer, bigger one you can use. If you w-want to.”

Jacobs put on his “extra-nice” expression, and hoped that he didn’t look too terrifying. “Sure, Arthur. Let’s see it.”

Dooley led him to the double doors with the strange carvings.

“I’d been meaning to ask you about these,” said Jacobs. “Why are the baby birds so much bigger than the other birds?”

Tersely, Dooley replied, “Because they’re cuckoos.”

Jacobs wanted to know why the hell that should make a difference. But he figured he had antagonized the poor fucker enough for one night, and so he let the matter rest.

The bedroom was luxurious – appointed on a level far above the rest of the house. Next to the doors was a king-sized bed, which was covered in quilts and furs. Next to it was a dainty side table. On the left, Jacobs could see a large dresser, a richly-ornamented armoire, and a tall upright mirror. On the right was a fireplace, already lit, bracketed by several tall bookcases. In front of the fireplace was a comfy-looking upholstered chair and ottoman. The most remarkable thing, however, was the far wall, the one that was opposite the door and the bed. It was covered, top to bottom, in cuckoo clocks.

Jacobs could imagine the clamor that would jolt him awake, every hour, on the hour. “This is really nice of you, kid, but those clocks must make a hell of a racket!”

Dooley chuckled. “D-don’t worry, Mister Jacobs. They don’t m-make no noise.”

Jacobs scratched his head, and sighed. “Well! In that case, I’d be a real dumbshit to turn this down. Wouldn’t I?”

Dooley only smiled.

Jacobs hung his suit inside the huge, empty armoire; shoved the rest of his possessions into the similarly vacant dresser; reluctantly utilized the bedpan; and climbed into bed. The mattress was comfortable enough, but Jacobs still had trouble sleeping. For one thing, he wasn’t used to going to bed so early in the evening. And for another, he couldn’t block out the ticking of the cuckoo clocks. It was subtle, but he could still hear it. On the hour, their doors popped open with a dry, clicking sound. Mutely, the clocks’ brightly-painted birds lunged out at him, and then retreated. Jacobs was amazed by the perfect synchronization of these devices. But then, he reasoned, the kid probably didn’t have anything better to do in his spare time, than to work on the clocks.

The firelight slowly dimmed. Embers tumbled to the floor, softly. With a grunt, Jacobs hauled himself out of bed. It was colder than hell. He wrapped himself in a quilt, while silently berating himself for not packing anything warm. He padded over to the bookcases, hoping to find something to distract him.

The books were not to Jacobs’ taste, to put it mildly. Every volume dated from the nineteenth century. They were mostly novels and anthologies, with some plays and opera librettos mixed in. One shelf held compilations of folklore – although it seemed to Jacobs that most of the peasants who reported being abducted by faerie-folk were just making up stories, trying to cover their asses after indulging in drinking binges or sex romps. Red bumps on my cock? A wizard did it!

The fiction was godawful; the prose was florid and the characters managed to be both melodramatic and boring as shit. The authors – doubtless having been paid by the word – had vomited up mammoth, page-spanning paragraphs. The pacing was glacial. Worse yet, they were all nominally “fantasies”, and yet their plots could barely be bothered to fit into their supposed genre. Jacobs skimmed several books, and then he forced himself to sit still and slog through an entire story. It was about two queeny old men who spent fifty pages having tea, and then an elf poked its head out from behind a divan (at which point, the story abruptly ended). Holy balls.

Jacobs slammed the book shut so hard that he lost his grip on it, and it crashed onto the floor. The noise it made sounded like a shout compared to the supreme stillness of the house. He stared at the two huge doors. An old feeling – a sense of being trapped, an urge to flee – reared its head once more. He resolved to take a walk, to explore the rest of the house. As long as he was quiet, he figured, the kid wouldn’t mind.

By candlelight, the wood carvings looked like they were crawling on the walls. They reminded Jacobs of the doodles in a high school notebook. Motifs like acorns and pinecones obsessively repeated themselves, cramming against one another. The kid had filled one section with nothing but skulls – human and animal, alike. Athletic male figures appeared in one corner, crudely depicted at first, but gradually becoming more detailed and lifelike (while also wearing fewer and fewer clothes). One wall showed the forest as a baffling maze, all dead ends and ravenous beasts. Another wall had it as a paradise, with the trees burdened by outsized cherries and apples, and the wild animals either fast asleep or dead.

He neared Dooley’s room, and almost tripped over himself when he realized that the kid was still awake. Dooley was talking – praying, it sounded like – in a stream of babble that reminded Jacobs of the hysterical nitwits who came to his uncle’s revival meetings. Slowly, Jacobs turned on his heels and headed back the other way.

Jacobs paused for a while before the windows on the front of the house. Just beyond them was the lower balcony. And below them, hemmed in by snow drifts, was his truck. Distantly, he could hear a fluttering sound. Wings. But he couldn’t tell if it was coming from outside the house, or inside it.


The third floor was pretty much like the second: small, anonymous rooms, sparely furnished; neurotic ornamentation; a faint stench in the cloying air. The fourth floor was merely an open area, stocked with casks and chests and heaps of furs. The ceiling was twice as high as the other floors. The fifth floor – if that’s what it was – consisted of a rectangular room in the center of the fourth floor. It was approximately eight-foot wide by forty-foot long, and with walls that stretched to the rafters. An ornately-carved door was located on one of the longer sides, about halfway up from the floor. A plain set of stairs led to this oddly-placed portal.

Jacobs climbed up the steps and examined the figure emblazoned on the door. It was a bearded man in a long, flowing robe; his head down, his eyes in shadow, one arm raised in an attitude of warning. From beneath his hood, protruded what might be a crown. Or antlers.

Jacobs backed away from the image. The quilt ensnared his feet; he slipped, fell forward. His head crashed against the door. There was a dull, metallic sound, and the rustling of wings – dozens of them.

The candle bounced down the steps, the tiny flame winking out as it went. From the corners of the night-black room there quickly arose a dry, scuttling sound; like leaves tossed by a whirlwind. Blindly, Jacobs felt his way to the down staircase and onto the third floor. He felt the air shift around him. A tiny exhalation of breath tickled his ear; he turned his head, and something grazed his cheek – something soft and light and warm.

