Chuck Tingle
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My Ass Is Haunted By The Handsome Ghost Of My Unsaved Data After A Computer Crash - (Classic Tingler Revisited)
🕑 Added 2023-07-12 18:46:35 +0000 UTCthe release of CAMP DAMASCUS is about a week away so as man name of chuck feels like who world is revolving around this particular moment. if patreon buckaroos would like a nice glimpse into life of chuck these days it is: wakin up, going for my morning trot up the hill, then dang interviews over the computer until the dang cows come home.
of course this is good problem to have, much nicer than issue of having no interviews at all. it is a little tiring but i have a good supply of chocolate milk by my side and all of you buckaroos trotting along beside me. it is honest feeling of my way that this is not just journey for me but journey we are all taking together side by side as we trot into the unknown. WE ARE BRINGING THE BUCKAROO LIFESTYLE TO THE MASSES and that is pretty dang neat.
anyway all of this hard work has me thinkin on scary things because all day i have been talking on HORROR. and of course what is the scariest thing and buckaroo can imagine YES THATS RIGHT I AM TALKIN ON A DANG COMPUTER CRASH THAT WIPES OUT ALL YOUR DATA
when chuck first wrote this tingler it was actually because i had this happen and i had a fortunate way of backing up what i needed just before. but like many horror tales i thought 'what if?'
of course this story is no so much of a spine tingler as a butt tingler, but i figured we could have some spooky fun on the week leading up to CAMP DAMASCUS by trotting through a different kind of spooky tingleverse encounter. please enjoy buckaroos. LOVE IS REAL
Nermo is a digital artist, creating beautiful images on his computer and then printing them out in glorious, high-quality pieces at his art studio. Unfortunately, when Nermo’s computer hard drive crashes he quickly discovers the only thing more important than creating these gorgeous artworks is remembering to back them up. Now, with three years of work down the drain, Nermo has to rebuild.
Turning his tragedy into fuel, Nermo stays late at the studio working, but when the ghostly spirit of his deleted files arrives, Nermo suddenly realizes that maybe all is not lost. Remembering vast amounts of information can be carried within a single drop of sperm, Nermo and the spectral manifestation decide the best way to back up this ghostly data is by blowing it into Nermo’s tight ass.
This erotic tale is 4,200 words of sizzling human on sentient deleted information action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, cream pies, and manifested undead data love.
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MY ASS IS HAUNTED BY THE HANDSOME GHOST OF MY UNSAVED DATA AFTER A COMPUTER CRASH
By Chuck Tingle
Working from home has it’s perks, and I’m not about to throw this blissful existence as a digital artist in the face of others who slave away at a nine to five job, gazing out their windows and wishing they could be anywhere else. I appreciate what I have, I really do, but I’ve also gotta say there are plenty of hidden downsides to this relaxed, unencumbered lifestyle.
The first quality you must possess to be a self-employed creative is a healthy amount of discipline. Yes, I’m an artist, but I’m also the only one who’s going to push my work from the beginning of the race to its eventual finish line. I can imagine having a boss who breathes down your neck every day is a little annoying, but it also keeps you motivated. When I first started out I didn’t keep to a schedule like I do now, and my productivity suffered greatly.
I suppose it’s all about finding a balance, creating a space for yourself to be free, but not too free.
The other very important quality to have when you’re self-employed is talent, but honestly talent is overrated. As an artist, I’m not even sure if I know what that word means anymore. Can any one of my digital masterpieces be objectively better than someone else’s craft? I certainly know what I like to look at, but that doesn’t mean my taste has anything to do with some universal truth.
Really, the thing that’s much more important than talent in my field is luck. Being in the right place at the right time can make all the difference, separating a struggling artist who’s completely overlooked, from a guy with paintings in the world’s greatest museums.
It appears that today, luck just isn’t on my side.
I stare down at the computer before me, trying my best not to lose my cool. In my mind, I’m picking up my laptop and hurling it against the wall of my art studio as hard as I can, shattering the rather expensive piece of machinery into a thousand tiny pieces, the plastic and metal crunching from the impact and then scattering across my floor.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then let it out again, trying my best not to make an already terrible situation much worse.
“Maybe it’s just a temporary thing,” I say out loud, as though taking to myself will give these words the added weight they need. I’m struggling to convince my own harshest critic right now.
