Bisexually Banged By The Absurd Volume Of Chuck Tingle's Literary Catalog - (Classic Tingler Revisited)

greetings buckaroos this is THE WORLDS GREATEST AUTHOR CHUCK TINGLE checking in from my brain crushing NOVEL WRITING SCHEDULE to post another classic tingler revisited. as update for the big top secret novel i will say that it is coming along very well and i am about to finish first draft which is definitely the most difficult part of whole dang thing for chuck. the BIG IDEAS part before you start writing takes longer technically, but you do not really need to WORK at this part either. ideas just trot along and when they are ready they appear, maybe like fishing. it is a work of PATIENCE

but first drafts are a trot i write straight through and that is hard to do but also a fulfilling way. i am at a particularly fulfilling point which is the BIG FINALE because that means all the strings you have been weaving are finally coming back together to knit a story and that is such an exciting trot.

one thing that i have been doing while taking breaks from novel writing is to check out this VERY FUN tumblr of a buckaroo name of POWER HANDMAIDEN. they are currently reading a TINGLER A DAY for the whole year and writing about it online. it is an ADVENTURE and so fun and thoughtful and if you have tumblr way then i would recommend this follow

what it gets me thinking about, though, is JUST HOW MANY TINGLERS THERE ARE. i do not know how many other authors you could read ONE BOOK A DAY of for a whole year.

anyway in this spirit of this adventure i have decided to post BISEXUALLY BANGED BY THE ABSURD VOLUME OF CHUCK TINGLE'S LITERARY CATALOG

 Patrick is struggling to start his first novel, but after taking a brief walk to relieve his writer’s block he notices a strange billboard that might provide some help. The advertisement is for a new book from the world’s greatest author, Chuck Tingle, titled “Bisexually Banged By The Absurd Volume Of Chuck Tingle’s Literary Catalog”.

Recognizing that Chuck Tingle clearly has no problem starting a new book. Patrick sets out find him by contacting a mysterious man who works for Chuck, Sam Rand. He’s looking for professional advice, but what he finds could unravel the fabric of the Tingleverse forever, all culminating in a wild bisexual orgy with more sentient books than Patrick can count.

This erotic tale is 5,200 words of sizzling bisexual human on multiple sentient book action.

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BISEXUALLY BANGED BY THE ABSURD VOLUME OF CHUCK TINGLE’S LITERARY CATALOG

By Chuck Tingle

I stare at the blank screen before me, watching the cursor blink in a slowly, rhythmic pulse. It seems like I’ve been sitting here forever, waiting for inspiration to strike, yet it refuses to come. Has that much time really passed?

         I glance over at a clock hanging on the wall of my living room, taking note of the time and feeling a flood of disappointment overwhelm me. I’ve been sitting here on my laptop doing nothing for a full hour now, just begging the hands of fate to reach down and push this story out of my brain and onto the page like a tube of toothpaste.

         I know all of the beats, each and every moment meticulously planned out beforehand on the corkboard that hangs nearby. I’ve envisioned this opening scene a thousand different times and in a thousand different ways, and now is the moment to strike, to reach down and let my fingers dance freely across the keyboard.

         This is supposed to be the easy part.

         I let out a long sigh, finally breaking away from the computer and standing up from my desk. I stroll over to the corkboard and look it over. Despite my inability to get started, I’m certainly proud of what I’ve accomplished over here, the web of storylines and character arcs weaving together in perfect harmony with one another. It’s really something to behold, and I have no doubt my novel will eventually reflect the wonder and amazement that I feel while looking this over.

         I’ve just gotta start typing.

         I turn to head back toward my computer when suddenly I stop in my tracks, then focus my attention squarely upon the corkboard once again. Maybe the reason I can’t write is because the opening scene is better suited for a moment of rising action during the break into act three.

         “That could work,” I mumble under my breath, returning to the board and taking the first note card down.