For the sake of his own pride, he forced himself to walk, rather than run, back to his room.

The cuckoo clocks sounded louder than before. He thought he could hear gears, large ones, turning and shifting. And beyond that, rumbling and clankings -- the din of factories and train depots. He wondered if the hill behind the house concealed a mine. That would explain it. The noise was being carried through the rock. Except that he was certain that the bedroom’s exterior wall didn’t back up against the hill. Something about the clocks kept Jacobs’ attention glued to them until his eyes began to burn. The arms were moving faster and faster, it seemed, or else his sense of time was becoming distorted. 11:58. 11:59. Midnight.

The doors popped open.

Jacobs was on his back, in the bed, under a mountain of quilts and furs. The fire roared. He blinked. Something was wrong with his vision. He could see the clocks, the cuckoos retreating, the hands unanimously indicating eight o’clock. But everything close to him looked blurry. Involuntarily, his right hand groped at something on the side table. It retrieved a small, worn case.

His pince-nez glasses. Of course.

He propped them on the bridge of his nose. But no; he still felt out-of-sorts. He was horny as hell. Like always. But there was something more: a lingering notion that he had lost a shit-load of weight. He examined his hands. They seemed leaner than they should be. And worse yet, they were hairless. That was it, he realized. He pushed the furs and the quilts away from him, and stared at his naked body. His hair was gone – all of it. He loped over to the mirror, feeling unusually light. His reflection showed him a detestably haggard giant, sickly and thin. His bulging muscles were practically exposed to the open air, uncovered as they were by their customary layers of fat.

But it was the hairlessness that appalled him the most. There was no hair, anywhere. Not on his body, not on his face, not on his scalp. Even his once-shaggy eyebrows had vanished. But at least his eyes looked the same as they always did: one of them blue. Blue like sky. And one of them green. Green like grass.

For a terrible moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. But then, it dawned on him. He was in his bedroom, of course. In his house. Of course. His memories were vague. There were people and places, unfocused in his eyes; the human figures indistinct and covered by a downy gray fuzz; the places seemingly indoors but overlaid with the ghosts of leaves and moss; floors becoming uneven, splitting open, heaving up stumps and boulders and pools of clear water. But he was certain of one thing: he was home.

He strolled lazily through the room, bestowing loving looks upon all his favorite possessions. There were his pipe racks, naturally, hanging on the walls and sitting on the shelves and tables. And his tall jars of tobaccos; all kinds, and only the best. His library (his greatest treasure), filled with stories of knights and faeries and all manner of fantastic creatures. And near the bed, there was his zither.

A sudden fear spurred him to open the armoire. But all of his clothes were still there: his vests and his waistcoats, and on the floor sat all his fine hats. The dresser still housed his many sashes and kerchiefs, not to mention the pocket watch that was given him by a visiting prince, in honor of his storytelling. He wondered momentarily why he didn’t see any pants. He shook his head. You idiot, he thought to himself. You’ve never worn pants.

His cock strained against his (oddly flat) belly. He wanted to throw himself on the bed, burrow into the furs, and rub himself against the bristling hairs until he’d spilt his seed. Just hump the bejeezus out of it. Why not? It would feel natural. But there was no need for that. Not as long as he had his boy.

Hastily, he packed a pipe. It was one of his long-stemmed Meerschaums, the one with the bowl like the head of a Turk. Clenching it in his mouth, he slipped on a vest, tied a kerchief about his neck, and bounded downstairs. When he passed the balcony, he saw a strange thing: an object that vaguely resembled a carriage, but made of metal, was sitting in front of his house. Snow had nearly covered it. Or maybe it was sinking. He couldn’t tell. At any rate, it looked like it would soon be gone. And that was good enough for him.

He found Dooley in the kitchen, dressed in his hunting costume: long pants, tall boots, a voluminous coat, a muffler, and a short-brimmed felt hat with a feather in the band. Dooley’s eyes goggled. “Oh—g-good!” he stammered. “I guess they’ve st-started!”

Wordlessly, Jacobs inclined his head towards the boy. Dooley rushed over to Jacobs and lit his pipe with a kitchen match.

Jacobs rapidly puffed on the pipe, to get it going, before he finally spoke. “You guess who has started what, boy? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Dooley patted Jacob’s bare arm. “Th-the people from the clock, Papa! They’re fixing you! Remember? You got, you got, you got sick, but they’re makin’ you all better! It’ll take a few days, but they, they say they can do it.”

That made sense, Jacobs thought. There sure as hell was something wrong with him, even if he didn’t know what it was. He shivered, and moved closer to the fire. He rubbed his naked arm and loudly bemoaned the loss of his hair.

“That hair was b-bad,” said Dooley. “I-it had to come out. The people, the people from the clock, they’ll make it right. T-two more days, they tell me. Tomorrow will be the roughest, o-on account they can’t do it all while you’re sleeping. But I’ll be, I’ll be there with you, Papa! S-sometimes, anyhow. I g-gotta go check my traps now, but I made you some pretzels.”

Jacobs nodded, dully. “And sausages…?”

“Silly Papa!” whooped Dooley. “YOU don’t eat meat!”

Jacobs’ head ached, but the boy’s assertion sounded right to him, somehow. He pulled a stool over to the hearth, and sat down. Exhaling a great plume of smoke, he turned to Dooley and grinned. “I got a sausage YOU can eat right NOW, boy.” He fingered his stout, red member.

Dooley blanched. Softly, he replied, “But y-you’re sick, Papa.”

Jacobs tilted his head, stroked his chin. “What the hell does that matter? You’re my boy. This is what you do.”

“You’re sick, Papa,” Dooley repeated, firmer this time. “You don’t, you don’t want for me to get sick, too, do you? You’ll be better, s-soon enough. Then, we can play.”

Pain jabbed at Jacobs’ temples. “I—what the fuck am I even doing here?! This house--!”

“It’s YOUR house,” said Dooley. The explanation tumbled from his scruffy mouth: “Remember, Papa? You live here in the f-forest, you always did, and I was, I was, I was an orphan, and I ran away from m-mean old Miss W-wolf, only I got lost, but you took me in, you took me in, and you raised me! A-and now that I’m a grown-up, we can play grown-up games, and it’s okay, honest, ‘cause you’re not REALLY my daddy, only you l-like for me to call you ‘Papa.’ Remember th-that?”