The idea that this is a temporary thing is doubtful. Right now, my computer sits cold and dead, a simple shell and nothing more. At another time, this little relic was my heart and soul, a tool for me to harness the images bubbling up from within and cast them all out across a digital canvas.
Typically, my day revolves around the glow of this luminescent screen, my eyes racing back and forth as I take various digital elements and repurpose them into something entirely new. When I’m finally finished, I send the file to an enormous printer held right here within the studio, then watch in stunned silence as my pieces come to life.
These prints are ultra high quality, so the process takes a while. It’s quite meditative, actually, and it’s one of my favorite parts of this whole existence as an artist. Once they are printed, these images are mounted in frames and hung high on the wall, ready to be observed.
The pictures mostly consist of shirtless men and dinosaurs, a few of the themes that lace their way through my art, but those who take some real time with my presentations will always find something much deeper lurking just below the surface. While I’m revered by a select few, there are others who just don’t get it. That’s fine; but I’m still going to pour ever ounce of my soul into this process.
Every ounce of my soul, I repeat, the words echoing out within my mind over and over again. Instead of fading away, they begin to grow louder and louder as my eyes linger on the tiny black screen before me, eventually the sound is booming through my brain at a deafening volume.
I can’t think of anything else to do besides throw my head back and let out a frantic scream, the tension that has been wound so tightly within my body finally finding a bit of release. The yell is cathartic, filling my studio with a brief sense of angst and frustration and eventually dissipating as I run out of air. Soon enough, I’m silent once more.
Three hard knocks come rapping against the studio door, catching my attention. I take a deep breath, hoping to calm down and put on a happy face for whoever’s visiting me right now, then stroll over and open up.
“Hey Nermo,” the painter next door offers with a furrowed brow of concern. He glances over my shoulder curiously, trying his best to seem inconspicuous. “Everything alright in there?”
I’d forgotten how thin the walls of this shared studio space are, and it suddenly hits me why Gram, the guy next door, is so concerned. It probably sounds like someone just stabbed me.
“I’m fine,” I offer in explanation. “It’s just… my computer crashed.”
Gram’s eyes immediately shift from deep concern to a grave understanding. “Oh man, I’m so sorry,” the man offers. “Did you back it up?”
How come this is the first thing everyone always asks? Would I be this upset if I’d backed it up? Honestly, for as nice as the computer itself is, that’s nothing close to the worth of the information that rests within, the years and years of effort put into my beautiful creations that are now potentially wiped from existence.
“Yeah,” I reply, hoping this answer will suffice and I don’t need to embarrass myself any further.
“When?” Gram continues.
I hesitate, not wanting to say. “Three years ago.”
Gram winces as the words reach him, as though my admission has caused him real, physical pain. He’s deeply empathetic to my plight, and can’t help but open his arms up wide as he comes in for a supportive hug. “I’ve been there before, I’m sorry man.”
“I had a lot of work on that computer,” I muse.
Gram suddenly stops and pulls back, looking me in the eye. “Wait, what? Artwork?”
I nod.
The reality of my situation suddenly hits my neighbor hard, causing his breathe to literally tremble as he struggles to maintain his composure. Gram works with traditional paints, and while I house fire would wreak havoc on his livelihood, this particular situation would never apply to him.
All of my art, however, is created digitally. Printing it out in the real world is only the final step of many, and right now there are countless hours of unfinished pieces that are likely lost forever, utterly destroyed as the data floats aimlessly like crushed digital bits of debris.
“Let me take a look at it,” Gram offers, trying to think of anything that might help.
I nod and step back from the doorframe, letting him through. “It’s over there,” I report, pointing at the fresh carcass of my laptop.
The neighboring painter strolls over, gazing down at my computer and assessing the damage. Of course, from the outside everything looks just fine, but looks can be deceiving.
“It just stopped working,” I offer. “Screen turned off, power shut down, that’s it. I tried three different power cables to see if that was the problem, but it’s not. I think its toast.”
Gram presses the power button a few times then lifts up my computer, eyeing it closely. He’s inspecting every inch of the thing, trying his best to get a read on any clues that could’ve been left behind.
“Do you smell that?” Gram questions.
“No,” I reply, my heart skipping a beat.
“Burning,” the neighbor continues. “That’s… not a good sign.”
“Are you sure?” I offer desperately.
“Pretty sure,” Gram confirms.