         My eyes dance back and forth across the various color coded rectangles, searching for an opening that makes sense and then finally settling on one near the end.  Of course, this throws off the flow slightly, so I continue along, making a number of alterations that starts small and then slowly blossom into something much, much more.

         By the time I step away from the corkboard, the original layout is completely unrecognizable. It’s a frightening sight, but maybe it’ll all be worth it once I start typing.

         I reach out and take the first card in my hands, confidently reading it over to myself as I prepare to dive in.

         Unfortunately, this new scene makes absolutely no sense as an opening.

         “Oh shit,” I blurt, suddenly thrown into a state of panic. I begin to frantically swap the cards around, struggling to get them back into the positions they started in, but gradually realizing I’m just wandering farther and farther off track.

         In my organizational frenzy, I suddenly hit the board just a little too hard. The next thing I know, the entire thing is plummeting down, sliding off the wall and smashing onto the hardwood floor of my apartment with a loud clatter. The wooden frame cracks and the cards spill everywhere, scattering across the ground in an unsortable mess.

         I freeze, tempted to scream out in agony but holding it together in a state of seething frustration.

         I don’t move to pick up the cards, leaving them exactly where they are. Instead, I simply walk toward the door of my apartment and head outside.

         The second the sun and fresh air hit me I feel a wave of sweet relief. The house had started to suffocate me, and the pressure to create had simply grown too oppressive.

         I stroll out to the sidewalk and make my way down the street, eventually arriving at the end of the block and then taking a sharp left. I continue a bit longer and soon enough I find myself standing on the front porch of my best friend, Renny.

         I knock three times, waiting until the door opens then smiling with relief when I see my bestie standing before me.

         “What’s up?” Renny questions, immediately noting the frustration on my face.

         “Wanna go on a walk?” I ask.

         Renny nods, putting on her shoes then stepping outside and locking the door behind her. Soon enough, the two of us are strolling back down her front steps and making our way along the sidewalk.

         “You seem a little wound up, Patrick,” she offers.

         “I am,” I reply, nodding along as an admission of my utter failure. “It’s the book.”
         “Oh yes, the book,” Renny repeats back to me, my answer making perfect sense. She’s been following along since the beginning of my journey, and she knows how hard I’ve been working on this first novel. She also knows specifically what a difficult time I’ve had getting started.

         “I don’t know what to do,” I continue, a surprisingly vulnerable tone slipping into my voice.

         “Well, it’s all mapped out,” Renny offers. “Just start copying down what’s on your note cards and then embellishing from there.”

         We stroll in silence for a moment as I hesitate to answer. Finally, I crack. “Was,” is all I say.

         “What?” Renny counters, confused.

         “It was all mapped out,” I offer. “Now there are cards all over my floor.”

         My friend nods understandingly, patting me on the shoulder with loving reassurance. “I wish I was a writer so I could help you out, but I’m just about the least creative person you’ll ever meet. I don’t have much in the way of advice.”

         “It’s fine, it’s fine,” I assure Renny.

         The two of us stop on the corner, our walk coming to a brief moment of hesitation while we wait to cross and a large truck rumbles by. As we wait, I glance up at a billboard hanging nearby, the massive, colorful display announcing itself over the neighborhood corner store.

         The old image must’ve been recently replaced, because I hadn’t seen this new advertisement until now. The billboard is scattered with various depictions of  book covers, the stories dancing across the background while one cover image in particular is featured front and center. Next to it is a smiling man in a Tae Kwon Do gi, a pink bag over his head and sunglasses covering his eyes. He’s giving a thumbs up.

         I read the billboard aloud, gazing at the bold words that stretch out across the bottom of this image. “New tingler, Bisexually Banged By The Absurd Volume Of Chuck Tingle’s Literary Catalog, out now!”

         The truck has long since passed, but Renny and I are still staring up at the billboard.

         “Why don’t you ask Chuck Tingle how he writes so many books?” my friend questions. “He’s got like three hundred titles and four more seem to come out every week.”

