Journalist Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of An Egregiously Mishandled Group Text From Members Of The Tromp Administration Containing Highly Sensitive Government Information

Jorf is the head editor at Atlantica Magazine, but he hasn’t been writing much. The Tromp administration is hard to get a beat on, throwing out so much absurdity that it feels like nothing even matters anymore. He wants a story that will make a difference, and it’s not as if those just fall into your lap.

But when Jorf’s phone suddenly buzzes with a new text message, that’s exactly what happens. Now Jorf is privy to a chat thread of top-secret information from Tromp’s underqualified, highly-ignorant inner circle, and it’s looking like a real story.

It’s also looking like a total hunk. Soon enough, Jorf and the physical manifestation of this egregiously handled group text containing highly sensitive government information are locked in the heat of gay, erotic passion, and he’s about to pound out a story that he never could’ve imagined.

This erotic tale is 4,100 words of sizzling human on gay physically manifested leaked text action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, and living group chat love.

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JOURNALIST POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF AN EGREGIOUSLY MISHANDLED GROUP TEXT FROM MEMBERS OF THE TROMP ADMINISTRATION CONTAINING HIGHLY SENSITIVE GOVERNMENT INFORMATION

By Chuck Tingle

Despite all the energy in this chaotic newsroom, I can sense the presence of my boss almost immediately as he crosses the wide-open floor towards me. All around, keyboards are clattering and voices are talking excitedly into phones. People are getting shit done, following up on scoops and diving deep into the troves of evidence.

Unfortunately, I can’t personally say the same thing, and this makes the arrival of my superior, Gorbin Claves, even more menacing. I know exactly what he’s going to say, but I’m helpless to stop it because, ultimately, I know he’s got a very good point.

“Jorf!” Gorbin calls out, drawing my attention forward. I try my best to act surprised, but I’m not sure he’s buying it.

“Hey! What’s up?” I ask.

“A word in your office?” Gorbin continues, motioning to the private corner- suite behind me.

I nod, and the two of us make our way towards this quiet section of the floor. My employees have noticed now, the clattering keys slowing down ever-so-slightly as heads turn and concern washes across a sea of faces.

I don’t blame them. This business is in dire straits, and any time one of the top brass stops by for an in-person word, you know it’s a big deal. It’s also incredibly frustrating, due to the fact that Gorbin has no idea what he’s talking about when it comes to journalism. He’s a businessman, not a writer, and while he’s technically my boss, I could run circles around him when it comes to breaking a story.

If I sound a little salty, it’s because I am. As the lead editor of Atlantica Magazine, I’m typically the one in charge, doling out tough conversations to my employees. Now, I’m the one under fire. I have a pretty good guess as to why this conversation is happening, but that doesn’t mean I’ll accept any suggestion that it’s entirely my fault.

Gorbin is the point man for Borson International, a global news media conglomerate that owns our magazine, among a slew of others. Ultimately, they don’t care about what we print so long as we’re making them money, and therein lies the rub.

Everyone’s got a boss, I guess.

We enter my office and Gorbin closes the door behind us. “Seems like a busy day,” he says. “Lots of typing going on. People getting it done.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

I clear my throat, then straighten up a bit. “Yeah, there are certainly a lot of

people working hard around here.”

“You don’t seem too happy about all that productivity,” Gorbin continues. “You should be thrilled. Your job is getting the magazine out on time with quality articles.”

“Well... speed doesn’t equal quality,” I reply.

Gorbin narrows his eyes a bit. “Right,” he says, letting the word slowly fall out of his mouth. “Well, I have to say, I’m concerned about your output.”

I hesitate, then break. “Yeah... I get it.”

I can see my boss’s expression soften a bit. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction.

“I know we’re here to follow the news, but with Tromp in office things have just gotten so... absurd all the time? Like, there’s simultaneously too much to cover and yet absolutely nothing worth writing about. Most of it has no substance at all. Renaming Greenland to Red, White and Blue land? What are we supposed to do with this shit?”

“Write about it.”

“And we are,” I confirm. “I mean, my staff is.”

“What about you?” Gorbin counters. “You’re the best journalist here and

you haven’t put out a piece in a long while. That’s part of the job, too.”

