Pounded By My Preorder Of Chuck Tingle’s New Traditionally Published Horror Novel, Bury Your Gays, Because Preordering Is A Fantastic Way Of Directly Supporting Authors You Like

AUTHORS NOTE: thank you so much for supporting my way and for joining me on this new adventure with upcoming release of horror novel BURY YOUR GAYS. this tingler is FREE as a gift for your continued support of my unique way as we shine light into the void together. if you enjoy then please consider preordering BURY YOUR GAYS.  

if you are new to the tingleverse please remember that BURY YOUR GAYS is a horror novel but THIS particular story below is genre of HARDCORE GAY EROTICA it is very explicit so if that is not your trot then consider skipping this one, otherwise please enjoy. thank you buckaroos LOVE IS REAL

please take a moment to preorder BURY YOUR GAYS here 

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Korb is a true buckaroo to the bone, a hardcore Chuck Tingle fan who is thrilled about the upcoming release of Chuck’s second traditionally published horror novel, Bury Your Gays. After starting this story with a strange ancient artifact in his possession, Korb is convinced it was written specifically to grant him some early information about the plot of Bury Your Gays. However, it quickly becomes apparent to Korb that his own story is the one that really matters.

Now Korb and the physical manifestation of preordering Chuck Tingle’s new traditionally published horror novel are wrapped up in a hardcore gay encounter that breaks through the fourth wall and proves the art you enjoy is worth supporting.

This erotic tale is 4,200 words of sizzling human on gay living preorder action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, and sentient artistic support love.

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POUNDED BY MY PREORDER OF CHUCK TINGLE’S NEW TRADITIONALLY PUBLISHED HORROR NOVEL, BURY YOUR GAYS, BECAUSE PREORDERING IS A FANTASTIC WAY OF DIRECTLY SUPPORTING AUTHORS YOU LIKE

By Chuck Tingle

The view stretching out before me is awe-inspiring, but it’s also a lot more frightening than I expected. I can feel my heart slam a little faster in my chest, sweat forming on my brow as I gaze across the miles and miles of stark white ice and crystalline blue water.

The vehicle we’re currently flying in is considered “safe”, but I suppose that term is relative. Yes, plenty of Arctic researchers have made this trek before and lived to tell the tale, but it’s hard to keep your muscles from clenching and your nerves from sizzling in the presence of such a wildly inhospitable place.

If our helicopter crashed and I somehow managed to survive, I’d likely have a matter of minutes to find refuge in this endless landscape of cold tundra.

If we landed in the water, I’d have seconds.

I try my best not to think about this, instead focusing on the task at hand. The bag sits next to me and I pull it up onto my lap, carefully exposing one edge of this wonderous artifact and gazing down at it with all the reverence it deserves.

The ancient stone is lighter than you might expect, some kind of unique mineral that’s both sturdy and strangely manageable. The piece is oblong and grey, but large enough to host a whole sentence of strange runes and carvings that, by now, I know like the back of my hand. Along with the written sections, there are several pictorial drawings, including the two that have brought us here today: a snowflake and a polar bear.

“Not much farther!” my pilot calls out. We’re using headsets to communicate, but the blades whirring above us are still so loud that it’s difficult to get our voices above them even with this extra amplification.

As difficult as this helicopter trip is, I’m still thankful to be off of the plane, and the boat, each leg providing their own annoying travel side-effects. A lack of sea sickness is something to be thankful for, regardless of the circumstances.

My pilot points and I follow the route of his finger, gazing over the ice. At first I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, but eventually I notice a tiny cube of grey revealing itself within this vast expanse.

“There’s the research station!” he shouts.

A wave of relief washes over me, the beginning of the end finally revealing itself after all this time. I’ve been searching for answers for so long that part of me thought they’d never come, that I’d never know the truth about Chuck Tingle’s next traditionally published horror novel, Bury Your Gays.

I’d never get that sweet tidbit of a plot point, and I’d never learn how to support the book itself.

Of course, these fears of mine are alittle extreme. The book will come out one day and, eventually, every secret within will be exposed.

Therein lies the problem, I just can’t wait. I need answers, and I need them now.

Our helicopter begins its descent towards the icy tundra, swaying precariously in the frigid winds as it drifts lower and lower. I breathe a sigh of relief when we gently touch the ground, a perfect landing just a few yards out from the research station. From here I can see a figure standing in the doorway of the building, bundled up tight as they greet us with a broad wave.

“Ready?” the helicopter pilot asks.

