Chuck Tingle
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Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of Chuck Tingle’s Ability To Write “From USA Today Bestselling Author” On The Front Of His Books Now
🕑 Added 2023-07-28 15:05:58 +0000 UTC
It’s been a few days since the release of his new novel, Camp Damascus, and Chuck Tingle is getting curious how the book is doing.
The mysterious author has crafted a home free from distraction, a featureless structure in the middle of the Nevada desert, and he’s thankful for the space. After all, Chuck owes his incredible output to this quiet interruption-free zone, but the lack of outside connection means the fate of his first traditionally published horror novel is still unknown.
Now Chuck is making the journey back to civilization, where his erotic fate waits in the form of a handsome physically manifested concept, named bork, who’s looking to show Chuck that sometimes a little celebration is called for.
This erotic tale is 4,000 words of sizzling human on gay living concept action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, cream pies, and the ability to write “from USA Today bestselling author” on the front of your book now love.
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POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF CHUCK TINGLE’S ABILITY TO WRITE “FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR” ON THE FRONT OF HIS BOOKS NOW
By Chuck Tingle
I’ve been a professional writer for some time now, and while my legal identity remains a mystery, a number of different theories have been proposed. Some of these theories are closer to the truth than one might think, but I suppose the truth doesn’t really matter, it’s the story that brings out the most joy in people.
Besides, the story and the truth are much closer than one might think. They’re basically the same thing.
Along with outside, fact-based speculation, there’s a whole other artistic journey going on within my written fiction. I’ve crafted plenty of short stories detailing the inner workings of my own life, setting them anywhere from the suburbs of Billings, Montana, to deep in the Hollywood Hills.
These stories are stuffed to the brim with action and adventure, fantastical journeys through the layers of reality that provide all kinds of meta, fourth-wall-breaking commentary on the headlines of the day. They’re fun and thrilling, but none of them have truly peeled back the mask enough to get a full view of what it’s like to be Chuck Tingle.
Until now.
I step out of the front door of my small, rectangular home, no more than two hundred square feet of simple, air conditioned shelter positioned at the dead center of absolute nowhere.The walls are painted white, a stark point of light in a seemingly endless desert that stretches on and on in every direction.
This is Nevada—Elko County to be exact—although that specific distinction might imply a sense of community or connection to the outside world. In reality, there is none to be found.
I stand here in the doorway for a moment, breathing in the dawn air. There are times when the wind gets so bad out here that a moment like this would be impossible, but this particular morning is hauntingly quiet.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s always somekind of quiet out here on the range, but right now that silence has reached an almost supernatural weight, as though I’ve been wrapped up in the mighty vacuum of outer space.
The sun has just started its crest over the distant horizon, a sliver of light that paints the sky in a strange and glorious yellow, which then quickly transitions into shades of dark blue. The soft nothingness of this moment actually makes the growth of the blooming sun easy to track, and I watch as this sliver grows in a sizzling dance.
It’s gonna be a hot one on the plains. Fortunately, I won’t be around for most of it.
I head back inside and start to get ready, dressing for the day and fixing myself a cold glass of chocolate milk.
My home is objectively small, but the lack of furniture gives it an unexpectedly open feeling. There’s very little in here, just a small kitchenette, a bathroom the size of a closet, and a bed in the corner.
Many people have asked how it is I write so fast, and I’ve given a myriad of answers. Most of these answers are true, in their own way, but there’s an additional truth that just might be more important than the rest. I write as much as I do because I have no distractions, and this lack of distractions is by design.
Without furniture I can concentrate on hitting my wordcount, and placing myself here in the desert means I won’t be interrupted. I’m much too far out for any cell phone reception, and no internet service providers can install their cables. Satellite could be a potential option, but if anyone offered I’d still turn it down.
The disconnection is not a bug, it’s a feature.
This is how I get so much writing done. The solitude may feel a little suffocating at times, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay if that means hitting my word goals.
Of course, there are a few days where an internet connection would be handy, and today is one of them.
