Chuck Tingle
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Speve Kornacki Pounded Enthusiastically By His Handsome Election Map
🕑 Added 2024-11-05 23:20:44 +0000 UTC
AUTHOR'S NOTE: hello buckaroos and welcome to election night. this brand new tingler is presented to you FREE OF CHARGE so please enjoy. if you can afford it, consider making a donation to TRANSGENDER LAW CENTER for the price of a book. usually tinglers are three dollars.
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voting is one way to create change, but proving love is something that is within your power all year long. that includes making art and ESPECIALLY making art to drive donations. LETS TROT BUCKAROOS
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Speve Kornacki is one of the best political data analysts in the country, and tonight is election night. After training for nearly four years, he’s ready to go, but as the night progresses Speve finds himself in an awkward position… are his powers of electoral computation simply too powerful to contain?
When an unexpected voting result occurs, Speve abruptly finds himself blasted into another timeline. It’s here that Speve and his handsome sentient touchscreen map must work together to get back home, both politically, and erotically.
This erotic tale is 4,200 words of sizzling human on gay electoral map action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, and touchscreen love.
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SPEVE KORNACKI POUNDED ENTHUSIASTICALLY BY HIS HANDSOME ELECTION MAP
By Chuck Tingle
“Big night,” my boss says as he catches sight of me walking into the office.
I nod as casually as possible, trying my best not to let my enthusiasm get the
best of me. “Sure is.”
In general, I have no problem with getting excited—in fact, it’s kinda what
I’m known for—but right now I need to stay focused. I know that if I allow even the slightest bit of political elation to slip through, I might not be able to stop the rest from coming out, and that could become a problem quickly.
As one of the premiere political analysts in the country, I’ve spent years of my life climbing up the ladder to get where I’m at. There’s plenty of people out there pouring over election data as it blasts in from every corner of the country, but not many of them have the delightful electricity to appear in front of the camera. I’m honored to be in this position, flattered by the opportunity to represent my field in such a notable way, but there’s also a lot of pressure.
I need to be thrilling, yes, but there’s also plenty of analysis to get done. If I get too riled up, as I’m sometimes prone to do, then it might affect my voter breakdowns. A clear head is absolutely required for me to do my job.
That’s the balance I need to find, somewhere between wild-eyed excitement and stern, technical communication of the facts at hand.
“You feeling ready, Speve?” my boss continues as the two of us step into the elevator next to one another.
“I’ve been training non-stop for three years and three hundred and sixty days,” I reply. “I think I’m ready.”
My boss laughs, which makes me wonder if he thinks I’m making a joke.
For the record, this reveal of my training calendar is the absolute truth. The second that my election duties stop on the previous year is the moment that they start up on the next.
I begin my mornings a four-thirty, waking up and immediately reciting the electoral college votes for every state, first in alphabetical order, then in reverse alphabetical order while running my first ten kilometers of the day. After that, I take an hour-long ice bath while fielding questions about county demographic breakdowns, which have been curated by my team. I eat a lunch based on the food preferences of each state, then I do my best to name which state the meal comes from (I’m sitting at two hundred and eighty-one correct answers in a row at the moment). Next is study time, followed by a few more pop quizzes, and then my final ten kilometers of the day on a route that’s shaped like a randomly generated swing-state county. Before bed, I update my personal ranking of the pollsters, first based on accuracy and then based on who I’d most like to grab a chocolate milk with, and I memorize these lists so that I can consider how I’ll change my rating during the following day’s updates.
Suffice to say, I’ve been putting in the work.
“Speve. Speve... Speve!” my boss says, his last attempt finally breaking through my trace and pulling me back into focus.
I realize now that the elevator has stopped, opening at the floor of our massive newsroom. My boss is holding the elevator door for me but I’m not stepping through it, instead just staring out into space as I clench my jaw and grind my teeth.
Slowly, I unclench, acknowledging the toll that all this unspent political energy is taking on my body. It’s hard not to let it all come erupting out of me.
“Oh, thank you,” I blurt, pulling myself together and strolling into the hallway.
The newsroom is already bustling, people rushing this way and that as they prepare for the evening to come. Phones are ringing off the hook and enormous, rolling news cameras are getting pushed into position.