I wrap my coat around myself and pull up the hood, then nod in confirmation. Soon enough, the two of us are leaping from our vehicle and hustling across the ice, weary of the sub-zero temperatures that swirl around us. We make quick work of the distance between out chopper and the base, and soon enough we’re pushing inside and slamming the door behind us.

“You made it!” comes the joyful voice of Amanda Groons.

I pull off my hood and take in this notorious scientist for myself, amazed to see her in the flesh rather than captured as a grainy science publication photo. Amanda is a light green triceratops with a particularly sharp horn and bright yellow eyes that sparkle in the light. She has a natural excitement about her, ready to dive in and get to work. I suppose I’d be excited too if I finally had a guest out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Thank you so much for taking a look at this artifact,” I gush. “I heard you were the best.”

“Is that what they’re saying about me?” she replies with a laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that, but if someone wants to come out here and get my opinion, then who am I to say no?”

She’s being modest, of course. Amanda’s list of qualifications are long, and when it comes to ancient civilizations and rare languages of the past, she’s second to none. Combined with the fact that she’s already out here in the Arctic, my path to the truth was obvious.

I carefully hand over my bag, the broken stone slab cradled inside.

“Come with me to the lab,” Amanda says, nodding down a nearby hallway.

We walk deeper into the structure, lights automatically flickering on as we go.

“So you think this will give you a hint of what Chuck Tingle’s next book is about?” the scientist asks.

I nod. “He wrote this piece into our timeline. All I know is there’s a book that has something to do with this artifact, and it seems to come from an ancient civilization.”

“Lots of hype around Bury Your Gays, huh?” the triceratops continues. “You aren’t worried this piece has something to do with a different book? How do you know this even connects to the horror Tingleverse? References between the erotic layer and the horror layer are pretty rare.”

“I mean, maybe it doesn’t,” I opine, “but I couldn’t just ignore it. Honestly, I’m not sure what to expect, I just felt the calling of adventure and now I’m here at the top of the world.”

“Well, hopefully I can help you take this adventure a step further,” Amanda states.

We finally reach the lab, a large room covered in stainless steel fixtures and various cabinets of equipment. A massive table sits at the dead center of this room, and it’s here the triceratops places my artifact.

Amanda carefully unwraps the stone tablet and then steps back, taking a moment to soak in the ancient relic in all its glory. I watch as she begins to move around the slab, observing every intricate marking.

“Very interesting,” Amanda murmurs, talking quietly to herself. “Very interesting.”

She notices the polar bear and snowflake drawings, sizing them up.

“Did you catch these symbols?” she asks.

“That’s why I came all the way out here,” I explain. “I figured this belonged to some kind of ancient alien civilization under the ice, you know? Maybe Chuck Tingle’s next book has to do with a frozen terror from the cold depths that returns every thousand years or whatever. I just wanna support Bury Your Gays when it comes out, and I’m curious what the books is about so… here I am.”

The triceratops glances up at me, hesitating.

“What?” I question.

Finally, Amanda clears her throat. “Where did you find this?”

“I had it at the start of the story,” I explain. “Chuck just wrote it into my hands.”

The dinosaur’s eyes widen a bit as I say this. “Wow, not a lot of characters are meta-aware so early in the text.”

I shrug.
 “How much did you spend to travel all the way out here?” she continues.

I can’t help chuckling to myself, the monetary value much larger than I’m entirely comfortable with. “Well, there was the international flight, then I chartered a boat, then I took a helicopter. It’s a lot of money, but I knew I needed to come to the Arctic Circle if I wanted answers.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Amanda replies, “and I don’t think this relic is as ancient as you think.”

The dinosaur picks up my oblong stone with one hand then brings it down hard against the table, rapping one end on the metal below as a gasp escapes my lips.

“Wait!” I shout. “What are you doing?”

“You hear that?” she questions, knocking a little more. “That’s the sound of Styrofoam.”

I furrow my brow. “That’s impossible.”

“Also, these markings aren’t written in any language at all,” Amanda continues. “It’s just filler. It’s called Lorem Ipsum, actually.”

“What about the pictures of the polar bear and the snowflake?” I ask, growing desperate.

The triceratops holds them up so I can get a better view. “That’s not a polar bear and a snowflake,” she counters. “By the looks of it, I’d say that’s a person bent over with their ass out, and a close up drawing of a butthole.”

I stare at the renderings in utter silence, slowly realizing that her alternate interpretation is, in fact, quite possible. The longer I look, the more I start to see it.

“It… it can’t be,” I stammer. “A fraud?”

“Not exactly a fraud,” Amanda explains, flipping the tablet over and drawing my attention to something carved in small lettering on the back. “A fraud would imply trying to fool someone. This is likely something else.”