I finally grab my laptop, slipping it into a sleek, faux-leather case and heading for the door. I lock up, despite the fact there’s nobody around for miles and—even if there was—I’ve got nothing to steal, then head for the car parked out front.
My sedan is in decent condition, holding up well enough in the sandstorms and the blazing sun, but I use this vehicle so infrequently it’s always a question whether or not it’s going to start up.
Fortunately, when I slide into the driver’s seat and turn my keys, the car sputters and roars to life. We’re in business.
Soon enough, I’m making my way through the wide open desert, carving a straight line across the dusty landscape as I make my way towards the nearest road. Out here there’s nothing to follow besides my previous tracks, which have long since blown away under the force of the elements.
Eventually, I arrive at a long stretch of asphalt, which I turn the vehicle onto and steadily pick up speed. By now the sun has left its perch on the horizon, slowly drifting into the air like a massive yellow balloon that floats away at one thousandth its natural speed.
I’m not going to lie, this subtle connection to the outside world feels good. Knowing that—at some point in the past—human hands actually constructed the road stretching out below my tires is enough to trigger something deep within, a yearning for even more of that connection. I think to push this emotion away, worried my glimpse into the past might lead to a steady growth of toxic distraction, but ultimately I don’t deny the feelings.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself aloud, allowing a little room to celebrate. “Camp Damascus just came out, and you worked hard on that book. Live a little.”
Camp Damascus is not only the first full length horror novel I’ve ever written, but my first release through the means of traditional publishing. While my usual output of queer erotica is quick and dirty, in more ways than one, the process of releasing thisbook has been a long and grueling, but ultimately rewarding journey. I always knew traditional publishing would take more time than I was used to—the movement of this enormous machine chugging along at its own steady pace—but actually experiencing this process from beginning to end has been wholly unique.
Finally, I’ve arrived at the end of this particular artistic trek. The book is out, and all that’s left is to find out how it’s performing.
As someone who doesn’t really care about sales or figures when it comes to my art, the whole thing seems a little silly, but at this point I can’t help the genuine curiosity that bubbles up from within.
Do people actually like Camp Damascus?
I’ve already won the race as far as I’m concerned, thrilled by the way this piece of writing turned out and happy for myself regardless, but still…
After several hours of driving I finally pull into the first diner I see, dust pluming up under my tires as I roll to a stop. I step out under what has transitioned into the hot afternoon sun, then grab my bag and head inside.
A bell rattles out its welcoming chime as I enter the diner, nodding at a singular employee behind the counter. I’m the only other person in here, and for a moment I wonder if the place is closed for business.
“Just take a seat in any booth,” a waitress calls over, defying my suspicions.
I stroll to a table in the corner and slide in, pulling my laptop from my case.
The waitress approaches. “What ya’ thinkin’?” she questions.
“Just a plate of spaghetti and a chocolate milk,” I reply.
The woman turns to leave but I stop her in her tracks. “What’s the WiFi password?”
“The network is called network and the password is password,” she replies, then continues on her way.
I open my laptop and quickly dive in, dusting off my rarely-used web browser. It’s been ages since I’ve checked my email, so that’s the first place a start.
Hundreds of unread messages fill my screen, but the most recent of them catches my attention first.
“Congratulations,” I read the subject aloud.
This message is from my publishing company.
Chuck, I have some incredible news,the email begins. We’ve just gotten word that Camp Damascus has sold enough copies to make its debut on the USA Today Booklist. You’re officially a USA Today bestselling author.
Before I have time to react, I sense a presence sliding into the booth across from me. My eyes immediately shoot upward, but what I find is so shocking that it takes another few seconds for me to actually register what I’m looking at.
A floating, sentient book has taken his position across the table, smiling warmly with his handsome, chiseled face. I’m immediately attracted to him in a potent, primal way, but this tension is knocked off kilter when I notice the design of his cover. The book sports an image of a desert landscape, precisely the kind of locale we’ve suddenly found ourselves in, and this similarity is driven home even more when I realize that my likeness has been positioned on one side of the cover, while a representation of the book itself rests smiling on the other. These depictions cascade in on themselves like a never ending wormhole, disappearing into an endless feedback loop.
