I did a show called “Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction” again tonight, and I think I outwitted myself this time. For my two previous pieces, I chose the categories of the show ‘Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives’, and then the poetry of Robert Frost. Both times I feel like I was pretty efficient with my writing, and landed numerous jokes in a short time. On THIS occasion, however…
The Testiculating Horror
by H.P.E.N.I.S. Lovecraft
Mr. Garamond stood next to the lamppost, suitcase in hand. A glance at his pocket watch informed him that his carriage was running three minutes late. He found this most displeasing to his fastidious nature, and made a mental note to write a letter of gentle complaint to the owner of the carriage company upon completion of this trip. He hoped to change the world to suit his liking, one polite letter of mild scolding at a time. Such was the way of Mr. Garamond. In the steadily dimming gloom on the outskirts of town, as his gaze shifted from his perfectly manicured fingernails to his pocket watch and back, Mr. Garamond grew less and less patient and more and more displeased with the vast unpunctuality of everyone who was not he.
After another interminable three minutes, Mr. G. finally found himself fretting and fussing his way aboard one of the more luxurious carriages he’d ever seen, a veritable horse-drawn hotel room of brass, leather, and oak. He could feel his bile receding as he shut the carriage door and scanned the opulent cabin interior. He raised an eyebrow - there were even cherry wood accents! Soon his anger had dwindled to a mere simmer. He supposed an extra six minutes of waiting was not an inconvenience that outweighed such comfort. He decided a letter to the carriage company might not be necessary after all. Mr. G. placed his suitcase between his feet, unbuttoned his tweed jacket, and reached inside for the envelope that had prompted this whole affair. “At the very least, this should prove to be a most interesting excursion”, he thought. “At the very least.”
A flick of reins from the cloaked driver soon had the carriage rumbling off into the dark, forest-ribboned farmlands that spanned the yawning chasm between the comfort of city life and the mysterious obligation contained within the envelope. The flickering amber light of the lamppost was soon but a firefly in the distance, and then, gone.
The monotony of hooves soon blanketed Mr. G.’s senses, and in the rocking cabin of the carriage, he felt himself not so much drifting off to sleep as being summoned there. That night he dreamt with remarkable clarity of a pale tower between two grey hills. The tower seemed to grow, curve and undulate as he approached, arching and growing taller and taller until it utterly dominated the howling dreamscape. Then, after a dreadful pause, the tower began to spasm and shudder as if it had been seized by an earthquake. With a clap of thunder, Mr. G. was suddenly pelted by a hot, milky rain that tasted like salted cod. As the steaming milk rain landed on his tweed jacket, it beaded-up and instantly became clammy and cold, and somehow he knew that far off in the dim reaches of this sleep realm there was a looming, sentient presence who thought that this was hilarious, and a second presence who thought it was inconsiderate and disgusting. Then, the tower shrank and shrank, until it was but a mushroom-shaped hut nestled between the two grey, thicket-covered hills. As he approached the hut, Mr. G. suddenly realized that a cascade of squirming lampreys was spilling out of his open pants zipper, and he awoke.
The carriage lurched to a halt in the moonlight, and deposited him in front of a massive arch formed by two stone wolves standing on their hind legs and fellating a double-penised elk. The tips of the elk’s antlers were also penises. The wolves’ tails were also penises. The wolves’ legs were also penises. The elk’s limbs were also all penises, as was its head. Mr. G. took a step back from the stone arch and considered it again. He frowned. There were no animal shapes represented in the stonework at all. What he’d thought were two wolves fellating a double-penised elk were just lots and lots of penises.
Mr. G. made a mental note of the preponderance of penises contained with the stone arch as he once again produced the mysterious envelope from his jacket pocket. For just the second time since it had been slid underneath his office door a fortnight prior, he opened the envelope and read the note contained within:
Dear Mr. Garamond,
I have discovered a relic beneath my mansion which defies classification. As such, your expertise would be quite welcome. Please accept my invitation to investigate. I can guarantee the comfort of your stay, as well as an appraisal fee of five hundred pounds,
and a soul-shattering glimpse into an indescribable realm of screams where sexual pleasure and necrotic horror are one and the same.(That last phrase had been casually crossed-out, as if the author of the note had thought better than to include it, but Mr. G. could still read it quite plainly – he frowned again.)
Eagerly Anticipating Your Arrival Via Luxurious Carriage,
The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor(This title was also crossed-out, and replaced with…)
Mr. Normal Person
As the carriage began to trundle back out into the pre-dawn fog, Mr. Garamond slid the note back into its envelope, and the envelope back into his jacket. He was now alone in the dark, standing uncertainly in front of an arch made of stone penises, and frowning yet again. He thought to himself, “I am certainly willing to wager that the frown which I am making right now is not the last frown I shall make over the course of this particular excursion.” He looked down, noticed that his fully erect penis was protruding from his open zipper, and rectified the situation swiftly with thoughts of naked women and his own deft hands, which, after all, were those of a seasoned archaeologist. He could not be certain, but he sensed the approval some otherworldly presence at this act. A moment later, he proceeded through the arch, and down a cobblestone path that seemed to have elaborate animal patterns carved into it. He shook his head. No, those were not animal patterns either. Simply more penises.