Jacobs mind whirled as he struggled to recall this. Everything that had ever happened to him, somehow it had all happened in that house, or else in the forest nearby. And all of the young men he’d thought he’d fucked… they were all Dooley, weren’t they? Every last one of them. That part seemed like the most solid to him, and he was relieved to have found his footing. He removed the pipe from his mouth, and pointed it at Dooley. “You want to help your papa, don’t you, kid?”

“Oh, y-yes, Papa. Yes.”

“Well, you can help me take care of THIS” – he gave his cock a gentle tug – “without touching me. Did you know that? All you have to do is stroke yourself off, right here, while I watch you. I’ll do it, too, and you can watch me at the same time. Would you like that?”

Dooley liked it. He plopped his fat ass down on a nearby bench, undid his suspenders, and pulled his pants and his long underwear down until they pooled at the tops of his boots. His balls were the size of lemons, but his penis was a mere stub of a thing, and the pressure of all that clothing had compressed it still further. As he fondled it, however, it expanded to a respectable length. Jacobs treated his own cock gingerly, close as it was to ejaculation. He wanted to cum at the same time as his boy. At times, Dooley let his attention wander, his eyes flickering closed as he got lost in whatever fantasy he was accustomed to. Jacobs reprimanded him. And then, the boy’s frightened gaze would once more be fixed by Jacobs’ own fierce countenance. “I’m s-sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!” he gasped. “It’s just, it’s just, this is so weird--!”

Jacobs shot back, “It’s only kinky the first time, boy.” Hadn’t he said that to the kid before? In fact, hadn’t he said it to him plenty of times in the past? He couldn’t make sense of it. But he kept one hand on his mammoth dick, one on his pipe, and both of his eyes on Dooley’s quivering face.

Involuntarily, Dooley began to utter little grunts, and then, longer, louder groans. His chubby fingers squeezed his stout little cock, tickled his balls, raked through his thicket of pubes. Deepening shades of pink blossomed on Dooley’s cheeks as his dick jerked upward and poked into his low-hanging belly. The smell of sweat and pre-cum wafted through the warm air, teasing Jacobs’ nose. The older man responded by pumping his own cock faster, matching Dooley’s momentum. A spasm racked Dooley’s body. “Aw, golly! GOLLY--!” he cried.

Jacobs managed to ejaculate in synch with Dooley – but he was sure to display no pleasure in it. He made no sound. Instead, he maintained his grim, dominating expression, while his pipe smoke swirled about his hairless face. And yet, he had to fight an urge to slap his feet against the floor.

Dooley’s penis paled and shrank. Glumly, the young man looked down at his cum-soaked crotch and at his similarly-soiled fingers. “I guess I’d b-better go clean up,” he mumbled. He started to rise.

“NO.” Jacobs was already on his feet, and he pressed Dooley’s shoulders down, forcing him back onto his bench.

“Papa?”

“SHUT UP.” He clutched the kid’s scruffy jaw with a cum-spattered hand. “What you’re going to DO, is pull those pants back UP and go on outside. You are going to walk around all day with that filth stuck to you, so you can think about what a dirty, selfish little BITCH you are.” He wiped the cum off of his own cock, and smeared it into Dooley’s beard.

Miserably, Dooley did as he was told. As the kid toddled out the door, Jacobs was struck by a funny thought. He wished he had boots, because he wanted the worthless little shit to lick them clean.

But of course, he had never owned a pair of boots in his life.

Jacobs spent his morning in wandering the vast house, trying to re-familiarize himself with his surroundings. Apparently, he’d once taken care of it all by himself. That was before he had found the boy, he supposed. He couldn’t remember it clearly. He racked his mind, sifting through the murk like a prospector, and he could only turn up a few certainties: there was him, and there was the house, and there was the boy, and there were the people from the clock. He’d never seen the clock people, not personally, but they showed themselves to the boy. And they liked to give things to the boy, and to himself. Things they needed, like tools and clothes. Sugar, flour, tobacco. Books and pipes. And things they didn’t need, like the sweets that were making his boy fat.

The clock people doted on the boy, clearly. Jacobs couldn’t help but feel jealous. Every day, he could hear the clock people fluttering about, but always at a distance. Always in the shadows. And they seemed to prefer the boy’s company to his. He reminded himself that the clock people were helping him to get better. But he wondered if this was only for the benefit of the boy.

Dooley returned at lunchtime, meeker and even more polite than usual. In return, Jacobs permitted the lad to cuddle up next to him on a fur-covered bench, while Jacobs smoked his pipe and read aloud a sweet story. It was a charming tale, about two elderly gentlemen who were plagued by an elf behind their divan.

With Dooley properly chastened, Jacobs allowed him to clean himself up. The boy spent the remainder of the afternoon inside the house, doing chores and preparing dinner. The vast lodge continued to feel vaguely alien to Jacobs, so he retreated to his bedroom. While smoking a succession of beautiful pipes, he played his zither. He tried to recall an old tune, one that used to be a favorite of his, if his faulty memory was correct. It was called “Lowrider,” after some gaudy style of carriage. He could hear the melody in his head just fine – even if the lyrics escaped him. But when he tried to pluck out the song on his zither, it kept turning into a polka.

Dinner was a casserole of vegetable dumplings, which the boy brought to the bedroom on a tray. Jacobs wondered if he should invite the kid into his bed. Dooley was still reluctant to touch him, but seemed more agreeable to cuddling once he had draped a bear pelt over Jacobs’ hairless shoulders.

Despite his growing anxiety, Jacobs felt sleepy as hell. Quietly, the boy slipped off of the bed, and arranged the quilts and furs over Jacobs body so that just his head was exposed. The ticking of the clocks rattled through the cavernous room. Jacobs had trouble keeping his eyes open. “Goodnight, Papa,” said Dooley. And he kissed him on the cheek.

The next day was a nightmare.