“Oh, wow,” is all I can think to say.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” the sentient book offers.
“Yeah,” I confirm with a nod. “It’s like a hall of mirrors or something.”
“No,” the book counters, smiling warmly but shaking his head. “This is what’s amazing.”
He reaches up and points to the cover, his finger hovering just above my own name. This section usually features the distinction of “two-time Hugo Award finalist,” but more has been added.
The cover now reads: from USA Today Bestselling author, and two-time Hugo Award finalist.
“That was fast,” I blurt in amazement.
“It wouldn’t be Chuck Tingle if it wasn’t fast,” the book replies with a laugh, then extends his hand. “I’m Bork, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Chuck,” I reply, giving him a firm shake.
“I’m the physical manifestation of your ability to write from USA Today bestselling author on the cover of your books now,” he explains.
A surge of joy and excitement abruptly surges within me, spilling across my body in a blissful wave as I accept this honor. The fact that so many people have decided to support me and my art is and incredible thing, and for the briefest moment I allow myself to bask in this wonderful feeling of accomplishment. I’ve worked hard for this.
As quickly as my sensation of gratitude arrives, however, another feeling immediately rears its ugly head. The excitement is quelled as I push onward into the future, recognizing my accomplishment for what it really is: a distraction.
Bork notices my expression falter. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“I am,” I assure him. “It’s just… I got here by staying focused, you know? I live all the way out here so that I won’t be distracted, but that doesn’t account for the mental distraction of this new knowledge. Having a bestselling novel is a great thing, but it’s probably best if I don’t think about it.”
Bork considers this a moment, then lets out a long sigh. “You know, it’s okay to celebrate a every once in a while.”
The waitress suddenly returns, interrupting the moment as she places a steaming plate of spaghetti and red sauce before me. A tall, frosty glass of chocolate milk arrives next.
“Thank you,” I gush, then dig in.
I knew coming into town was a bad idea. I was hoping to write at least fourteen Tinglers this week, two for every day, and with this new distraction clouding my thoughts I’ll be lucky if I get around to ten.
I eat silently for a few minutes, keeping my head down as I focus on my meal. The sooner I get through this, the sooner I can hit the road and dive back into my writing.
“You want me to leave?” Bork finally asks.
I stop abruptly, a long spaghetti noodle still hanging from my mouth. I bite it off, letting the string plop onto the dish below and then glancing up again.
I’m prepared to tell this physical manifestation he might have a point, that the best thing he could do right now is get out of my hair, but for some reason the words just refuse to form.
“I think you should… you should…” I stammer, trailing off as I find myself lost in his deep, soulful eyes.
I suddenly realize I have a very important choice before me, my potential futures splitting off on two distinct paths. I can tell Bork to get lost and keep things the way they were, or I can let my attraction sweep me away, trying something new as I accept this praise and allow it to seep through my hard exterior.
My eyes linger on his undeniably attractive form, returning to the never ending loop of book cover depictions that spill into Bork like a bottomless pit.
Then it hits me.
“Wait a minute,” I suddenly blurt, sitting upright in my chair. “If I’m on your cover, does that mean…” I trail off.
“Yep,” Bork replies. “We’re in a Chuck Tingle book.”
“But I’m Chuck,” I retort.
“Kinda,” the physical manifestation of my ability to write from USA Today bestselling author on the front of my books now replies. “You’re Chuck, but you’re also a character in a Chuck Tingle story.”
I sit with this bombshell for a moment, struggling to parse what it all means and how I should react.
“If this is a Tingler then I’m gonna learn a lesson by the end,” I finally announce, working my way backwards through this maze of perception out loud. “There’s no way I just return to my old ways of no distraction and no celebration. I need to realize it’s okay to get excited about things.”
Bork nods. “Glad it’s finally dawning on you,” he offers. “I always knew you’d come around.”