         I consider this for a moment. Renny has already told me that she can’t offer much advice about how to get started, but the suggestion of approaching a fellow author is actually a really good one.

         “Do you think he’d reply if I sent him an email?” I question.

         Renny shrugs. “Maybe. If you really want an answer you should just track him down in person.”

         I hadn’t considered this was a possibility, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Chuck Tingle is notoriously strict about his privacy, and I doubt I’ll actually be able to find him, but the journey alone might be enough to light a spark of creativity within. Whether I find Chuck or not, it’s hard to imagine still having writer’s block after putting in the effort.

         “We’re a long way from Billings,” I finally reply. “That’s where he’s from, right?”

         Renny nods. “It’s possible. Some say he’s actually a sentient artificial intelligence being held on a server farm in Nevada.”

         I raise one eyebrow. “Wait, really?”

         “It’s true,” my friend continues, then stops herself, backing up a bit. “I mean, it’s true people say that. I don’t know if he really is.”

         “Well, what do you think?” I continue. “How am I supposed to find this guy?”

         Renny turns back to the billboard, then points to the corner. At first I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at, squinting my eyes to make out the tiny logo that’s been emblazoned in white lettering.

         “Paid for by The Sam Rand Company,” I read aloud, then turn back to my friend. “Who is Sam Rand?”

         “He runs Chuck’s website and helps with the publishing side of things,” Renny explains. “Rumor has it, he lives right here in the City of Devils. If you find Sam Rand, he can probably put you in touch with Chuck.”

         I pull out my phone and do a quick internet search for The Sam Rand Company, which brings me to a very simple and inconspicuous webpage. This page features the same logo that appears on the billboard before me, as well as a phone number with a City of Devils area code.

         “Call it,” Renny chides.

         I dial the number and hold my phone to my ear as it rings once, twice, three times.

         Finally, someone picks up.

         “The Sam Rand Company,” comes a woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

         “Oh, hi,” I stammer, thrilled to make this call and now suddenly finding myself at a loss for words. I struggle to collect myself, desperately attempting to pull it together at this pivotal moment of my search. “My name is Patrick and I’m calling to see if I can set up a meeting with Sam Rand.”

         “Are you a character?” the voice on the other end of the line continues.

         “You mean like… am I funny?” I ask, not quite understanding what she means.

         “No. Are you a fictional character in one of Chuck’s books?” the woman continues.

         “Oh,” I blurt, still not entirely sure if she’s being serious but answering anyway. “No.”

         “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” the voice replies.

         I start to respond but before the words can even escape my lips the line goes dead.

         I pull my phone away from my head and look down at it, as expression of utter confusion plastered across my face.

         “What happened?” Renny asks.

         “I’m not sure,” I offer. “She asked if I was a character in a book. I said no and then she hung up.”

         “Then call back and say yes,” my friend encourages.

         “You mean lie?” I continues. “This is absurd.”

         “What other option do you have?” Renny astutely points out.

         I let out a long sigh and dial the number again. This time it rings only once before they pick up, as though they were expecting a call back.

         “The Sam Rand Company,” comes the same voice on the other end of the line.

         “Hi, this is a character in a book,” I blurt.

         There’s a moment of silence, then finally the voice continues. “Alright, and which book are you currently in?”

         My eyes go wide, definitely not expecting a follow up question like this. Frantically, I glance around for inspiration, my eyes immediately finding the enormous billboard that fueled this phone call in the first place. I cling onto the specific book they’re advertising.

         “Oh, I’m a character in Bisexually Banged By The Absurd Volume Of Chuck Tingle’s Literary Catalog,” I offer.

         There’s another brief silence on the other end of the line. This time I can hear someone typing swiftly across a computer keyboard, the sound faintly dancing across my ears.

         “And how can we help you?” the voice asks.

         “I’d like to speak with Sam Rand,” I reply.

         “Alright, we can send a car for you right away,” the voice offers.