The second that I enter this zone of activity I can feel something shift inside me, that storage of meticulously cultivated political energy pushing up against the walls of its psychic enclosure. It’s so arresting that I actually stop in my tracks, reaching out to brace against the wall as I struggle to regain my composure.
“Not yet,” I murmur. “Take it easy, Speve. You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”
It’s a dangerous game I’m playing, but this is what it takes if you wanna play in the big leagues. All of my training has been for this, and now I just need to find a balance.
It’s like there’s been a steam valve built into my brain, a method of letting this potent energy slip out one gust at a time. If I hold it in too long then the whole machine will start to shake, threatening to explode, and if I let it all out at once then there’s too much force, yielding similar results. The key is to find a pace and stick to it.
“Hey, what do you think about those new Blue Wall polls?” someone asks me, breaking my concentration and causing another giant bubble of political energy to bloom within me. For the briefest moment, I see a flash of shimmering gold flakes drifting across my visual field, a manifestation of my own analytical might,
“I can’t talk about this right now!” I shriek, throwing my hands up and hurrying down the hallway. I spot my dressing room and rip the door open, nearly tearing it off the hinges as I dive inside and then slam it behind me. “Don’t come for me until I’m on air!”
There’s a brief moment of silence, until one of the studio PAs finally gives me a curious knock. “Speve?” they call out. “Is everything alright in there?”
“Too... much power,” I stammer, feeling the political might bubbling up once again.
It suddenly dawns on me that maybe I did train too much this year, that the analytical power I wield is simply impossible for any one mortal to contain within a frame of flesh and blood.
Unfortunately, it’s too late to worry about that now.
Instead of dwelling on these thoughts, I spring into action. I begin tearing apart my dressing room, pushing as much furniture as I can manage in front of the door. It’s only now that I notice just how easy this is, my data-evaluation vigor providing me with an almost superhuman strength.
“Just let me rest,” I growl. “There’s so much strength coursing through me. I need... I need...”
The PA answers before I can even finish my thought, calling back through the door. “Alrighty Speve, that sounds good. I’ll come and get you before we go live.”
With my desk and couch piled up like a barricade, I finally collapse against the heap. I struggle to catch my breath, then gradually settle in. As I close my eyes, I barely notice the various members of the house of representatives that are tumbling across my lips in a strange mantra.
“It’s time!”
I sit up straight, immediately springing into action as I tear down the
blockade. I have no idea how much time has passed since my last trance, but I feel gloriously energized. My focus is honed in on the task at hand, and my psychic steam valve is functioning just as intended.
Once I’m finished up I open the door and fall into a confident stride, the PA expertly leading me through this bustling studio space. Far ahead, I can see our set, massive swaths of red and blue spilling across the backdrop. There’s a large desk on the left, behind which my lead anchor Maychel Raddow sits, and to the right is the large touchscreen where a United States map is projected. At the moment, each state is filled in with a shade of light grey, but soon enough these little pieces will begin to shift into reds and blues.
With the first step I take onto this familiar set, I feel another surge of psychic energy, gold dust erupting through my mind. Fortunately, I quell it fast, which speaks good things for the night to come.
“Good to see you!” Maychel calls out. “Let’s have a good one.” “Ready to go,” I tell her confidently.
The second that these words leave my lips a giant countdown begins, a
blinking light going off behind the cameras and a large hanging screen displaying the numbers 5, 4, 3, 2...
Triumphant music begins to play as one of the cameras swings down into position, panning across the studio and then finally arriving at Maychel behind her desk.
“It’s Election Night in America,” Maychel begins, addressing the camera with her authoritative yet conversational tone. “Millions have tuned in, not just across the country, but around the world, anxious to see who will be chosen as the next President of The United States. Of course, no election night would be complete without our data wiz—the man, the myth, the legend—Speve Kornacki. Speve, any predictions before our first vote tallies start coming in?”
The camera glides around to face me. This time, when the mighty political analysis energy blooms within the pit of my stomach, I let it.
“Well, Maychel, we have a lot of issues a play here. On one hand, Harris has been dominating with women voters, especially Gen Z woman and older women. Tromp, on the other hand, has been courting the racist, basement-dwelling devil vote, and while the polls show these two candidates are neck and neck, I still see this being a poor strategy for Tromp.”
“Why is that?” Maychel asks.