“I’m waiting for something with actual teeth,” I reply. “There’s a real story

coming.”

Gorbin breathes deep and lets it out, then finally nods in acceptance. “You

need to publish something this week,” he finally says. “Something big.” I don’t push back.

Gorbin turns and stroll back to the door of my office, standing there for a moment as he stares back at me. “One week to find the kind of story that a head editor is capable of,” he says. “Otherwise, I’m gonna find someone who can.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him and plunging my office into silence. I stand for a while, letting Gorbin’s words marinate within me.

“Well... fuck,” I finally say aloud. I turn and stroll over to my office window, gazing out at the city below. A million different lives are intersecting every minute down there, each and every one of them holding its own fascinating story that’s likely worth telling. While Tromp turns up the volume on absolutely everything he does, these smaller tales of daily life are what has been fascinating to me. That’s not at all what Gorbin is looking for, though.

I need to find him something big, something that will cut through all of this ridiculous bluster and actually make a mark on the public consciousness. Of course, that’s much easier said than done. Wanting a great story doesn’t just make one appear out of thin air. It’s not every day something truly incredible just falls into your lap.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, prompting me to pull it out and gaze down at the screen.

YO, THIS IS PETE FROM THE POOL PARTY, a text reads.

I gaze down at my screen for a moment, furrowing my brow as I struggle to figure out what I’m looking at. This particular text is from an unknown number, but I can see now that I’m part of a sizable group chat, several other contacts appearing at the top of my messaging app.

This must be some kind of prank. I certainly haven’t been to any pool parties lately, and I don’t know anybody named Pete. Or do I?

I sit with the message for a moment, searching my brain for anyone this could possibly be. I recall meeting someone named Peter about a month ago at some political rally, but I certainly didn’t give him my number.

Finally, I open the message and text him back, blasting off two curious words to the group.

PETE WHO?

A few of the other contacts give laugh reactions to my message.

PETE HEDGE. SECRETARY OF DEFENDING THAT ASS, he writes back. More reactions start appearing, each one of them causing my phone to

vibrate. Likes and loves and laugh reacts are flowing in quickly.

THAT’S TIGHT, someone says.

Another number sends over a meme of Elno Mork jumping awkwardly.

I’m now certain that this has to be some kind of bizarre prank. Pete Hedge is

the current secretary of state, and something tells me he’s not dumb enough to suddenly add the lead editor at Atlantica to his private group chat.

Curiously, I take a look at the numbers of everyone else on this thread, and to my surprise, I already had a few of these contracts saved in my phone. A surge of amazement suddenly pulses through me, recognizing that the fact I already confirmed these numbers long ago means the new one might actually be Pete.

“What the fuck?” I murmur to myself, my eyes scanning the phone screen. A whole slew of high-ranking Tromp officials are on this text thread.

I immediately spring into action, taking screenshots and recording video of

these messages as they start to roll in. I start reading them aloud, amazed at the odd way these people talk to each other.

“Tromp made me so happy today,” I recite, reading from one of the unknown numbers. “He let me kiss his nip-naps in the oval office.” This comment immediately gets a plethora of likes.

“Good job, Elno,” someone chimes in. “You are a great nip-nap pamper.”

I shake my head, utterly confused and having no concrete idea about what this means but still feeling vaguely disgusted all the same. This isn’t a prank or a joke, which could only mean one thing.

The government security implications here are astonishing, a truly shocking display of ineptitude for a group of people who have already shown themselves to be just about as incompetent as they come. I didn’t think the Tromp administration had it in them to be this stupid, but now they’re striving to outdo themselves.

Still, I find myself hesitating before any celebration kicks in. These people do ridiculous things all the time, the last two months of bizarre headlines melting into a blur of gaffs and fuck ups so large that it seems to overwhelm everything and create a world where fuck-ups don’t even register.

This isn’t the story I need it to be just yet, but if I have some patience and wait it out, I’m certain—

Before I can finish this thought, my phone buzzes again. An upload appears, the folder large and containing hundreds of documents. It’s titled TOP SECRET PLANS (DO NOT SHARE. THIS IS SERIOUS.)