He awoke to a piercing, pitiful squeal, like the sound of a pig being slaughtered. It took a minute for him to realize that it was caused by something mechanical. The squealing died away, allowing Jacobs to hear other sounds: steam whistles, clanking chains, whirring fan belts. The cacophony of thousands of wings, restlessly moving from perch to perch. Jacobs tried to cover his ears. But he found that he couldn’t move. He could feel things stabbing into his body, hard and cold. But the only part of him that responded to his brain was his head – and that, just barely. With effort, he blinked the crust from his eyes. When he could see, he attempted to scream. A basso profundo groan emerged from his lips, like the lowing of a cow. Drool ran down his chin, but he only noticed this once it started to pool on his chest, where he could see it.

The factory noises came from the clocks. He knew that, because all of their doors were open. But instead of birds, segmented metal tubes snaked from the doors, and every one of them led to his bed. To his body.

Somebody had removed the covers from the bed, so that Jacobs could see every place where the tubes pierced his flesh. The tubes burrowed into the soles of his feet, the palms of his hands, his thighs, his forearms, his stomach, his chest. Beneath his chin, his scalp, his cheeks. Into his back, into each of his balls, through his cock, and up his ass. (Fucking clock people!)

His belly was distended, and his feet – what he could see of them, anyhow – looked clownishly long and fat, with toes like marshmallows. And the nails had vanished. Whether they had fallen off or been absorbed into his skin, he wasn’t sure. He used up ten or fifteen seconds rolling his head to one side, so he could get a better look at his hands. Although nearer and therefore blurrier than his feet, they seemed to be suffering the same type of deformation.

Dooley, looking positively elated, waddled into the bedroom with a cup of coffee and a spoon. He set the cup on the side table, and hauled the upholstered chair over to the bed. “You’re lookin’ better already, Papa!” he beamed.

“Buh,” grunted Jacobs.

“It’s r-rough, I know, Papa,” Dooley explained, affecting a look of sympathy that was belied by the tent he was making in his lederhosen. “But it’s, but it’s i-important. I m-mean, you sure were powerful sick. You got all out of shape!”

Jacobs was pretty sure he and Dooley had wildly different definitions of “out of shape.” Or did they? He reminded himself that he was being changed back to normal. Normal being “fat as hell,” apparently.

Dooley’s eyes greedily looked Jacobs up and down, and he cooed like the oversized baby he was. “Aw…! L-look at the cute belly you have now… again!” The youngster patted Jacobs’ bloated stomach. The flesh rippled at his touch, carrying with it a gloopy sound, like it was stuffed with pudding. Dooley quickly withdrew his hand. “Oops! I forgot, I forgot, i-it takes awhile for it to turn s-solid. Leastways, that’s wh-what they told me. Tomorrow morning, th-that’s what the people from the clock say. That’s when you’ll be b-back to normal. A-and don’t you worry none; I’ll spend as much time here as I can.”

Unasked, the kid started to spoon coffee into Jacobs’ mouth.

“Guh,” Jacobs mumbled. “Nuh. Nuh.”

Dooley ignored him.

By lunchtime, Jacobs’ stomach had expanded into a classic beer gut. The muscular definition of his arms disappeared under layers of fat. On the periphery of his vision, he could sense that his face was rounder, the flesh at his throat bloating into a ruffle of double chins. He was sincerely relieved to be made chubby again, like he used to be. But he still couldn’t understand why his hands and feet were looking so strange.

Dooley gave Jacobs’ belly another pat around two o’clock, and this time it only quivered slightly. “S-see?” Dooley grinned. “They’re f-fixing you, adding on new bone a-and muscle and fat and, and, and what-not. O-only it takes s-some time for it all to change INTO that stuff, fr-from the juice. Oh, and s-some parts of you they have to, they have to rearrange. THAT’S why it takes so l-long. I don’t know. I-I ain’t no d-doctor.” He gave one of Jacobs’ plump, attenuated hands a gentle squeeze – not that he could feel it.

Later in the afternoon, sensation started to return to Jacobs. By five o’clock, he could more clearly feel the cold metal tubes, and the warm liquid that they were pumping into him. The tubes in his ass and cock, thankfully, were only there to pump his waste out. He didn’t want to know what the clock people were planning to do with it.

It also became clear to Jacobs that the clock people had done something to his muscles. They had altered them somehow, changing the length and placement of them, forcing him to adopt a strange posture. Even in his reclining state, his body curled forward. As the numbness left his arms, they drew slowly upward to his chest, with his hands drooping from his wrists. His horniness was constant now, dulled, but still painful. His nipples were an angry red, and had grown to look like they’d been transplanted from baby bottles. Real bear tits. His testicles had been expanded to the size of baseballs, and they groaned with cum. His fattened thighs heaved into them. He had a vision of the balls popping, like water balloons. His cock – unaltered because it was pretty goddamn big already, thank you very much – chafed against his puffed-up belly.

Meanwhile, Dooley just sat there, reading from one of Jacobs’ books. At first, the kid had read aloud to him, but he apparently got bored with that, and now was reading to himself, silently. While his lips fucking moved.

“Cuh-cahck, struhck uht, buh, struhck muh cahck…!” Jacobs burbled. He nodded towards his swollen member, but his view of it was blocked by his belly, which was as large and as round as a medicine ball. His hands – now permanently unable to reach his own genitals – pawed weakly at the air.

“Tomorrow, Papa,” said Dooley.

With some effort, Jacobs positioned his bloated fingers so that they touched his nipples. He started to scratch at them.

Dooley seized his wrists. “N-none of that, now!” he chided, as though he were talking to an errant child.

Jacobs turned his head away; grunted.

“Silly old Papa,” Dooley laughed. “I can, I can see that I’ll have to be w-way more st-stern with you!” He stood up and toddled around the room for a minute. “What can I, what can I do?” he mused. He hummed to himself, loudly. At last, the boy walked over to the dresser. He returned with two of Jacobs’ sashes. He yanked Jacobs’ wrists upward, and used the sashes to secure them to the headboard. Jacobs muttered some drooling protests, but the boy silenced them when he suddenly bent over Jacobs’ chest and started to chew on his nipples.