“Well, because basement-dwellers rarely leave their basement,” I explain. I tap the screen, instantly flipping the map graphic over to reveal a diagram of a sniveling, racist, homophobic, transphobic devil. The creature is small and strange, dripping with ooze and covered in scales. “The problem with focusing on low propensity voters as a strategy is th-”
“I’m sorry, Speve,” Maychel interjects. “Looks like we’ve got a few states reporting their numbers already.
The wild, political energy within me begins to tremble an quake, threatening to break loose as the stakes of this evening start to heighten. Still, I manage to keep the ship steady.
This happens every four years, I remind myself. States turn in their votes. Some turn red. Some turn blue. This is normal. You prepared for this.
I settle in, watching as various counties begin to offer up their data dumps. As information filters in, the states on my map begin to saturate, blooming with shades of periwinkle or crimson.
It helps to ground me when these results are exactly what you might expect. New York has gone to the Democrats. Alabama has gone to the Republicans.
This is exactly where I want to be, where I function best on this very important evening.
After a few hours, I finally get the feeling it’s gonna be smooth sailing tonight, but the second this notion crosses my mind something unexpected happens.
I suddenly notice that people are frantically sprinting around the set, dashing back and forth behind the cameras as they whisper into each other’s ears and hand off stacks of paper to one another.
Maychel reaches up and touches her earpiece, listening intently to some frantic burst of information from our lead producer. Her expression faulters. “No,” I see her murmur to herself. “Are you sure?”
Maychel is one of the best in the business, and part of what makes her so solid is the way that she seamlessly takes in new information and runs with it. Absolutely nothing trips her up, which is why I’m so deeply concerned.
She suddenly turns to address the camera directly, clearing her throat and then jumping right in. “It appears something truly unprecedented has happened,” Maychel starts. “In all of my years as a reporter, I’ve never heard of something like this, but it seems one of the states have been won by a third-party candidate.”
My eyes go wide, that psychic political energy surging hard. My hands begin to tremble as I pull up a new color, assigning yellow to the third-party candidate RFK, Jr.
This has never happened before. This has never happened before. This has never happened before.
“That’s right, Michigan no longer belongs to the Democrats or the GOP. Speve, what are the chances tha-” Maychel starts, throwing it to me, then stops herself. “What’s that?”
“Yellow for RFK,” I reply, pointing to the touchscreen map behind me. “Oh, it’s not RFK,” she counters. “It’s Jeb.”
I falter, furrowing my brow slightly. “What?”
“Jeb has won Michigan,” Maychel explains. “Jeb Bush.”
The second that Maychel says this I feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach, nearly doubling over as the excitement surges. Never in a million years could I have predicted this sudden resurgence of Jeb Bush, and the second that I realize this is actually happening my mind kicks into overdrive.
My fingers begin to dance across the touchscreen, eyes darting through various swathes of data points. It’s hard to parse what I’m seeing at first, but the second I lock in on what’s going on I realize this situation is even more thrilling than I once thought.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Jeb is also ahead in Utah... and Maine.”
“It’s a Jebassance,” Maychel chimes in.
I can feel my senses struggling to stay in alignment, for my connection to
this physical realm to hold steady. There’s so much happening all at once, and with every new pile of votes that comes in I find myself transitioning farther and farther into the astral plane.
I begin to look closer at the Maine results, and once again I find myself utterly shocked. I’d been too quick to assign these unexpected votes, too caught up in the Jebassance to realize this state is actually going for yet another dark horse candidate.
“Chuck Tingle,” I announce. “Maine is actually going to someone named Chuck Tingle of the Buckaroo Party. I don’t even know who that is!”
“We’re now getting word that Oklahoma has gone to Paul Rudd,” Maychel suddenly chimes in. “They love where he stands on handing out water bottles. Truly unprecedented.”
My eyes roll back into my head as political energy consumes me. The din of the studio grows louder and louder, first sounding like a whistle and then blossoming into a roar. My body is quaking hard, shaking wildly as I completely give in to the moment.
Then, it all stops.
My gaze slowly lowers to discover that everyone around me has frozen in place, the aural chaos of the studio now a strange, otherworldly hum. Flakes of golden energy drift through the air, sparkling and sizzling.
I walk over to Maychel’s desk, investigating the reporter up close to see if she’s just messing with me.
“Hey,” I say, waving my hands in front of her face.
No response.
Finally, the confusion is just too much to take. I lean my head back and let
out a frustrated cry. “What the hell is going on?”