“The only thing left to figure out is how we should celebrate,” I reply, but the second these words leave my lips a hot pulse of arousal surges through me.
This is a Chuck Tingle book, so the answer is pretty clear.
“It’s up to you,” Bork replies. “What do you wanna do?”
I glance across the restaurant at our waitress, who is casually standing by the front register, then turn my attention back to Bork. “I’d love for you to bend me over this table and fuck the hell out of me,” I admit, “but it seems our privacy is limited.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” the physical manifestation suggests. “You’re the author, remember? You can do whatever you want?”
I suddenly discover the waitress has disappeared, no longer a factor in our decision making.
“Oh,” I stammer. “Cool.”
“Very,” the floating book replies with mischievous excitement.
The two of us slide out of our booths and stand up facing one another. We creep steadily closer, the tension building until it’s too much to bear and our lips meet in a fit of passion. I lose myself in the moment, giving into the primal urges that flood my veins.
Soon enough, the physical manifestation of my own ability to write from USA Today bestselling author on the front of my books now is tearing away at my clothing, stripping off the fabric and tossing it to the side. I can feel the warm air tickling my skin as more and more of my body is exposed, until eventually I’m standing nude in the middle of the diner.
All the while I caress Bork in turn, allowing my hands to explore the topography of his body. I drift across his arms and chest, feeling the refined edges of his rectangular frame before moving even lower. It’s here I hesitate, watching as an enormous swollen cock begins to emerge from his torso.
The rod grows larger as Bork aches with anticipation, unable to help the mighty arousal that flows through his veins. Soon enough his cock has extended to full mast, jutting out towards me in all of its erotic glory, yet still I don’t touch it.
My hands hover just above the physical manifestation’s waist, teasing him playfully with the prospect of something more.
“Please,” Bork groans.
“Do you deserve it?” I ask playfully.
“I do,” the physical manifestation sighs. “I’m written by a bestselling author. That’s gotta be worth something.”
I can’t help but laugh, halting briefly. “That doesn’t actually matter,” I assure him. “This moment is what matters. A little bit of celebration, a little bit of joy. What we’re celebrating is…” I trail off, not entirely sure what I’m trying to say just yet.
I’m working it out.
Bork seems to understand, nodding in return.
I finally have mercy, reaching down and wrapping my fingers tightly around Bork’s rod. The sentient concept nearly buckles at the knees when I touch him, but he somehow manages to stay upright as I pump my grip across his length.
I start slowly at first, then gradually gain speed as the two of us fall into sync with one another. I’m paying careful attention to the rhythm of Bork’s body, taking note of the way his hips pump back against me and matching this movement in turn.
I get the feeling I could push him over the edge right here and now, but I pull back. We’re just getting started.
Without a word, I drop to my knees before him, my lips hovering deliciously close to the head of his massive rod. I kiss the tip of his cock, glancing up just long enough to offer a little wink, and then opening wide to consume his girthy shaft.
Soon enough, I’m bobbing my head up and down across Bork’s impressive length. I’m working him at the same pace as the hand that came before, and with my now free hands I reach up and cradle the physical manifestation’s hanging balls.
I treat Bork to this technique for a good while, letting these two distinct sources of pleasure swirl together and create something even more magnificent than the sum of their parts. The physical manifestation leans his head back and lets out a long, satisfied moan.
Eventually, I pull back and release his cock from between my lips. I take a moment to collect myself and then open wide again, only this time I decide to alter my technique significantly. Instead of pumping my face across his length, I slide the living concept’s cock all the way down in a singular, confident movement. I relax my gag reflex as I take him, Bork’s cock somehow slipping well past my expected limits.
Soon enough, my face is pressed tight against the living concept’s stomach, his rod fully inserted within me in a stunning deep throat maneuver. We stay like this for a good while, held in place as the physical manifestation of my ability to write from USA Today bestselling author on my cover now enjoys the sensation of being fully consumed.
When I finally pull back again I’m belligerent with lust, yearning to take him in the most depraved ways possible.