I can’t believe I didn’t notice this inscription before, but now it stands out clear as day. I slowly read the lettering aloud. “Borson Studios Prop Department, Hollywood, California.”

The information marinating within me finally begins to coalesce in a profoundly disappointing realization, a final destination that nearly causes my knees to buckle.

“Oh no,” I sigh.

My trip back home was no less expensive than the way there, but it was considerably more enjoyable. Sure, all the natural wonder I experienced up north was something I’ll never forget, and in many ways it made the whole trek worth it, but this warm Los Angeles weather is significantly more enjoyable. Sure, it took a while to get over the mental anguish of my mistake, but now that I’m here, I’m ready to get the job done.

This investigation is far from over.

I’ve quickly learned that the major film studios don’t allow you onto their lot just because you’re on a quest to learn about the new Chuck Tingle novel, and having an artifact from their prop department doesn’t change that. In fact, it’ll likely just get you chased out by security.

Fortunately, I’m not easily dissuaded by simple obstacles like this, which is why I’ve now found myself halfway up a ten foot tall security wall. I threw a thick blanket over the top to stop any of the barbed wire from slicing me open, but the climb itself is no easy task. I use all the energy I can muster to hoist myself up onto the other side, rolling over the top and then hanging down. From here I can drop to the pavement below, and soon enough I’ve arrived on the Borson Studios backlot.

I scan my surroundings, finding myself on the edge of a massive soundstage labyrinth. Towering rectangular buildings loom before me, these warehouse-sized structures hosting various television sets and massive greenscreens. Dark alleyways cut through the middle, and it’s down one of these passages that I begin my journey.

My eyes peeled, I spend most of my time hunting for any sort of naming convention on these massive structures, hoping to find a sign that any one of these buildings could be a prop warehouse. Unfortunately, the giant signs that hang above each soundstage are nothing more than a simple numeral designation, with absolutely no care given to those of us who might sneak in under the cover of darkness.

“Hey!” An aggressive voice suddenly calls out.

I consider running, but before I get the chance a brilliant white flashlight erupts around me, stopping me in my tracks.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” the voice demands to know.

“I just… I have a prop that has something to do with the next Chuck Tingle horror novel,” I stammer, holding up my Styrofoam relic.

“Oh boy, not another one,” the voice sighs. The light shuts off, and as my eyes adjust I can make out of vague form of a unicorn strolling towards me. The figure is large and muscular, clad in a black security uniform.

“Come with me,” the unicorn says, then starts leading me down one of the other alleyways.

I follow behind, pushing deeper into the backlot until we arrive at a soundstage door that’s just as non-descript as the others.

“Here you go,” the unicorn security guard says, motioning for me to enter.

I follow his instructions. As the door opens an unexpected gasp escapes my lips, unprepared for the sight that greets me. Towering shelves of props and artifacts spring up on either side, lining the walls and creating several long aisles that run the length of this structure. Every one of these storage units is packed with strange and unique objects, fantastical items from every genre sitting next to one another under the warm glow of the hanging lamps above. I see the skull of a giant cyclops on one shelf, and a spacesuit labeled ‘Captain Orion’ on another.

“Oh my God,” I sigh, wandering deeper into the room, my voice echoing across this hallowed space.

“Welcome,” comes an unexpected voice.

I’d been so distracted by this majestic collection that I hadn’t even noticed the figure standing before me. A large rectangular form hovers in the aisle, smiling warmly and extending their hand.

“Oh, hi!” I blurt. “I’m Korb.”

“I’m the physical manifestation of preordering Chuck Tingle’s new traditionally published horror novel Bury Your Gays, but you can call me Grumble,” he states in return.

I can see now that the flat surface of his body is a beautifully designed book cover, the title “Bury Your Gays” written across the front of his body in bold, colorful lettering.

“Where are you coming from?” the sentient preorder asks. “I hope you didn’t trek too far to get here.”

“The Arctic Circle,” I flatly admit.

Grumble lets out a soft chuckle as he shakes his head. “That’s a new one, technically not the farthest, though. Someone came from the planet Zorbus, wherever that is.”

The living concept reaches out and gently takes my prop artifact, placing it in an empty space on the nearby shelf.

“Wait… so other people have brought you props,” I question, a little confused.

“And then asked me for info on the new Chuck Tingle book?” Grumble continues. “Yeah, we get like three or four a week at this point.”

“Oh—Oh, wow,” I stammer. “I mean, my journey out into the middle of fucking nowhere was frustrating but I at least I figured my personal story was unique.”