It seemed to Jacobs that the only parts of his body with full sensation were his nipples, his balls, and his cock. At least, he hoped that they wouldn’t get any more sensitive; even faint air currents were proving potent enough to stimulate them. With Dooley licking at his man-tits, raking his teeth against them, flicking at them with his tongue… Jacobs felt like he was going to explode. His cock thrashed against his belly; his feet twitched. The hard, cold metal danced inside him, spurting their hot liquid into him and vacuuming his own ejaculations off to God Knows Where.

Dooley watched Jacobs shake and then grow still. He made as though to kiss him but drew back at the last moment. “Goodnight, Papa,” he whispered. And he left, shutting the doors behind him.

Jacobs wanted to be angry at the boy. He wanted to give him a good smack-down, to shake him up, to show him his place. But he discovered that he couldn’t summon the enthusiasm for it. An unexpected protective instinct had been roused inside him. He wanted to be the boy’s papa, in whatever way the boy needed. His need to humiliate the boy, to subjugate him… that was pushed aside by a newer, warmer feeling. The boy needed his help, his training. That was for goddamn sure. But he would do it with gentleness. With love.

He looked at the clocks. It was after ten. He marveled at how much time had passed while he was lost in an ecstasy of love for his boy. One by one, the metal tubes made soft popping sounds as they withdrew from his flesh. The holes immediately closed up, leaving no mark. The tubes scuttled back across the wood floor, left tracks in the animal skins as they passed, and bounced into the clocks. The doors clacked shut.

Jacobs wanted to see his boy, to apologize for being so mean to him. He flopped off of the bed and discovered that he couldn’t raise his head; it would always be cast slightly downward, while he gazed up from under his brow. But, he supposed, that was how it was meant to be. His elbows akimbo; his long, pudgy hands hanging just in front of his chest; he made his way to the boy’s bedroom. He took on an unfamiliar gait, his enormous feet slapping at the floor, heel-toe, heel-toe; his ass wiggling playfully.

Dooley was asleep in his simple bed, his thumb firmly in his mouth. Jacobs had to bend almost halfway over in order to get his hands to touch Dooley’s head. He scratched at the boy’s scalp.

Dooley awoke with a start and nearly tumbled onto the floor. Jacobs backed away, feeling terribly upset with himself. “I’m so sorry, boy! Aw, hell, I hope you’re not hurt…!”

Dooley rubbed his eyes, theatrically, and broke into a snaggletoothed smile. “I-I think I scraped my knee, but that ain’t n-nothin’! Look at, look at you! Y-you’re almost totally cured!” He stumbled over to Jacobs and wrapped his arms around his chest. His modest belly pressed into Jacobs’ monstrous gut. “You look gr-great! And you’ll look even b-better t-tomorrow, after the people from the clock fix your teeth, and, and add on your whiskers and your f-fur.” Dooley’s hands glided up the sides of Jacobs’ head, past where Jacobs had thought his ears were supposed to be, and onto to his scalp. Lovingly, they stroked the two long, fleshy appendages that now sprouted there.

“My Papa,” Dooley sighed, blissfully. “My Papa Bunny.”

Jacobs stood before his mirror the next morning, admiring himself. He was a handsome rabbit, he mused, even in his declining years. His brown fur was still soft and luxurious, and the pear-shaped patch of white that had appeared on his torso only made him look more distinguished. Likewise, he felt that the burly, square-cut beard that adorned his face was even more striking now that it had turned silver. His eyebrows – which had always been bushy – were now so long that they drooped at the ends, like those on the old men in his book of Chinese woodcuts. But for a rabbit of his age, there was still some spring in his hop. His nose was still moist and pink; his whiskers, stiff; his buck teeth sturdy and long. (Those strange, pointy teeth that had pestered him in his sickness had been removed and replaced with flat grinders, to help him chew his vegetables.)

Not to mention, his rabbit cock was still hungry for his boy’s touch.

His tail wiggled, mischievously.

He packed his favorite pipe – the antique German full-bent with the tavern scene etched on the bowl – and padded downstairs.

Dooley greeted him by lighting his pipe. He then embraced Jacobs in a lingering hug, and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. Fuck THAT shit, thought Jacobs. He caught the boy’s head in his paws, and drew his head back to his own. He kissed the boy firmly, his tongue probing his gum line, prying apart his teeth, swabbing the roof of his mouth. The boy acted startled, as though they had never kissed that way before, but he soon relaxed and let Jacobs do as he wished. Jacobs pulled his tongue out of Dooley’s mouth and lapped at his face. Dooley’s eyes fluttered closed, and he moaned with pleasure. Jacobs took a deep draw on his pipe as he gently guided the young man onto the floor. He pinned him there with his bulk, ravishing him: opening his shirt, kissing him, blowing his smoke onto him, pressing the hot bowl of the pipe into his nipples. He could feel the bulge in Dooley’s lederhosen, as hard and as long as a railroad spike. He clutched at it with his paw, through the leather; squeezed it, kneaded it.

“Oh, yeah, Papa Bunny!” Dooley squealed. “Do it! Do it!”

Jacobs released his grip and rolled onto his back. “You first, boy. But use your mouth.”

Eagerly, Dooley engulfed Jacobs’ cock with his wet, red mouth. Jacobs felt Dooley’s teeth brush against his sensitive member, and he felt an urge to cuff the lad. But of course, he couldn’t reach him. “Damn it, boy, no teeth!” he growled. “Do it like I taught you!”

Dooley looked so sorrowful, that Jacobs felt ashamed of himself. The young man soldiered onward, sliding his mouth over Jacobs’ cock. Jacobs prompted the lad to concentrate on the most sensitive portion – the tip – and to supplement this movement by using his hands on other parts. Dooley’s right hand pumped at the root of Jacobs’ dick while his left hand tickled at his balls. Jacob savored the coupling of this sensation with the taste of his strong, dark, pipe tobacco. His head felt as though it were going to detach from his body and float away.

Jacobs could feel himself getting close to cumming when Dooley suddenly halted. “My jaw’s gettin’ tired, Papa Bunny!” he said, apologetically.

“You’ll get used to it with practice, boy. You can just use your hands for now. And don’t forget to spit on them first!”

With a quick nod, Dooley set about stroking Jacobs to climax. Jacobs’ cock kicked at his belly, and his mammoth feet thumped at the floor. His jizz shot onto Dooley’s hairy face, in a continuous stream. “Holy COW!” Dooley cried, and he chuckled as he released his grip.