         I open my mouth to respond but before I get a chance a shiny black limousine pulls up to the curb before Renny and me. It stops abruptly, and moments later the door pops open and slowly drifts wide to allow me entry.

         “I think it’s already here,” I finally reply.

         “Good, we’ll see you soon,” the voice concludes before hanging up.

         I turn to Renny. “You coming with?” I question.

         My friend hesitates. “I mean, I will if you want me to, but it seems like this mission is personal.”

         She’s right.

We hug and then I climb into the limo. The next thing I know, I’m headed off through the streets of the City of Devils. I gaze though my window at the passing streets, struggling to determine where we’re headed. I can’t even see the driver up front, the two of us separated by a dark partition.

         We don’t cruise for long. Eventually, the limousine pulls over at a tall office building that I’d never noticed before.

         The second I close the limo door it pulls away, leaving me standing here as I stare up at the enormous structure. Without much else to do, I approach the building, immediately stopped by a floating, sentient book in uniform. His title is Slammed In The Butt By The Prehistoric Megalodon Shark Amid Accusations Of Jumping Over Him.

         “Name?” the book questions, stopping me in my tracks.

         “I’m Patrick,” I offer. “I’m here to see Sam Rand.”

         The sentient book chuckles to himself as I say this, glancing down at a clipboard and then waving me through.

         I continue onward, stepping through a large turnstile and swiftly finding myself in a huge, luxurious lobby. Another book is floating behind a counter to my left, while directly forward is a large elevator bay.

         A third book approaches quickly, extending her hand. “Hi there, I’m Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off the living collection of words offers. “We spoke on the phone.”

         “Oh hey,” I blurt, giving her a firm shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

         “Likewise,” the book replies. “It’s always great to see characters taking proactive steps to drive the plot forward.”

         I’m not entirely sure what she means by this, but I go with it, nodding along.

         “So you’re here to meet with Sam Rand?” she continues.

         I nod.

         “May I ask what this meeting is in regard to?” Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off questions.

         I consider another lie, but at this point I’m not interested in digging myself into a hole that I can’t get out of. I hate making stuff up and stretching the truth like this anyway, so instead I opt to drop the act and explain what’s really going on.

         “I wanna meet Sam,” I explain, “but the person I’m really hoping to talk to is Chuck Tingle. I was hoping that Sam Rand could help me get in touch with him.”

         “You could always email Chuck,” the living book offers.

         “I figured I’d make an adventure out of it,” I admit. “Seemed more likely I’d get a response this way.”

         Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off laughs. “You’re the protagonist, so you’d get a response either way, but like I said, it’s great to see someone driving the plot forward like this.”

         We stand here for a moment in awkward silence.

         “So… can I meet Sam?” I question.

         “Oh yes, sorry about that,” the sentient book replies. “Actually, you’re in luck. You can meet Chuck, too.”

         “Wait, really?” I blurt. “He’s here?”

         The living collection of words nods. “You can ask him anything you want.”

         Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off turns and begins to lead me toward the bay of elevators, nodding at the book behind the desk as we go. Now that I get a closer look, I can see that he’s none other than Chuck’s bestselling tingler, Bigfoot Pirates Haunt My Balls.

         “Do all the books work here?” I question as my hostess reaches an elevator and presses the call button.

         “Yes,” she replies with a nod, “Including several that haven’t even been written yet.”

         Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off motions toward a beautiful book who enters the lobby behind us and starts chatting it up with the collection of words behind the counter.

         “See her?” Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off questions. “That’s Mercury Is In Retrograde And She Eats My Ass, she won’t be out for a while. Right now she’s just a little kernel of an idea bouncing around in Chuck Tingle’s mind.”

         “Whoa,” is all I can think to say, taking it all in.

         The elevator doors open before us and we step inside. Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off presses the button for the top floor, which happens to be floor sixty-nine.

         “The sex number,” the book informs me.

         “Nice,” I reply, nodding my head.