Take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying my best not to completely lose my cool for a second time today. My thoughts are spinning wildly out of control, and it takes everything I’ve got to reign myself back in.
When I look back up at Gram I notice now that he’s staring off into the corner of my studio, his eyes lingering on a supply closet that I use to store my ink, frames, and printing supplies.
I turn my head and follow his gaze, trying to discern what’s been left out of place and finding nothing. When I look back at Gram, he’s as white as a sheet.
“What’s wrong?” I question.
“Nothing,” the man offers, shaking his head. “I just… thought I saw something.”
“Like what?” I continue.
Gram just brushes my concern away. “It’s stupid.”
With that, my neighbor turns and heads for the door, wishing me well on my computer situation and then making his way back to the other studio. I watch him go, still slightly confused about what just happened.
It’s not long before my thoughts return to the task at hand, however, and the fact that three years of work has been completely destroyed.
“Why didn’t you back it up?” I say to myself out loud, the words spilling from my mouth in agony.
I feel like breaking down and crying, just allowing the sorrow to wash me away like a tidal wave, but I hold fast. I know that right now I have a very important choice, and the decisions I make in the next few hours, days and weeks could effect the rest of my life. It’s incredibly tempting to let this terrible tragedy slow me down, but that’s certainly not the only way to deal with this.
The harder path, but the much more fruitful one, is to use this situation as fuel for my next project, to transform the horrible setback into a giant leap forward. There’s plenty of art to mine from this, as long as I’m willing to put in the effort.
I take a deep breath and let it out, now determined to keep pushing forward. I’m not heading home tonight. Instead, I plan on staying as late as I can at the studio, working until I crash out on the futon and then starting up again bright and early. I’ve got an old laptop in the closet that’s slow as hell, but it will get me by and allow me to be creative.
I’m gonna start working and I’m not gonna stop until I’ve crafted my best piece yet.
I’m not usually here at the studio this late, and I’m surprised at how creepy the place can get when there aren’t other artists hustling in and out of their work spaces. I assume there’s still a few folks here at this lonesome hour, but for the most part the entire space has fallen into a deep, foreboding silence.
At least I’ve got my work to keep me company, and right now it’s doing the trick. My focus has been trained on the brilliant screen before me, moving about pixels with the concentration of a surgeon.
Every once in a while, however, I find myself distracted by something from the corner of my eye. This phantom movement has been so off-putting, and so often come up fruitless, that I’ve started ignoring it all together. Whenever I think I see something lurking in the shadows, I go out of my way to remind myself that it’s simply my overactive imagination playing tricks on me, the late hour starting to wear me down.
My only concern is that most of this movement has been coming from the supply closet, the very place Gram had seemed so concerned about earlier.
Even now, I sense that someone is watching me from a crack in the door, just barely visible as they observe from the darkness.
Suddenly, a sharp chill runs down my spine as I see the supply closet door starting to move. I glance up to catch it gradually swinging open, creaking loudly as it moves. It stops wide, the darkness beyond taunting me as my heart slams hard within my chest.
“Hello?” is all I can think to say.
A long, low moan begins to emerge, causing me to jump up and back away in alarm. With every step I take, a figure pushes forward. I pull in with a deep breath, ready to scream out from the sight of this ghostly apparition, when suddenly I stop.
This isn’t just any ghost standing before me, it’s a spirit that I recognize.
“Oh my god,” I blurt. “You’re my unsaved data.”
The ghost stops approaching, smiling. “Did a scare you?”
“Uh, yeah,” I laugh. “That was frightening.”
“Good!” the swirling manifestation of my recently destroyed computer data offers, clearly pleased with himself.
“What are you trying to scare me?” I cry out, a little annoyed.
The spirit seems confused, hurt even. “I mean… I just became a ghost a few hours ago. I figured this is what I was supposed to do.”
He’s got a point, but I’m still a little annoyed. “Well, I suppose you’re right. You can do anything you want,” I inform him. “You may be a spirit, but you’re still in charge of your own life.”
“I don’t have a life,” the deleted information reminds me.
“You know what I mean,” I continue.
Suddenly, I realize the incredible luck that has befallen me. While this ghost is nothing more than a swirling mass of ones and zeros, I know that somewhere deep down within him lies all of the work that I’m so desperately trying to get back. The only question now is how to get it into a form that makes any sense.
“I’m actually very glad you’re here,” I inform the spirit. “I’m Nermo.”