Irritated, Jacobs barked, “Don’t just sit there, boy! Swallow that cum! EAT IT UP! And keep stroking!” He clamped the pipe between his teeth and puffed vigorously.

“Y-yes, Papa Bunny!” Dooley buried his face into Jacobs’ furry crotch once more, pumping away at his erection until it went soft. Jacobs leaned back, his ball of a stomach quivering, his white-furred chest heaving rapidly. He aimed his pipe at Dooley. “NOW it’s your turn. Get out of your clothes, and lay down.”

Jacobs positioned himself so that he was sitting on Dooley’s chest, facing his crotch. His fluffy tail rested on Dooley’s face. His great, soft paws slapped at the young man’s cock. Leaning over, he breathed his pipe smoke onto it. “You want my smoke to get into you, don’t you boy? You want to smell like my pipes, to smell like ME, forever and for always. Don’t you, boy?”

“YES, Papa Bunny,” Dooley moaned.

“Say it.”

Dooley did as he was told. Jacobs managed to grip Dooley’s dick between his paws, and slid his velvet-furred palms up and down the burgeoning pink rod. A drop of pre-cum glistened at the tip. Jacobs plucked the pipe from him mouth, and ran the hot bowl over the sides of Dooley’s dick. Dooley shuddered.

Jacobs’ tail wriggled against Dooley’s face. He lifted his ass, slightly. “You can start licking out my asshole ANY TIME, by the way,” he said. He didn’t understand why Dooley wasn’t doing that already, since he was relatively sure this was their usual routine. At any rate, Dooley quickly enough obeyed him. The lad’s rough tongue darted in and out of his wet, furry hole. “DEEPER!” Jacobs ordered. The young man finally crammed his whole face against Jacobs’ ass and probed as deeply as he could with his tongue. The muscle abraded Jacobs’ prostate, relentlessly, sending him into ecstasy as he played with the boy’s cock.

Soon enough, Dooley’s pecker spurted a thin, watery cum, and the young man pulled his head back, making a strangled little cry.

Jacobs rolled off of the boy. Hopping to his feet, he grinned down at him. “Good kid,” he purred. But his own cock was once again painfully hard, his balls filled to bursting once more with his animal cum. It was going to be a long day.

Drowsy and weak as he was, Dooley was easy enough to get into a position where he was on his knees, with his flabby ass high in the air. Jacobs tamped down his pipe, took a hearty pull on it, and admired the young man’s fresh pink hole. His cock slapped anxiously against his furry gut.

“My turn, again.”

The winter that year was fierce, but Jacobs’ heart was warmed by the sight of his boy finally growing up, reaching a maturity in his emotions and his behavior to match his adult frame. Under Jacobs’ gentle guidance, Dooley gradually became less moody, less given to displays of petulance or insecurity. He lost his stammer, and held his head higher than before. Although he still deferred to Jacobs in most things, Dooley had begun to sometimes disagree with him, calmly and reasonably. And if the young man could defend his side of the matter well enough, Jacobs would gladly relent.

Jacobs taught Dooley to groom himself: to keep his hair washed and trimmed, and neatly parted on one side, and to comb through it through. The clock people supplied them a bottle of oily fixative to keep Dooley’s hair in place. It smelled of pine needles. At long last, Dooley began to shave on a regular basis, although he retained his mustache. He kept the ends of it curled with a stiff wax, and looked very handsome indeed. Jacobs was thankful when the clock people stopped supplying Dooley with pastries. The kid’s pudginess waned, and his face lost its soft, infantile quality. His teeth were still a jumbled mess, of course, but that was a hazard of country living, Jacobs reasoned. And with Dooley’s strong jaw and dapper mustache to look at, he could usually ignore the teeth.

Although he didn’t eat meat, Jacobs liked to accompany Dooley on his hunting trips. At times, the muddy memories of his youth would get the better of him, spurring him to bound ahead of Dooley on all fours, his feathered cap flying off of his head. Once, he spied a group of his smaller, less-civilized cousins, and he was gripped by an odd sense of loss – for what, he couldn’t tell.

The two of them loved to spoon after sex. Dooley would sit in front of Jacobs, his back against Jacobs’ furred belly and his head on Jacobs’ chest, while Jacobs rubbed the sides of Dooley’s head with his velvet paws. Often, they’d fall asleep in this position, and they’d laugh at themselves when they woke up. “Just move your shit in here, already,” Jacobs finally said.

Jacobs would let Dooley choose which sash he was to wear on a given day. He was always amused by the seriousness with which Dooley undertook the task. Likewise, he gave the lad the job of cleaning and maintaining all of Jacobs’ pipes. In repayment for this, he gave Dooley his own pipe, a Zulu, which he thought looked quite handsome with Dooley’s hunting costume. But this kindness quickly proved to be a misstep on Jacobs’ part. Because Dooley reacted by growing quieter and more withdrawn. The young man not only made himself less available to Jacobs; he often disappeared entirely. Jacobs would find him dozing in a spare bedroom, or see him through a window, stalking off into the forest. Jacobs grew cross with him, which only prolonged the young man’s absences.

One February evening, Jacobs found himself searching the lodge, getting increasingly angry, while the cock which he could never reach pressed into his stomach and dribbled pre-cum on the dark wooden floors. The sun was down, and he never knew Dooley to venture into the woods at night. He figured that the young man was somewhere in the house. After trying every room on the lower three floors, he climbed up into the attic. He could hear the clock people fluttering in the shadows. Following him. He peered behind the trunks and casks and crates, and dug through the piles of animal skins. Nothing. With great reluctance, he climbed the steps to the inner room.

The door was locked.

Jacobs morosely padded back down the stairs. His cock felt soaked-through with pre-cum, and his monstrous balls ached. “MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed, his fat, hairy paws balling up into fists and punching at the air.

From just behind him, there came a creaking noise. He looked back.

The door was open.