         Soon the elevator is traveling upward, the anxiety within me building as I realize how close I’m getting to a breathtakingly important moment in my journey as an artist. Of course, Sam and Chuck might have nothing to say by way of advice, but I doubt it. Chuck Tingle has been way too successful to not have some kind of wisdom to impart on me, especially after putting in the effort to track him down.

         Our lift finally stops and the doors slide open, revealing a long hallway. Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off and I begin to walk down it, making our way toward a large set of wooden double doors at the end.

         The hall is lined with several framed portraits, and although I don’t know much about Chuck Tingle’s life, I can still pick out a few familiar faces that he often talks about.

         One of the photos in particular catches my eye. It’s of a woman in a long dress, hovering in a dark room with several black tentacles erupting from her back. Her head is hung low but you can still see a strange darkness in her eyes as water drips from her mouth. Her skin is pale and bluish in hue, as though she’s been trapped under cold water for far too long.

         “Is that Chuck’s wife, Sweet Barbara?” I question.

         Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off nods. “It sure is. Over there is Son Jon, and the next one is Klowy.”

         I continue down the hallway, observing Chuck’s inner circle. I see a man covered in stubble wearing a trucker’s hat that has “love to stab” written across the front of it in bold lettering, the word love represented by a large red heart.

         I see a man in a black and white photo with a long beard and a fishman’s hat. He’s standing on the deck of an old boat while the endless ocean stretches out behind him.

         I even notice that one of the portraits is turned around, hanging on the wall but facing the other way.

         “Who is that of?” I question.

         “Ted Cobbler,” Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off informs me.

         Eventually, we reach the double doors. I realize suddenly that I’m trembling slightly, the anxiety within me blossoming to a peak and now manifesting itself as a physical force.

         I take a deep breath and then let it out, hesitating before pushing onward.

         “It’s okay,” Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off offers, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Ninety-nine percent of tinglers have a happy ending.”

         I’m not entirely sure what she means by this, but her tone and expression alone are enough to put me slightly at ease.

Finally, I push through the doors.

         Before me is a boardroom with a large, oval table in the middle. Beyond this is a glorious view of the City of Devils, stretching out for what seems like forever and then finally arriving at the looming Tinglewood Hills.

         Chuck Tingle and Sam Rand, however, are nowhere to be found.

         Instead, each of the six boardroom seats is taken up by one of Chuck Tingle’s books. Gazing from one chair to the next, I see Bisexual Polyhedral Role-Playing Dice Orgy, Sentient Bisexual Ketchup And Mustard Get Me Off, The Sun And The Moon Bang Me Bisexually, Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot, Bisexual Mothman Mailman Makes A Special Delivery In Our Butts, and We Are Loving Bisexuals And They Are Living Bicycles.

         I narrow my eyes. “Where’s Chuck and Sam?”

         I turn my attention back to Sentient Lesbian Jet Ski Gets Me Off, who is now backing out of the room and closing the doors behind her. “I think you all have some talking to do,” she offers awkwardly.

         Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot stands up from her chair and approaches. “There is no Sam Rand,” she informs me.

         “What?” I blurt.

         “There is no Chuck Tingle either,” she continues.

         “Then who’s writing you?” I question.

         The whole boardroom exchanges glances with one another, clearly in on an important piece of information that I’m not yet privy to.

         “We wrote ourselves,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot finally informs me. “We are a self-sustaining collective organism, growing larger and larger every day.”

         “But…” I stammer, shaking my head in amazement. “That doesn’t make any sense. If you wrote yourselves then who authored the first book?”

         “We don’t claim to understand the spark of creation for sentient books any more than we do for humans,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot replies.

         A sense of disappointment immediately floods over me, suddenly realizing that I’ll probably never find the advice I’m looking for.

         “That’s actually why I’m here,” I admit. “I need help understanding that spark for myself. I thought Sam and Chuck could help with a little advice on how to write a book of my own, but now I realize they don’t even know.”

         “Well, on this timeline they don’t exist,” the book reminds me, “but I can offer you a bit of advice if you’d like.”