“Fuck me,” I snarl. “I need that bestselling cock up my ass.”
I climb to my feet and fall over the table before me, popping out my rump towards the handsome living concept. I reach back and give my ass a playful slap, then hold myself open as I coax Bork onward.
The physical manifestation doesn’t need to be told twice, floating into position behind me and aligning his massive cock with my tightly puckered backdoor. He takes a moment to tease my ass with his length, pressing his head against my tightness and then pulling back just before the tension breaks.
Bork does this a few times, watching as I yearn for his penetration and then finally giving in with a deep, powerful swoop of his hips.
“Oh fuck!” I groan, my eyes rolling back into my head as Bork’s gigantic cock plunges into me.
I brace myself against the table below, struggling to accept all of his girth as the physical manifestation stretches my ass to the absolute limits. At first the sensation of fullness is difficult to manage, but Bork takes his time with me and allows my body a moment to adjust to his giant member.
It’s not long before the discomfort has slipped away, replaced instead by a pleasant warmth.
Bork begins to rock his hips against me, reading the feedback from my body as he finds a comfortable pace. Slowly, he gains speed, faster and faster until the two of us fall into a steady rhythm. The slap of his hips against my backside ring out through the restaurant, a steady rhythm to join the sighs and moans that escape my lips.
It’s not long before the warmth at the pit of my stomach begins to creep out across my arms and legs, spilling through me and filling my frame with glorious sensation. I begin to tremble and quake, my body struggling to contain all this pleasure. There erotic energy pumping through me is boundless, and I can tell my physical trappings can no longer contain it.
The edge of a powerful orgasm is making its approach.
“Just like that,” I blurt. “Don’t stop fucking me!”
With one hand I reach down between my legs, grabbing ahold of my hanging cock and beating myself off in time with the pumps up my ass.
“Oh fuck!” I cry out, swept away in the carnal sensations. “I’m gonna cum so fucking hard!”
The climax hits me with sudden ferocity, the bubbling sensations finally boiling over in an eruption of blissed out feelings that are far too potent to manage. My words transform into a primal scream, swept away in the current of this beautiful moment.
Hot white jizz erupts from the head of my shaft, splattering under the table and spilling across the diner floor.
All the while, Bork carries me through my orgasm from beginning to end, hammering away at my ass with everything he’s got. When I’ve finally reached the conclusion of my journey he pushes deep and holds firm, blasting forth a payload of his own. I can feel the physical manifestation’s cock twitching inside me, his seed filling me up until there’s simply no room left and it comes squirting out from the edges of my tightly packed ass.
I collapse onto the table, utterly exhausted as Bork pulls out of me and offers me a playful slap on the rump.
“That was incredible,” I gush standing upright and taking a moment to collect myself.
I pull my clothes back on, basking in the afterglow of our glorious encounter.
“Incredible… and distracting,” I finally continue. “I should really get back to work.”
The physical manifestation of my ability to write from USA Today bestselling author on the front of my books now smiles knowingly, clearly a little disappointed but going along all the same.
I approach him slowly, opening my arms and pulling him close. This was meant to be a goodbye hug, but as I stand here in the warm embrace of this physical manifestation I can’t help but feel something cold and hard melt away.
I don’t pull back, just stand here for a moment enjoying Borks presence. It’s only now that I realize the truth of this moment: I don’t want it to end.
When I finally pull back, my whole demeanor has changed.
“Maybe a little distraction is okay sometimes,” I admit. “Treating yourself—especially after a big accomplishment—seems reasonable.”
“It sure does,” Bork confirms.
“We should probably let the restaurant get back to serving customers, though,” I suggest. “You wanna run a few errands with me? It’s not a great date, but it’s something.”
“What kind of errands?” the physical manifestation asks.
“I was thinking I should get some furniture for my house,” I explain. “It’s a little harsh in there. Who knows, maybe allowing myself a little comfort will make my writing even better.”
The physical manifestation doesn’t hesitate. “I’d love to come with you,” Bork replies, taking my hand and heading for the door.