I walk towards him and extend my hand. The spirit gives me a firm shake. “I’m Darbon,” the ghost introduces himself. “The ghost of your data.”
“Yeah, about that,” I start, jumping right into it. “Is there any chance we could back you up before you disappear again?”
“I don’t know,” Nermo replies with a shrug. “Like I said, I haven’t been a ghost for very long. I’m still getting the hang of it.”
Thinking fast, I run over and grab my broken computer, carrying it back to Darbon. I hold it out towards the swirling mass of ones and zeros, waiting for him to erupt with some kind of supernatural ability. Unfortunately, nothing happens.
“You can’t just crawl inside my computer again?” I question.
Darbon shrugs. “I don’t know. That thing seems pretty broken, though. You should probably put me on a backup drive or something.”
He’s right, there’s no point in loading up all this ghostly data on a computer that can’t even function. The only problem is, I have nowhere to store him.
“I don’t have a drive,” I admit. “I can get one tomorrow when the stores open.”
“Might be too late,” Darbon informs me sympathetically. “I think I might be moving on to the other side already. See.”
The apparition pushes a few tiny scraps of data forward, which I can clearly see wavering in and out of existence.
“There’s not much time,” I state aloud, panic flooding through me.
Suddenly, my mind is racing, struggling to figure out a way to store this important information. I begin to run down all of my potential options, which are gravely limited now that they’re all laid out one by one.
For some reason, a strange little fact pops into my head, causing me to gasp slightly as I remember it. The idea is absolutely insane, but right now I’m willing to try anything.
“What is it?” Darbon questions, recognizing the look of inspiration upon my face.
I shake my head. “It’s too crazy.”
“Try me,” the ghostly data continues with a smile.
I take a deep breath and then let it out. “I just remembered an article I read about semen. About how much information is stored in your cum. It makes a hard drive look like a tiny shoebox of photographs by comparison.”
“Cum, huh?” Darbon repeats back, smiling mischievously now.
It’s hard to ignore just how handsome this apparition really is, and now that the situation has turned sexual I allow myself to fall into the feeling completely. I smile back, letting the ache overwhelm me and feeling a slight tremble as I reach out and place my hand on his swirling digital shoulder.
Suddenly, the two of us are rushing together, kissing passionately as we give into the moment completely. Our hands begin to explore each other’s bodies with frantic enthusiasm, Darbon tearing away my clothing and tossing it to the side.
The cool night air of the studio feels amazing against my skin, every nerve ending of my body standing on end. As the undead information and I continue to make out, I start to drift lower across his perfectly sculpted form, leaving his salty lips behind and kissing my way over his neck and chest. I drop down slowly, savoring every moment until eventually I’m kneeling before this ghostly mass of ones and zeros.
I watch in awe as an enormous spectral cock begins to rise up from within this binary tornado, sticking out at me in glorious stiffness. His size is impressive, and it takes me a moment to collect myself.
“You’re so big,” I confess. “What a cock.”
“There’s a lot of data here,” Darbon informs me. “Big files means a big dick.”
Without another word I open wide and take Darbon’s cock into my mouth, graciously pumping my head up and down across his length. I start slowly at first, allowing the ghostly unsaved data to appreciate my technique.
Apparently, I’m doing a fine job, because the next thing I know Darbon is leaning his head back and letting out a long, aching sigh. His eyes closed tight, the undead information reaches down and places his hands on the back of my head. He begins to pump me up and down across his rod, leading the movement as I grow faster and faster in my expertly performed blowjob. Soon enough, I simply can’t continue at this incredible pace, pulling away with a gasp as I struggle to collect myself.
“That was amazing,” Darbon offers, to which I just wink back knowingly.
I open my mouth once more and take the manifested data within, only this time I don’t bob my head. Instead, I push the ghostly data’s girth deeper and deeper, relaxing my gag reflex and somehow swallowing him all the way down. The next thing I know, my face is pressed up hard against the ghostly information’s swirling form, his rod fully consumed in a perfect deep throat. I hold Darbon here for a good while, allowing him a moment to savor his position within me, then finally pull back with a fire in my eyes.
“Fuck me,” I snarl, belligerent with lust. “I need you to pound this asshole with that unsaved data cock.”
I turn around on the floor of the studio, popping my butt out towards him and wiggling my bare rump from side to side. I crawl on my hands and knees a bit, allowing the apparition to get a good look at me as I sway my hips from side to side in bold exaggeration.