I hit download immediately, recognizing this gravity of the situation. This is the moment I’ve been looking for. This is the story. The second the file finishes transferring to my phone storage I immediately send it off to my computer, then my cloud drive, then an external hard drive for good measure. I’m frantically scurrying around the room, making sure I’ve got everything correctly backed up.

“Hey,” comes an unexpected voice from behind me, deep and warm.

I stop abruptly, then slowly turn to find that an enormous phone is floating in my office, bathing me in the pale glow of his screen. The group text is emblazoned across his muscular chest.

“Oh... hey,” I reply. “I didn’t hear anyone come in.”

“Well, that’s because I didn’t come in,” he replies. “You manifested me here.”

“I did?”

The phone nods, then floats over to me, extending a hand. “I’m Humpler, the physical manifestation of this egregiously mishandled group text from members of the Tromp administration containing highly sensitive government information.”

“Oh!” I blurt. “Hey!”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he continues. “I don’t really have much control over where I appear, you know? One minute I’m floating in the vastness of non- existence, the next minute I’m watching you fly around your office plugging in hard drives.”

I laugh, then suddenly remember the importance of what I’m doing. “Actually, as much as I’d love to hang out and chat, I have some very important work to do.”

“I can see that,” he says. “I can leave.”

I feel bad for making the manifestation take off like this, but I can’t fathom a more inconvenient moment for a sentient concept to appear. “Just head out through

the door over there,” I instruct. “I can call you a cab if you’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Thank you,” Humpler replies. He turns and heads for the door, reaching out for the handle, but as he goes a realization suddenly erupts through me.

My eyes widen and my heart skips a beat. “Wait!” I cry.

The physical manifestation stops and turns back around. “Yeah?”

“You’re a breaking story,” I state. “If you go out there... well, this isn’t quite

ready to publish just yet. I need to vet some things.”

Humpler glances down at the front of his body, watching as more messages

appear across his flat, rectangular form. Someone named Sorbo is now trying to get the others to watch a show called Hercules.

“That’s a good point,” he says. “I’ll just hang out.”

I pull out a comfortable chair so the enormous, physically manifested group text can have a seat, then return to my place behind my desk. I quickly go over some of the leaked information, then start typing away.

Unfortunately, the words coming out of me don’t seem quite right. I hit backspace a few times, deleting my opening sentence and then starting again, and again, and again.

“Something wrong?” Humpler finally chimes in.

I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I insist, then hesitate and let out a long sigh as I finally give into the truth of the moment. I lean back in my chair. “Actually, I’m not fine. This is a big article, there’s a lot riding on this one.”

“How come?” the physical manifestation asks, genuinely curious.

“Because the Tromp administration is so terrible that nothing seems to matter,” I explain. “If everything is bad, then nothing seems to gain any traction. This one, though... this is something else. I’ve been waiting for a story like this, and I just wanna make sure I get it right. It has to be vetted and fact check and air tight.”

Humpler is nodding along. “And well written,” he adds.

“That too,” I laugh. My expression falters as I throw this onto the already growing pile of things I need to get right today. “It’s hard to do when I’m stressed.”

“You’re stressed?” the physical manifestation asks, an unexpected weight suddenly finding its way into his tone.

I nod. From the corner of my eye I can see Humpler rising from his seat. He floats slowly towards me, drawing closer until I eventually glance up and lock eyes with him.

“You know what always helps me relax when I’m stressed out?” he coos.

The erotic tension within his words suddenly comes rushing to the forefront, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I’d been a little too distracted to notice

where this was headed, but now that it’s here, I find myself intrigued by the prospect.

I can’t lose focus on the task at hand, but I’ve been around long enough to know that sometimes full speed ahead is the wrong call. That’s when mistakes happen.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what helps you relax,” I reply, matching his tone.

I stand up and walk around the desk, meeting the physical manifestation in the middle of my office. We close the distance between us, the tension simmering.

“You want to show me what you had in mind?” I continue.