And holding it open was one of the clock people. Jacobs had never seen one of them before, but he had always pictured them as resembling one of the faerie-folk in his books: miniature humans with slender bodies, fine features, and colorful wings. But this creature looked more like a bat than anything else. It was plump; with an outsized head and torso; stumpy, withered limbs; and dick that he figured was pendulous, relatively, since it hung past the thing’s knees. Broad, membranous wings grew from its back, and they bristled with short spines, like he’d seen on a puffer fish. Its bulging eyes were gray-blue, and as cloudy as a cataract victim’s. Garbled masses of cartilage served as its nose and ears, and its wide, lipless mouth was studded with needle-like fangs. Its body was covered in dense gray fuzz. Holding one claw to its lips, signaling quiet, the thing ushered Jacobs inside.

It was a tiny house. That was Jacobs’ first thought, as his candle illuminated the strange room. And yet, he had never seen a house like it. Underfoot, a mottled rug stretched from wall to wall, with no binding in sight. Instead of a fireplace, the chairs were gathered around a large box with a curved window of gray glass on the front. The kitchen floor boasted a glossy covering that at first appeared to be slabs of stone. But when Jacobs examined it, he saw that the grout and the tiles were joined. In fact, the whole thing had been printed, like a book illustration. The tables were made of cabinets which butted together, and their tops were covered in some manner of stiff, almond-yellow paper. There was an additional cabinet, quite tall and made of metal. Inside it were bizarre-looking containers, and clumps of fungus that may once have been food.

The clock person tugged at one of Jacobs’ floppy ears, and led him down a short hallway. He glimpsed the mummified remains of a woman and a man through one doorway; he hoped that what had been done to the bodies had occurred after their deaths and not before them. Impatiently, the clock person urged him on. At the end of the hall was a child’s bedroom, littered with toys. And there, he found Dooley, curled up on a tiny bed, with his thumb in his mouth. Jacobs was about to rouse the lad, when the clock person flitted between them. It gesticulated wildly, indicating that it wanted Jacobs to look under the bed. Sighing, Jacobs obeyed. There were lots of thing under there. Books and undergarments and tiny doll-men. None of it mattered, though, since his arms couldn’t reach any of it. The clock person darted beneath the bed. A moment later, it retrieved a certain volume and propped it in Dooley’s paws.

It was a children’s book, from England, with a publication date of 1898 – not that the year meant anything to Jacobs. “THE CRIMSON FAERIE-LAND BOOK”, announced the cover, in curlicue type. And below that was a line drawing of a rabbit, dressed in a sash and a waistcoat, with pince-nez glasses and a Meerschaum pipe. Dazed, Jacobs flipped through the pages until he saw another picture of the rabbit. It was in a color plate for a story titled “Papa Bunny.” One of its eyes was blue. Blue like sky. And the other eye was green. Green like grass. He skimmed through the brief tale. It was all there on the page: Jacobs’ life with Arthur – up to a point, anyhow. The human child, fleeing that hateful bitch, Miss Wolf, and finding shelter in the home of a bachelor rabbit. The two of them making a family, of sorts. Except that the foundling wasn’t named “Arthur.” He was named “Edmund.” And his hair wasn’t blond. It was black. “Black as night,” the story said.

With that, the phony fantasy world crashed down around him. His manufactured memories – sweetly green and softly lit – suddenly had to share space in his brain with the hard, ugly truth of his real life. The life he hated. He remembered something else, too: what he had told himself he hadn’t seen when his truck had supposedly crashed. The black, boiling mass, rising from the forest… it wasn’t a cloud at all. It was a colossal specter, shaped like some ancient beast-god or a pagan priest, its head adorned with antlers and a mighty beard. It had deliberately plucked his vehicle from the road and set it down on one of Dooley’s forest trails.

Maybe that’s what Dooley had been praying to. Or to the clock people, which Jacobs now realized were the spirit’s minions or intermediaries. And Dooley – the selfish little shit – had he prayed for Jacobs to be returned to be returned to civilization? Fuck, no. At Dooley’s request, the clock people had mutilated him, made him inhuman.

The clock person held its sides, shaking, and emitting what Jacobs supposed was meant to be a laugh but which sounded more like a rapid series of hisses. It spun crazily through the room on its ugly wings, its bulbous eyes half-closed with mirth. When it got near enough, Jacobs snatched it in his paws. The creature produced a ragged, keening whine, and it clamped its teeth down on Jacobs’ thumb. Jacobs ignored the pain, and squeezed on its neck until he could hear bone cracking. The thing relinquished its grip on his thumb and stared at Jacobs with wondering, fearful eyes.

Jacobs brought the creature up to his face, so it could feel the spittle that came from his mouth as he spoke the words. He didn’t care if it sounded like a threat, this time. He meant it like a threat: “I want to talk to your manager.”

Jacobs was in bed when Dooley staggered into their room, crying. No candles were lit; there was no fire in the hearth. Dooley went to light a candle, but Jacobs stopped him: “No. No light. My eyes hurt.”

“Poor Papa--!” gasped Dooley. “Is this a bad time? Because I need to talk to you.”

“Go ahead, boy,” said Jacobs in an even tone.

Dooley climbed onto the bed and laid next to Jacobs, with the covers between them. The kid didn’t seem to notice when the door swung on its latches, and closed shut.

“I have to tell you somethin’, Papa,” said Dooley. “And I know you won’t understand it, or leastways not yet, but you will, and I just don’t want you to be mad at me. I don’t know, maybe that part can’t be helped. But here goes.” Dooley’s tale rambled, but Jacobs got the gist of it. The sick fucker had just been a dumb trailer trash kid with a couple of screaming alcoholics for parents. And his drunk dad had a habit of bringing home old junk from the D.A.V. instead of his paycheck, and his mom would get all pissed off, and the two of them would really have it out. So one time, young Dooley was alone in the living room, listening to them beat the crap out of each other in their bedroom, and he made a wish, out loud. And bang! One of those little monsters popped out of the old cuckoo clock his dad had found, and although it couldn’t talk, it could beam its thoughts into Dooley’s head. It asked him if he wanted it to grant his wish. So being a kid, Dooley said “Yes.” And that’s when all hell broke loose. Long story short, a whole swarm of the clock people flew out of the clock and mangled Dooley’s parents to death. Supposedly to make things up to him, the clock people built the lodge around the kid’s trailer. And they taught him how to take care of himself. Still, Dooley longed for a father figure, something which took on sexual overtones once he hit adolescence. He obsessed over the “Papa Bunny” character from one of his dad’s old books, making it the central character in his masturbation fantasies. Taking their own sweet goddamn time, the clock people prayed on Dooley’s behalf to their master, the forest god or whatever the hell that giant thing was. And it had brought Jacobs into Dooley’s life. But having finally grown the fuck up and developed some empathy for another human being, Dooley now felt bad about what he’d asked the clock people to do to Jacobs. And he had talked to the clock people again. Asked them to change Jacobs back.