Eventually, I stop, reaching back and slapping my ass playfully.
“What are you waiting for?” I coo. “Back up that data in my tight asshole.”
Darbon climbs down into position behind me, aligning his enormous rod with the rim of my tightly puckered backdoor. He doesn’t push inward though, taking his time with me and allowing me to enjoy the primal tension of this moment. He’s teasing the edge of my sphincter, not wanting to give me everything at once.
“Please,” I beg, gazing back over my shoulder and the handsome information. “I need that fat data dick of yours.”
Darbon smiles, but doesn’t relent.
“Please!” I cry out, louder and brimming with frustration.
Finally, the ghostly manifestation of my unsaved files gives in, pushing forward with a long, deep thrust.
A started gasp escapes my lips as the information enters me, stretching my butthole to the absolute brink as I struggle to accommodate his massive size. My fingers grip tight against the studio floor below, bracing myself against Darbon’s weight and the girth of his giant dick.
“Holy fuck,” is all that I can think to say, the words escaping my mouth in a long, excruciating moan.
Fortunately, the spectral data is a caring lover, taking his time with me and allowing me a moment to adjust to his size. Darbon stays completely still, his mammoth rod stretching me out as I wait for the discomfort to pass.
Gradually, the ache begins to fade, replaced instead by a pleasant warmth of anal fullness. Darbon begins to pump in and out of me very slowly, his movements sending waves of pleasure throughout my physical form.
“Just like that,” I groan, my body already starting to tremble and quake.
The ghostly information slowly begins to gain speed within me, eventually finding a confident rhythm as he hammers away at my asshole.
“That feels so fucking good, that feels so fucking good,” I start to repeat over and over again, the words falling out of my mouth under my breath. Slowly this blissed out mantra begins to grow in volume, becoming louder with every passing minute until, eventually, I’m crying out at the top of my lungs. “That feels so fucking good! That feels so fucking good!”
I’m shaking hard now, my body overwhelmed with sensation. I reach down between my legs and grab ahold of my hanging cock, beating myself off in time with the pounds up my asshole. These two distinct sources of pleasure start to blend together, creating something that is much more than just the sum of their parts.
I can feel myself hurtling towards the edge of a powerful climax, every muscle within my body pulled taut and aching for release. The feelings build and build as Darbon slams into me, not letting up for a second until finally it’s all just too much to take and I explode in a fit of orgasm. I throw my head back and let out a wild scream, my eyes shut tight as a hot load of white cum erupts from the head of my shaft in a volcanic blast. My jizz spills out across the studio floor below me like some abstract painting.
Darbon is not far behind, and the next thing I know this handsome swirling mass of data is erupting with a load of his own. The ghost cums hard, pushing deep and then ejecting his jizz with a forceful blast. I can fee the pearly seed spilling out into me, all of that information finally backed up within my tight asshole.
When the spectral data finally finishes he pulls of out my body slowly, making sure not to waste a single drop.
I take a deep breath and then let it out, feeling a powerful sense of ease wash over my frame. Now that I’ve got this cum, all I need to do is buy a hard drive in the morning and I’m home free.
I climb back up into my chair, struggling to catch my breath as Darbon stands before me.
“That was amazing,” I tell him. “That you.”
“No, thank you,” replies the ghostly data.
I can see now that Darbon is fading much faster than before, his semi-transparent body pulsing in and out of my reality.
“Are you okay?” I question.
Darbon nods. “I’ve heard that us ghosts usually have a little unfinished business to take care of, and now that I’ve finished mine, I think it’s time to move on.”
“That was your unfinished business?” I question.
The manifested information nods. “I didn’t get enough love when I was just a collection of files on your computer, and I’ve gotten all the love I need.”
I wince as I hear this. “Wait, what?” I blurt. “I didn’t give you love? I’m so sorry."
Darbon waves away my concern. “It’s okay. It’s easy to take your files for granted, but if you really love them… you should back them up.”
He’s right, and I know it.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat with deep sincerity.
“It’s okay,” Darbon replies. “Just remember for the next bit of information that comes along. Maybe you can even share this story with others, so they can remember to back up their files, too.”
“I’ll do my best,” I offer. “The next piece of artwork I make is gonna be about that very thing.”
“Good,” the ghostly information replies as he dissipates, fading away completely.