The sentient preorder shakes his head. “Wait, wait, let me stop you right there,” he says with solemn intensity. “You are unique, and your story is unique. Everyone had their own journey to get here, and just because there are many different journeys, that doesn’t mean your particular path isn’t endlessly important and special. In fact, I think it just serves to show how extraordinary you are.”

“Wait are we still talking about preordering a book? I question. “Or just like… life.”

“A little of both,” Grumble admits. “All you really need to know is this, your efforts were not in vain. The reason everyone ends up at this prop department is because Bury Your Gays takes place in Hollywood. That in itself is a clue.”

I try my best to smile, but this little nugget isn’t quite enough to move the needle. “I already knew that,” I admit. “It’s on the blurb.”

“Oh…” the physically manifested preorder falters. He hesitates a moment, then snaps his fingers. “What about the fact that it’s a meta-analysis of queer art and the way capitalism commodifies real queer experience.”

“That’s a little better,” I reply. “Honestly, though, there’s a bunch of Chuck Tingle books about that.”

Grumble lets out a long sigh. “Okay fine, the main character Misha writes a show called Travelers and it’s about two agents investigating paranormal phenomenon.”

“That’s… kind of interesting,” I finally reply. “Okay, fair enough.”

“Anything else?”

I consider this. “How can I support Chuck? Was traveling to the Artic circle enough?”

The physical manifestation smiles and shakes his head. “Oh buddy, first of all, I’m sure Chuck really, really appreciates the effort. Traveling that far is very impressive, and it’s cool you would do that to help out Chuck, but you don’t need to go halfway around the world to support artists you love. I’m sure it varies from medium to medium, but as far as authors are concerned, one of the best things you can do is to preorder new books from the people you like. I understand preorders can be controversial is some industries, like in the world of video games, but in publishing it helps the publisher understand what kind of resources they should put behind a writer, and it lets bookstores know what they need to order for their shelves. Preordering books is very, very, very important for authors, so if you’d like to help out Chuck Tingle right now, preordering a copy of Bury Your Gays is the best way to do it.”

“That’s a lot easier than a trip halfway around the world,” is all I can think to say.

“But… you’ll always have the adventure,” Grumble reminds me. “That’s all this is: moments, stories, adventures. Hell, we’re in our own little adventure right now. That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” I reply, then slowly turn. I start heading for the door, ready to push out into the warm California evening, but before I make my final exit a probing thought stops me in my tracks.

I turn back around. “Out of curiosity, why was there a picture of a man bent over and a butthole on that artifact?”

The physical manifestation of preordering Chuck Tingle’s new traditionally published horror novel Bury Your Gays can’t help the mischievous grin that creeps its way across his face. “Every one of these props helps tell their own story, too,” he explains, “It’s not for Bury Your Gays, it’s for us. It’s for this book.”

I furrow my brow. “How?”

“You tell me,” Grumble counters. “You’re the one always knew this was a Tingler.”

It suddenly hits me, the final act falling into place as my heart skips a beat. I’d been so caught up in figuring out the plot of another book, that I’d completely forgotten about the plot of this one—a story that’s ready for its climax.

I rush towards the physically manifested preorder, our lips meeting in a passionate kiss as we wrap our arms around each other. I give into this moment completely, letting my body move to the beat of every deep subconscious desire that pulses through me. Soon enough, my hands are exploring the topography of Grumble’s body, tracing along each abrupt edge that creates his four-cornered frame.

The physical manifestation explores me in turn, working his hands across my body and stripping away the clothing that keeps us apart. He peels off this fabric and tosses it to the side, exposing me to the still air of the prop warehouse.

I notice the physical manifestation’s cock, a massive rod that gradually rises from the base of his body until it’s pointed right at me in a rocket of glorious flesh. It’s an impressive display, but instead of reaching down to grabbing Grumble’s member I take my time with him. I start by massaging across the sentient preorder’s shoulders and chest, then slowly make my way lower and lower. I tease my fingers over his abs for a bit, then trace the limits of his waistline. It’s here that I pause the longest, allowing the anticipation to build.

“Please,” the sentient preorder whimpers in my ear.

I finally have mercy, reaching down and wrapping my hand around Grumble’s enormous rod. I immediately get to work stroking him off, gracefully pumping my tight grip across his length. The physical manifestation immediately reacts to my touch, rocking his hips against my movement. We quickly fall into a rhythm together, gradually gaining speed until, eventually, I’m beating him off with wild enthusiasm.