“Your raw data-analyst energy was so powerful that it sent you into a pocket
timeline,” comes an unexpected voice from behind me.
I turn to see that my touchscreen election map is addressing me directly, a
massive face pushed out from his screen and smiling warmly. The sight is unexpected, but not frightening, which is certainly helped by just how handsome this living object is.
“Pocket timeline?” I repeat back to him. “What does that even mean?”
“See those flakes of gold? That’s your immaculate political vibes,” the sentient election map explains. “You’ve got all this energy stored up, and that’s fine if you let it out slowly, but...”
“I let it rip,” I say, finishing his sentence as I nod in acknowledgement. “I was trying to pace myself.”
“Listen, you shouldn’t feel bad,” the map offers warmly. “That energy is what makes people love you so much, and it’s great you do so much training for tonight. That’s a lot of power to be wielding, though. It was only a matter of time before you blew a hole in reality. Thankfully, this timeline started repairing itself immediately instead of letting you float out into The Void.”
I have no idea what any of that means, but I nod along anyway.
“I’m Tremblin by the way,” the map says.
“Speve Kornacki.”
Tremblin smiles. “Oh, I know. All of us maps know exactly who you are.” “So what do I do?” I ask. “How do I get back? I’ve got an election to
analyze.”
Tremblin considers this a moment.
“You’ve gotta expend some of that energy,” the touchscreen finally replies.
“There’s so much power flowing through this timeline. We can’t start repairing things until it’s been reined in a little bit.”
“And how do I do that?”
“There’s a lot of ways to spend excess energy,” the sentient election map opines. “You could go out and run a marathon, although you’ve got so much raw power, I think you’d have to loop it four or five times in a row.”
“That sounds awful,” I admit.
“There’s always great sex,” Tremblin says with a laugh, but the second these words leave his lips I feel a chill of excitement run the length of my spine.
There’s a tension in the air, an awkward silence that falls upon us as we stare into one another’s eyes. There’s no doubt this election map is attractive, especially to a political nut like me, but it’s hard to tell if he’s making a joke, or making a pass.
“Oh yeah?” I finally question in return, the words falling limply from my lips.
Tremblin nods, slowly rolling towards me. “Yeah,” he coos.
The tension escalates between us as our bodies move closer, and we meet it finally breaks. The next thing I know, me and this sentient election map are locked in a passionate embrace, kissing deeply on the lips.
We begin to frantically explore one another’s bodies, hands roving across eachother’s forms. I start at the top of this rectangular screen and work my way down, admiring the incredible mechanical craftsmanship.
Meanwhile, Tremblin begins to strip away my clothing. He peels off my tie first, tossing it to the side, then unbuttons my shirt. With every article that’s removed I find myself aching for more of his confident caress, my body trembling as it’s exposed to the cool studio air.
Soon enough, I’m standing completely naked before him.
As my hands work their way even lower across Tremblin’s rectangular frame, I begin to notice a slight change in his shape. A bulge has appeared on his lower half, slowly growing until it projects out from his body in a massive rocket of flesh.
I trace my hands just above the election map’s massive cock and then finally have mercy, dropping my attention a little lower and wrapping my fingers tightly around his enormous dick. The map leans his head back and lets out a satisfied groan, pushing his hips against me as I begin to work him.
I start slowly at first, taking note of the way his body reacts to my touch and then acting accordingly. It’s not long before I’m stroking him off at a confident pace, but the lustful energy that pulses through me is too overwhelming and I abruptly shift techniques, taking things to the next level.
I drop to my knees before the handsome election map, gazing up at him with lustful eyes and then offering a playful wink before taking his rod between my lips. I immediately get to work, sucking him off at the same clip as my hands the came before.
“Oh fuck,” the handsome election map says, closing his eyes tight and placing his hand against the back of my head to guide me along.
It’s only now that I realize our connection goes way beyond data analysis. Me and this map have spent so many years together, peers in the fight for accurate, up-to-date political discussion, and it’s no wonder this potent synergy has implications on every aspect of our relationship... even the erotic parts.
I know exactly the speed to work him, reaching up and cradling his balls as I push him further along. I also know that he’ll love this.