Finally, the tension breaks. The two of us rush together in a flurry of passionate kisses, completely losing ourselves in the moment. My hands get to work exploring the well-crafted design of his flat, rectangular body, roaming up and down his smooth edge. Someone named The Tulse has been adding to the thread, but I ignore it, focused instead on Humpler’s muscular chest. My hands work their way back and forth across him, gradually drifting lower and lower.

Humpler is working me in turn, caressing my body and stripping away the layers of clothing that separate us. I tremble as he tosses this fabric to the side, exposing me to the cool office air.

“Oh fuck”, I groan, eyes closed. I submit to this moment of pleasure, allowing the anxiety and pressure within my body to slip away.

My hands are still lowering across the physical manifestation’s form. They drift back and forth across his waistline, dancing precariously above the enormous rod that has started to swell at the front of his body. I watch as Humpler’s cock grows larger and larger, extending from the screen and jutting out towards me in all of its glory.

“Please,” the living group chat groans, rocking his hips slightly.

Finally, I have mercy. I reach down and wrap my fingers around the phone’s enormous cock, noting the way his body reacts to my touch. I pump my hand slowly up and down across his length, and soon enough, the two of us have fallen into a steady rhythm together.

I kiss Humpler once again, deep and passionate, then gradually start working my way across his shoulders. My lips gently slide over his screen, following the path of the hands that came before them. Eventually, I’m forced to drop down to my knees, still beating him off but now positioning my face directly before his swollen member.

I look up with playful eyes, my gaze locking with Humpler’s as I offer him a mischievous wink, then open wide and swallow his cock. I immediately fall into the already established pace, pumping my head up and down across the living concept’s length. With my now free hand, I reach up and begin to cradle his balls,

playing with them as the pleasure floods across his frame. I can tell that he’s impressed by my technique, and I’m just getting started.

After sucking him off for a while, I pull back and release Humpler’s rod from between my lips. I focus up again, playfully licking him from balls to tip and then diving in again. This time, however, I alter my approach. Instead of bobbing my head across Humpler, I take him all the way down into my gullet.

Deeper and deeper the physical manifestation’s massive cock slides, somehow pushing past the limits of my gag reflex and finally coming to an end once my face is pressed up against his glowing abs. I hold here, allowing him a moment to enjoy these oral acrobatics.

Humpler groans, reaching down and placing his hands on the back of my head. He holds me like this until I’m finally forced to pull back in a gasp of air, a long translucent strand dangling between my lips and the head of his engorged shaft.

“Fuck me!” I snarl. “I need that absurdly irresponsible group text fuck-up deep inside of me.”

I turn around and fall to the floor of my office, crawling away from the physical manifestation on my hands and knees with an exaggerated sway. Once I’m a few feet away I reach back and give my rump a playful slap, then hold myself open so he can get a better look.

“What are you waiting for?” I demand to know.

Getting the point, Humpler floats down into position behind me. He aligns his massive cock with my puckered back door, testing my anal seal for a moment. The handsome physical manifestation pushes slightly against my butt, then pulls back.

“Fuck,” I groan. “Do it!”

Humpler finally gives in, thrusting deep inside of me as a startled yelp escapes my throat. Despite my begging, I wasn’t entirely prepared for this living concept’s enormous size. He stretches me to the absolute limit, driving deep within my body and then holding tight.

The physically manifested group text is a patient lover. He’s noticed the tension within me, and instead of immediately getting to work he stays frozen in place, allowing my body some time to adjust to his mighty penetration.

Slowly, the discomfort at the pit of my stomach begins to transform, melting away and revealing a pleasant warmth in its place. The sensation fills me up, my muscles relaxing to accommodate Humpler’s impressive girth. He begins to grind, taking his time as our bodies slide and move. He’s reading me as we find a pace together.

Eventually, we settle into a confident pound, the giant phone pumping hard as that sense of warmth spills out across my body. The feeling pours down my

arms and legs, filling me up as my muscles tremble and quake. My nerves are sizzling with energy, struggling to grapple with all of the potent eroticism.

“Just like that, just like that,” I murmur under my breath, repeating the words over and over again at an ever-escalating volume. Eventually, I’m crying out at the top of my lungs, filling my office with blissed out cries for more. “Just like that! Just like that!”