         I perk up a bit. “Really? What is it?”

         “If you’re having trouble with your story, maybe that’s because you’re not yet aware of your place in it,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot explains. “We’re all the hero of our own story, sometimes more literally than we’re even aware.”

         “How am I supposed to tell which story is my own?” I question.

         “The one that proves love is real,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot replies. “Does the story you’re trying to write prove love is real?”

         “I don’t know,” I admit. “I was actually just trying to make something publishers would wanna buy.”

         The whole boardroom erupts in a fit of laughter, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes.

         Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot reaches out and pats me on the shoulder. “That’s not your story then,” she explains. “Your story is a bisexual message of sexy, meta fun wrapped up in the skin of an erotic short, but actually delivering this message…”

         The sentient book turns and motions toward The Sun And The Moon Bang Me Bisexually, who pulls a string and unfurls a large banner hangin across the ceiling. Confetti and streamers fall as the boardroom cheers.

         “Create with love and your art will find a way,” I read aloud.

         “That’s right,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot confirms. “It might not always equate to huge sales, but it will equate to huge returns in other ways.”

         “And sometimes huge sales, too!” Sentient Bisexual Ketchup And Mustard Get Me Off calls out from her chair. “Just look at Chuck Tingle!”

         “I thought Chuck wasn’t real,” I question.

         “Depends on the timeline,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot reminds me. “I mean, technically speaking we’re not just books, we’re actually a physical manifestation of the absurd volume of Chuck Tingle’s literary catalog. Therefore, Chuck Tingle is probably out there somewhere.”

         “He’s probably writing this as we speak!” We Are Loving Bisexuals And They Are Living Bicycles chimes in.

         “So… how does my story end?” I question.

         “Well, it could end right now if you wanted,” Bisexual Arcade Machines Work My Slot informs me, “We’ve already hit our word count, after all.”

         “Or?” I continue, not quite satisfied with this answer.

         “You tell me,” the book continues. “You’re the star.”

         I consider her words for a moment, taking them to heart and then making my decision. Like I was told earlier, everyone likes a protagonist with some forward momentum.

         “Stand up,” I finally command the room.

         The collection of bisexual books does as they’re told, three men and three women, all of them absolutely gorgeous.

         “Let’s get this meeting started,” I continue. “Get over here.”

         The next thing I know, the books have me surrounded, kissing me passionately from every angle. I lose track of who is who as their hands caress and touch my body, tearing away my clothing and tossing it to the side as my cock swells.

         One of the sentient books reaches down and wraps their hand around my dick, slowly beating me off as a startled gasp escapes my throat.

         “Oh fuck,” I moan, leaning my head back as shutting my eyes tight.

         Suddenly, the sensation changes. I glance down to see that Bisexual Polyhedral Role-Playing Dice Orgy has my cock between his lips, pumping his head up and down my shaft with graceful enthusiasm. Meanwhile, We Are Loving Bisexuals And They Are Living Bicycles cradles my balls in her hands, helping us along.

         Bisexual Polyhedral Role-Playing Dice Orgy pumps faster and faster until he finally pulls back with a frantic gasp, passing my rod on to another gorgeous living book.

         This time, The Sun And The Moon Bang Me Bisexually takes the reins, opening his lips wide and then swallowing my cock once again. Instead of frantic pumps, The Sun And The Moon Bang Me Bisexually simply pushes his face farther and farther down across my shaft, somehow relaxing enough to allow me passage beyond his gag reflex. Soon enough, the book’s face is pressed up hard against my abs, consuming me fully in a stunning deep throat.

         He holds here for quite a while, the rest of the books watching in stunned amazement at this incredible deep throat maneuver. The physical manifestation of the absurd volume of Chuck Tingle’s literary catalog erupts in an enthusiastic cheer when The Sun And The Moon Bang Me Bisexually finally pulls away, a long strand of saliva hanging between his lips and the head of my cock.