Without a word, I pop Tremblin’s cock out of my mouth and pull back, taking a moment to gather my senses and take in a deep breath. The second I’m ready, I open wide and swallow his rod yet again, only this time I don’t bob my head. Instead, I push my face deeper and deeper across his shaft, allowing the election map’s massive cock to slip well past the expected limits of my gag reflex. Soon enough, my face is pressed up against his abs, fully consumed in an expert deep throat maneuver.
I hold like this for as long as I possibly can, then finally erupt off of him in a flurry of saliva as I desperately gasp for air.
“Fuck me,” I command.
I spin around and drop to my knees, popping my ass out towards the handsome electoral map. I sway my hips from side to side, egging him on, but Tremblin doesn’t need to be told twice. He rolls into position behind me, aligning his massive rod with my tightly puckered back door and then thrusting into me with a singular, confident movement.
I let out a startled yelp, my hands digging into the studio floor as I struggle to accept his incredible size. It takes a moment for my body to adjust, stretched to the absolute limits, but my electoral map lover takes his time with me.
“No rush,” he offers with a soothing, confident voice. “This could happen tonight, it could happen in two weeks. That’s just the way elections go.”
Fortunately, things fall into place rather quickly. Any discomfort soon fades away, replaced instead by a pleasant warmth at the pit of my stomach. Tremblin begins to pump in and out of me, our political synergy immediately allowing us to fall into sync with one another.
The warmth inside my body starts to transform, taking shape as it spills out down my arms and legs. I’m quaking hard now, my muscles clenching and releasing in mighty waves as the impending orgasm continues to bloom.
I reach down with one hand and begin to stroke myself off in time with the thunderous pounds of Tremblin against my backside, the election map giving it to me with everything he’s got. These two distinct sources of pleasure begin to swirl within me, mixing like rural and urban center datasets to create something wholly unique and unexpected.
The impending climax grows even larger, filling me up until there’s nowhere left for all of this pent up energy to go.
“Oh my fucking God!” I cry out, throwing my head back and letting out a howl of pleasure as the orgasm rips through my body.
The election map carries me from beginning to end, plowing into me at just the right angle as I lose myself in the moment. He keeps the pace, massaging my prostate from within until I’m entirely spent.
The second that I finish, Tremblin pushes deep and unleashes an orgasm of his own. I can feel his hot white jizz pumping into me, filling me up and then squirting out from the rim of my tightly packed ass.
Once the two of us are fully satisfied, we collapse into a pile on the studio floor, struggling to catch our breath.
“That was incredible,” I gush.
“Hell of a way to spend election night,” the map says in agreement.
I take a moment, gazing up at the ceiling as little flecks of gold continue
drifting past.
“It’s kinda wild that these pocket timelines slow down to a crawl,” I observe. “Makes sense to me,” Tremblin replies, sitting up and looking over at me.
“Look, the effort you put into this stuff is incredible. People love you, and you’re doing the nation—hell, the world—a big service, but you gotta remember to take a moment for yourself. Everyone needs to remember that. It’s okay to press pause, especially when things get overwhelming.”
I nod. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
“Getting off is certainly one way to do it,” Tremblin continues, “but you can also take a walk, or make yourself a special meal from a cookbook, or go write a song. Hell, you could even read an erotica short.” He looks directly into one of the studio cameras as he says this, which is weird.
“And then?”
“And then get back into the fight,” the election map says. “Election season is a time for change, sure, but it’s important to keep that excitement going the rest of the year, too. There are other very important ways of fighting for what you believe in. Don’t spend all that energy at once and blow yourself clear into another timeline of existence. Fight. Take care of yourself. Keep fighting.
Suddenly, Tremblin stops. He’s gazing past me now. “Speaking of getting back into the fight,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder to see that the world is very, very slowly starting to move again. All that psychic energy was finally expended, and now our little pocket timeline is catching up.
“Oh!” I blurt.
I jump to my feet and very quickly begin pulling back on my clothes. Meanwhile, Tremblin rolls back into position.
“Do you think anyone will notice?” I call out, worried.
The election map laughs. “They might,” he says, “depends on if you keep eyeing me like that.”
I can’t help but crack a smile as I straighten my tie. They’ll probably notice that part. It’s hard not to.
Comments
Jennifer Moquin
Thank you, Chuck. My heart hurts today but I am choosing to refocus and recommit myself to my twin goals of spreading kindness, and reblogging dirty fanworks, because the world needs so much more of both 💔