After what seemed like exactly eight minutes, Mr. Garamond arrived at a mansion so foreboding it was practically five-boding. He chuckled to himself at this unexpected bit of mental wordplay, and surveyed the moss-encrusted edifice. It rose above him menacingly in the first light of morning, yet even as the sun took hold of the horizon, the building still seemed cloaked in shadow. Or something darker.
With a thunderous, grinding moan, the monolithic front door, a smooth slab of pink granite, slid to one side, revealing blackness beyond. Damp, salty air sighed from within the mansion, the scent reminding Mr. G. of the rain from his dream. As he peered into the impenetrable obsidian shadows of the chamber beyond, an unseen force suddenly unzipped his pants, grasped his recently spent member, and tugged him into the abyss.
The massive door slid shut behind him with frightening speed, this time smoothly and noiselessly. As he fumbled with his trousers in the pitch black, Mr. Garamond began to think this entire trip may have been a dreadful mistake. He frowned, and though he did not think anyone could see him frown, he sensed something incomprehensibly powerful was delighting in his exposure. With a final “zip”, his manhood was once again safely ensconced in fabric, and he stood stone still in the unrelenting dark. He heard nothing. There was just he, the darkness, and that salty, clammy odor from his dream.
Then, the room was ablaze with candle light! Mr. G. gasped. He was standing in an opulent foyer, abounding in velvets and bannisters, the full appointment of tasteful accessories he’d always thought a finely-appointed foyer should possess! Even cherry wood accents abounded. And candle upon candle rested in sconces, casting their dancing illumination upon a staircase that caressed the curving walls of the foyer and ascended into yet more frustrating shadow. Mr. G. began to climb the stairs, but suddenly, the floor gave way beneath him! What he’d thought were tasteful bannisters were but massive hinges, and the floor of this foyer had been nothing more than a single, massive trap door! As the floor opened, he felt an unseen force unzip his pants and once again tug him downward via his frightened genitals.
(I apologize, but here there is a portion of the manuscript which is too stained to read. The ink seems to have been diluted heavily with some milky substance, and smeared about on the page as if by a large, squirming salamander. I shall simply have to continue reading from whence the text is yet again legible. Ah, here we are…)
“And now, your mind will be eviscerated as I plunge it into an indescribable realm of screams where sexual pleasure and necrotic horror are one and the same!” squealed the quivering, cyclopean worm-man that had, until moments earlier, been Mr. Normal Person.
“But you crossed that phrase out!” bellowed the indignant Mr. Garamond as he raised his scimitar. All vestiges of gentlemanliness had left him, and he was prepared to fight for his existence with every last ounce of mental and physical fortitude. After all, Mr. Normal Person had been quite dishonest about his intentions, so Mr. G. felt no more need to behave with any kind of civility. In fact, he intended to reciprocate the ill will of whom he was definitely beginning to suspect was actually The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor quite stridently. For the first time during this whole regrettable affair, the frown that now crossed Mr. Garamond’s face was not one of fretting puzzlement, but one of grim determination.
A volcanic torrent of white fluid belched forth from The Insane Lord’s single eye, coalescing into a gibbering clitoral monstrosity that now towered over the scimitar-wielding Mr. Garamond. The creature began shuffling towards him, mewling with feverish anticipation of human meat.
The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor retreated towards his scrotal throne as he observed with glee, his bulging testicular monopod sloshing him backwards in short bursts like some sort of nightmarish mollusk.
“I think I shall write a letter to that carriage company after all!” screamed Mr. Garamond as he took a swing with his scimitar. But as he swung, an unseen force from beyond the scrim of reality made one final effort to get his attention. One final effort to recruit him for the cause of…could it be? Yes, for the cause of GOOD! His scimitar flew from his hand and embedded in the thatched wall of the pubic maze, and yet again, the benevolent force from beyond tore open his zipper and his now ferociously hard cock burst forth. The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor recoiled in terror. “No! The perfect cock!” he screamed.
Now Mr. G. knew. A confidence washed over him the likes of which he hadn’t felt since that occasion during which he couldn’t quite fit inside that one archaeological assistant, the very cute brunette one, and though they never completed the act of sex he came away from that particular romantic encounter thinking “Cool, I couldn’t really fit inside her, that’s never happened before! I guess I shouldn’t be so insecure about-“ WHAM! The clitoral beast was upon him! As it pinned him to the floor, he knew better than to fight back. Instead, he welcomed its warm embrace, and to put it simply, began fucking the shit out of it. Each new vaginal maw that opened in its translucent hide, he plugged with his perfect cock. Each blinking clitoral eye that attempted to peer into his soul, he licked with his tongue. Licking and thrusting like no archaeologist had ever done before! With a quiver and a pop, the monster orgasmed its way back to the dimension from whence it came.
Mr. Garamond stroked his cock methodically as he approached the now cowering Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor. He knew his salvation depended on maintaining rigidity, and thanks to the mental urging of the universe-spanning intelligence from beyond, he knew it was his own semen that could send his foe back to its realm. With one final stroke, he blew his massive load all over the evil lord. Sploot.The Insane Lord of Death Penis Manor howled a mind-shattering oath of fury, and was gone in a splash.
“Right on time,” thought Mr. Garamond.
In a blink, Mr. G. snapped awake at his desk, and examined the note that had just been slid under his office door. It was blank. “Hmm,” he thought, and tossed it in the trash, “archaeology is dull, and that’s how I like it.”