Humpler is slamming away at my rump with everything he’s got, his shaft plunging deep within my asshole as his flat screen slaps against my backside. Harder and harder he goes, somehow angling his cock so that it rubs perfectly against the prostate hidden deep within.

I reach down between my legs and grab ahold of my hanging cock, beating myself off. Instead of matching the slams of Humpler’s hips, I fall into a different pace with the movements of my fingers. A polyrhythm of pleasure begins to swirl.

The handsome physical manifestation is giving it to me with everything he’s got now, losing himself in the moment. I can feel my impending climax building its potency, a dam that’s steadily cracking until, finally, it breaks and the pleasure is unleashed. It sweeps me away. I throw my head back and let out a frantic, unbridled howl, carried away on a blissed out wave. Hot white jizz erupts from the head of my cock, splattering across the ground below.

Humpler carries me through the entirety of my orgasm, not letting up for a second. His timing is perfect, and when I finally finish, he pushes deep and unleashes a payload of his own. I can feel the cum spilling out of him, filling me up with his spunk and then running down the back of my legs.

When the living concept finishes, the two of us collapse in a satisfied, fucked-silly pile.

“That was incredible,” I sigh, gazing at the ceiling. “How do you feel now?” Humpler asks.

“Ready to write.”

Hitting publish on a big story is always a strange feeling. Back in the day, this used to happen late at night, or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it. The physical paper would then go out and get distributed far and wide, scattered across the city, or sometimes even the world. It felt like the news traveled pretty darn fast back then, but now it’s instant.

I pressed the button to publish a few hours ago, and I haven’t checked the stats yet.

Journalism is a hard job. It takes an incredible amount of effort, as well as some well-placed moments of rest, but it feels as though I might’ve finally found that balance.

A knock on my office door prompts me to look up from my computer screen. “Come in!” I call out.

The door opens and Gorbin Claves steps inside. He closes it behind him.

I can already tell by the man’s demeanor that something has changed since our last meeting, and while I’ve had enough self-control to not check the social media likes, or comments, or how many other publications have picked the story up, I’m suddenly wishing that I had.

“You look happy,” I observe. “How’s it doing?”

“It’s an incredible piece,” Gorbin replies. “An important peace. Everyone’s talking about it.”

I nod with satisfaction, thankful that I hit my target.

“So, what’s next?” I question, already thinking ahead. “Should we get ready with a team at the White House for comment when the fallout starts? Maybe we should snag interviews with anyone else who was on the thread.”

Gorbin nods and smiles. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve got people on that.” “Shouldn’t I follow up? This is the biggest story of the day!”

My boss’s expression falters. “I mean... I said everyone’s talking about it,

but Tromp’s administration has already done something even more outrageous.”

I hesitate, then let out a long sigh of understanding.

“We need you on the breaking news,” Gorbin explains. “You’re our top guy,

and it’s just gonna keep coming. All the nonsense, all the absurdity.”

“I don’t even know what to write about!” I finally say, throwing my hands

in the air. “This is ridiculous. There’s just too much bullshit.”

“That’s what Chuck Tingle said before he started writing this book, and look

where we are now!” Gorbin retorts. “We’re just about to cross four-thousand words. We’re entering the falling action! We’re wrapping things up! Yeah, it’s hard right now, I’m not gonna say that it isn’t, but if Chuck Tingle can keep writing his nutty stories than I think we can, too.”

I stare at him blankly. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I finally ask. “Who is Chuck Tingle.”

My boss laughs, then shrugs. “Forget about that. I’m just saying, there’s a lot of things at play here. You’ve gotta take care of yourself, take a break and recharge and all that, but when you’re ready, you get back up on that horse. You write that political tingler that you didn’t think you had it in you to write.”

“I’m sorry, political what?”

“Never mind,” Gorbin replies. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you great job out there.”

“Thanks.”

My boss gives two knocks on the doorframe and then turns and heads back out onto the main floor, closing the door behind him.

I sit in silence for a moment, struggling to determine whether I’m too exhausted to go on or more exhilarated than I’ve ever been.

My phone suddenly buzzes and I steady myself, preparing for whatever comes next.

Back to work.