But the clock people had refused. Because, they told him, this whole thing had never been about him. It had been about them, and their amusement. They just liked to see what he would do. That’s why they had goaded him into eating all that sugary crap. Because they thought it was funny to watch him grow fat, while making him wear clothes that were too small for him. And that’s why they had agreed to mutate Jacobs into a version of the “Papa Bunny” character. Because they thought it was fucking hilarious.

“I’m so sorry, Papa,” Dooley sobbed. “Or maybe I should call you ‘Mister Jacobs.’ That’s your real name, although I guess you don’t remember that.”

Throwing the covers back, Jacobs put his fat, furry arm around Dooley’s neck, and heaved his bulk around so that his other hand was resting on Dooley’s stomach.

Dooley snuggled closer to Jacobs, and felt something hard dig into his side. It felt to him like Jacobs was wearing two belts over his arms, crisscrossing on his chest.

“I remember, boy,” Jacobs growled. “That’s the PROBLEM.”

Dooley squeaked in protest, but Dooley only tightened his grasp on the kid’s throat. “But you know what?” purred Jacobs. “I can work with this. In fact, I just had a talk with the big boss. And he likes MY ideas, better.” His hand slid down to Dooley’s crotch, and held it tight. “For instance, I don’t think you’ll be needing THIS anymore.”

The doors of the clocks popped open.
With a hoard of clock people pinning Dooley to the bed, Jacobs lazily slid his bulk onto the floor. He lit the fire, and a pipe, and turned to smile at Dooley. He savored the look on the stupid kid’s face. Jacobs was still shaped like Papa Bunny, but his fur – all of it – was jet-black. His exaggerated eyebrows were gone, trimmed back to the same velvety length as the fur on his forehead and cheeks. The whiskers had vanished, along with his square-cut beard, and in their place was a massive, jutting VanDyke. And the pretentious little pince-nez glasses were gone, because he’d had his vision restored. Best of all, his eyes were no longer sky-blue and grass-green. Both of them were red. Red like blood.

He took the copy of “The Crimson Faerie-Land Book” from his shelf and fondled his leather harness as he padded towards Dooley. “I’ve been reading this, kid, and I think you were onto something. There is some beautifully fucked-up shit in here! I can’t believe it was aimed towards kids! But I’ll tell you what: it sure as hell gets MY motor running. In fact, I’ve already chosen your new look!” He held the illustration out for Dooley to see.

The little fucker thrashed around a little, but the clock people kept him restrained.

The whole process took up most of the day, but Jacobs didn’t mind. Especially because he was able to fuck Dooley the whole time he was being worked on. Jacobs spent the morning ass-ramming him, while the clock people systematically removed every hair from Dooley’s body. Once that was done, they implanted the tubes, and vacuumed out the last of his body fat, giving the kid the lean, sculpted body of a swimmer. They extracted his teeth and replaced them with square, fake-looking nubs that were as soft and resilient as foam rubber. Dooley screamed the most when they sliced off his cock and sealed his balls up inside his newly-smooth, featureless crotch. Jacobs had humped Dooley extra-hard, then, and he found himself mocking the kid’s screams. “Oh, no!” he hollered, sarcastically. “Why are you doing this? Cut it out, will ya?” When the clock people inserted their instruments into Dooley’s skull, to alter his brain, the kid finally passed out. “Shit,” Jacobs muttered. But he kept fucking him, anyway.

By lunchtime, the clock people had removed every trace of pigment from Dooley’s face. This let Jacobs switch positions, and start fucking the boy’s mouth. Meanwhile, the clock people worked on the rest of Dooley’s body, until all of it was as white as milk. Except for the tattoos, of course.

Sweating, reeking of musk and sweat and pipe smoke, Jacobs continued to grind his furry crotch against Dooley’s face. He watched, fascinated, as the clock people snaked a complicated instrument up the boy’s ass. They were working on his internal organs, he knew, and it was none too soon. When the instrument was removed, Jacobs glanced at the clock person who wielded it. “Now?” he asked.

The clock person nodded.

With a sigh, Jacobs relieved himself into Dooley’s throat. No more chamber pots for him. The kid would serve as his urinal, and his outhouse, and all the waste would just be absorbed into his flawless, sexless body.

When Dooley’s change was complete, the clock people bound his unconscious body in a tall metal collar, a harness, and bracelets, all of it thickly plated in gold. They pierced his nipples – which now were as big as pencil erasers – his ears, and his septum. The rings were gold, as well. His face bore the only traces of color on his milk-white body. On his cheeks, there were two large, red circles. A tiny red Valentine heart marked the center of his lips. Black ink served for his eyebrows, and for his mustache, which was highly stylized. It curled at the ends.

Dooley was on his knees with his mouth around Jacobs’ cock, when his eyes fluttered open. They were golden, beautiful, and full of fear. Just like Jacobs had wanted them to be.

“Now, listen to me,” Jacobs spat. “I know you can understand me, you worthless little shit. But you can’t do a damn thing about this. Your body? That’s mine, now. You have no control over it. It only exists to pleasure me. And you? You’re just a passenger.”

Dooley’s soft teeth kneaded Jacobs’ cock, mechanically. The kid’s pale hands jerked upward and started to stroke Jacobs’ thighs.

“Good kid,” Jacobs grinned, belching a cloud of smoke. “Oh, and one more thing: I’m not calling you ‘Arthur Dooley’ anymore. THAT selfish fuck is as good as dead. From now on, you have the same name as the character from that screwy book.”

He stroked Dooley’s hairless scalp, and grunted contentedly. “My boy…!” he sighed. “My Remarkable Puppet Boy!”

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