When this movement reaches its peak I suddenly drop to my knees, feverishly dragging my tongue across the preorder’s length and then opening wide to take him between my lips. I pump my head up and down across his length, savoring the way his body reacts to my oral stimulation.

Eventually, I tire of this technique. I pull back and release Grumble’s rod from my depths, impressed by the long strand of semi-translucent saliva that hangs between the head of his cock and my hungry lips. I glance up at the living preorder and offer a playful wink, then open wide and take him once again.

This time, however, I don’t bob. I swallow this living manifestation’s member all the way down, allowing him a chance to slip into my absolute depths, well past the expected limits of my gag reflex. The next thing I know, my face is pressed hard against his cover, held in place for as long as I can possibly muster.

The handsome physical manifestation reaches down and places his hands on the back of my head, enjoying this position of power. I stay like this for as long as I can possibly manage, but eventually I’m forced to pull back in a sputtering gasp, desperate for air and craving something even more carnal.

“I don’t care if it’s just a movie prop,” I snarl, nodding towards the shelf where my artifact was placed. “We need to fulfill the prophecy.”

I turn around and fall to my hands and knees, popping my ass out towards him and wiggling my rump from side to side. I reach back and slap one cheek playfully, spreading myself open to remind him of the intricate butthole engraving.

The physical manifestation of preordering Chuck Tingle’s new traditionally published horror novel, Bury Your Gays, doesn’t hesitate, climbing down into position behind me. I can feel him align his enormous rod with the puckered entrance of my backdoor, teasing my limits with the tip and then finally driving into me with a singular, confident thrust.

“Oh fuck!” I groan, my eyes rolling back into my head as my hands grip the floor below. “You’re so fucking big.”

“I’m the longest book Chuck Tingle’s ever written,” he coos in my ear, another interesting tidbit that causes another tremble of sensation to pulse across my frame.

Grumble is a caring and confident lover, taking his time with me. He stays deep like this for a while, refusing to move until my body can adjust to his incredible girth. Slowly, the two of us start rubbing against one another, the pressure building us our pulse escalates. It’s not long before we’ve found a steady beat, the handsome preorder slamming against my backside as surges of pleasure erupt across my form.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” I start repeating over and over again, the words falling out of my mouth in a blissful mantra.

I reach down between my legs and grab ahold of my hanging cock, beating off in time with these powerful slams. A new sensation begins to dance and swirl with the one that came before it, creating something wholly unique as my body quakes.

I can feel the first hints of orgasm forming at the pit of my stomach, blossoming in my depths and then gracefully spilling across my arms and legs. Soon enough, my entire body has been flooded by this sensation.

Harder and harder Grumble slams, diligently keeping the pace as my internal tension builds. It’s not long before I can’t hold myself back, the pleasure too much to contain, and suddenly I’m erupting in a mighty climax.

I throw my head back and let out a frantic howl, completely lost in the moment as hot white jizz erupts from the head of my shaft and splatters across the warehouse floor in glorious, pearly patterns.

My preorder lover carries me through this entire experience, refusing to let up until I’ve enjoyed every last drop of my incredible orgasm. The second I’m finished he pushes deep and unleashes a powerful climax of his own, blasting his warm load into my ass. The living concept lets out a satisfied groan as he packs me with his seed, more and more of the cum filling me up until it comes squirting out from the rim of my tight ass.

When Grumble’s finally finished he pulls out and collapses to the floor, panting loudly. I quickly join him.

The two of us wrap our arms around one another, breathing heavy as we bask in the afterglow of this erotic journey.

“That was incredible,” I gush. “It took me a while to get here, but I think the trip was worth it.”

“I think so, too,” the physical manifestation replies.

I lay back, gazing up at the warehouse ceiling. “I’m glad we got a chance to talk about how important preordering is when supporting authors you like,” I say, then hesitate.

Grumble reaches over and takes my hand in his, holding tight.

I let out a long sigh. “Do you think this story will actually make anyone want to help? I mean, this book isvery different from Bury Your Gays. Some people might be put off by all the sex.”

The living concept sits up, looking me dead in the eye. “It doesn’t matter,” he tells me, “and that’s the final reveal.”

“What reveal?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

“You asked to know something about Bury Your Gays,” the preorder continues with a smile. “The truth is, our story and that story have one last thing in common: a very important message.”

“What message?” I press.

“Let queer artists express themselves however the fuck they need to,” the preorder replies. “Make space for strange, unique, queer, neurodivergent art, and support it when you can.”

I kiss him gently on the lips, feeling particularly validated.

This journey really was worth it, not despite the strange and unique and weird things that happened along the way, but because of them.