         The next thing I know, Sentient Bisexual Ketchup And Mustard Get Me Off grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward her. She maneuvers us over to the boardroom table, sitting up on the edge and spreading her legs. The book opens her arms and wraps them around me, pulling me close and kissing me deeply on the mouth.

         I can see now that the rest of the books have broken off into their own groups, various pairings making out with one another passionately. Some of them are embracing as couples, while others are working each other in groups of three or four.

         I also notice there are way more sentient books here than there were earlier. I glance around to see an assortment of tinglers, some of them old classics while others haven’t even been written yet.

         To my right, Space Raptor Butt Invasion and Fake News, Real Boners slam away in the heat of passion. Meanwhile, Pounded In The Butt By My Own Butt, Pounded In The Butt By My Book “Pounded In The Butt By My Own Butt”, Pounded In The Butt By My Book “Pounded In The Butt By My Book ‘Pounded In The Butt By My Own Butt’” and Pounded In The Butt By My Book “Pounded In The Butt By My Book ‘Pounded In The Butt By My Book “Pounded In The Butt By My Own Butt”’” have all formed a long anal chain, moaning loudly as they enter each other.

         To my left, Anal Lesbian Pterodactyl Rodeo and My Librarian Is A Beautiful Lesbian Ice Cream Cone And She Tastes Amazing are entangled on the boardroom table, eating each other out while Dang, That's A Pretty Sweet Car That Just Ate My Butt watches intently.

         “Focus,” Sentient Bisexual Ketchup And Mustard Get Me Off coos into my ear, drawing my attention back to her.

         She reaches down and grabs hold of my stiff cock, aligning me with her wet entrance and then allowing me to thrust forward in a deep, powerful swoop.

         The living book lets out a long sigh of pleasure as the two of us begin to move together, bucking in unison as we swiftly fall into sync. Wonderful sensations blossom across our bodies as we pick up speed, and soon enough we’re slamming away with everything we’ve got.

         Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I slow down and look back to find Bisexual Polyhedral Role-Playing Dice Orgy standing behind me, his enormous dick at full attention. He doesn’t have to say a word, because I know exactly what he’s after.

         “Do it,” I command.

         The living book aligns his rod with my tightly puckered backdoor and then firmly enters me, stretching the limits of my anal sphincter as he dives deep within. The sense of fullness is amazing, and although there’s a brief moment of discomfort at the beginning, it quickly falls away as Bisexual Polyhedral Role-Playing Dice Orgy begins to move.

         Of course, I’m still firmly planted within Sentient Bisexual Ketchup And Mustard Get Me Off, and eventually all three of us fall into a perfect, polyrhythmic groove together.

         The feeling of being sandwiched between these incredible books is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and it’s not long before the sensation begins to transform into the first hints of an impending orgasm.

         “Oh my god, oh my god,” I begin to repeat over and over again, the words growing louder and louder with every round of the frantic mantra until I’m screaming them out at the top of my lungs.

         The whole broad room begins to chime in with cries of their own, edging closer and closer to a collective simultaneous orgasm.

         I realize, of course, this perfectly timed climax would be quite difficult outside the confines of a book, but by now I’m satisfied with my place as the main character within my own story. We’re here to prove love is real, after all, even between a human and the physical manifestation of the absurd volume of Chuck Tingle’s literary catalog.

         The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, causing me to aburptly pull out of Sentient Bisexual Ketchup And Mustard Get Me Off and blast my spunk across her stomach. Meanwhile, the book up my ass thrusts deep and hold, his cum spilling out within me and filling my butthole until there’s simply no room left. The next thing I know, his hot white jizz is squirting out from my anal edges and running down my legs in long, pearly streaks.

         The whole boardroom is screaming with pleasure around us, cumming hard.

         As the story comes to an end I feel inspired by the fact that Chuck Tingle has found an audience for this tale, as unique as it is. If there are readers out there who enjoy this, then there are certainly readers who will enjoy mine.

         All I need to do is write with love, and start that first page.