In The Telltale Hardon and Other Perversions, Edgar Allan Pole (aka Andrew Shaffer) digs up seven of Edgar Allan Poe’s best-loved stories and gives them a post-mortem makeover.
In “The Telltale Hardon,” a college girl seduces her elderly landlord. Things go awry when his heart gives out and the co-ed must dispose of his body, only to be haunted by his ghostly erection. In “The Purple Death,” Pole reimagines “The Masque of the Red Death” as a post-apocalyptic orgy inside Prince’s fortified Paisley Park compound. And in “The Pit and the Pendulous Ballsack,” a condemned man is tortured in a terrifyingly perverse manner.
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies jumpstarted the literary mash-up genre; Edgar Allan Pole’s twisted take on classic Poe short stories such as “The Tell-Tale Heart” and “The Fall of the House of Usher” will pound the final nail into the genre’s coffin.
|Publisher:||Order of St Nick|
|Product dimensions:||5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.22(d)|
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THE TELLTALE HARDON
It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my brain, but once conceived it haunted me day and night. I loved the old man. He had always treated me with kindness. He had the most gorgeous steely blue eyes — the same cool color of the backdrop on the cover of Fifty Shades of Grey. The restraint he must have possessed to not hit on me, his 19-year-old female boarder! I, however, had no such hangups. Whenever his eyes fell upon me, my pulse quickened; and so by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to seduce the old geezer.
You fancy me mad, but you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight — with what determination I went to work! His shrew of a wife was out of town. I had a two-week timeframe to complete my seduction. Every night at midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it — oh so gently! I thrust my phone into the room and shined it upon my sleeping beauty's face. And this I did for eleven long nights — every night just at midnight — but I found his eyes always closed.
Every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into his bedchamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very vain old man indeed to suspect that every night, just at twelve, the young, nubile co-ed renting a room in his home looked in upon him while he slept. Honestly, who does that?
Upon the twelfth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own seductive powers. I could scarcely contain my feelings. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even dreaming of my secret deeds or thoughts! I fairly giggled at the idea; perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and so I kept pushing it further open steadily, steadily. His room was pitch black with thick darkness. The blinds were shuttered, for fear of peeping toms. Little did he know, the tom was peeping from within his own house.
I had my head inside the door and was about to shine my phone's flashlight, when the old man sprang up in bed. "Who's there?" he cried.
I kept still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening — just as I had done, night after night.
Presently I heard a slight groan. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! — it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with pent-up sexual desire. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it had welled up from my own bosom. I knew what the old man felt. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His desires had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself: "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney — it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp, surely it could not be the smoking-hot college chick we rented our spare bedroom to trying to sneak into my room at night to offer herself to me."
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, I finally turned the phone's flashlight on and found his blue eyes. They were open — wide, wide open — and my need swelled as I gazed upon them. I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the light's beam as if by instinct, precisely upon his beautiful orbs, those windows to the soul.
Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as the noise a phone makes when you get a text and it's on silent mode. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's hardon, the pumping of the blood through its massive length under the covers. It increased my desire, as the beating of a drum stimulates the football player into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the phone motionless and made no move to disrobe and expose my smooth, naked skin to the air. I tried how steadily I could to maintain the ray of light upon the old man's unblinking eyes. Meantime the thumping of his hardon increased. It quickened with every pulse. The old man's lust must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable appetite ... yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still.
But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the hardon must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — a neighbor would hear the sound! The old man's hour had come (so to speak)!
I threw open the door and leapt into the room. He shrieked once — once only — as I fell on top of him.
"I've wanted you for so long, Brytneigh," he said, his hands hungrily groping for my pert breasts, which were hidden within the folds of my pilfered Holiday Inn robe.
"Shhhhhhh," I said, placing a finger on the old man's lips.
I pulled the sheet off him, exposing his frail body to the air. His erection pulsated beneath his boxer-briefs, begging its master to be set free. "What have we here?" I said, teasing his cock-and-balls with my fingertips.
I pushed the old man onto his back and stripped him of his underwear. His engorged member sprang free. Although I could barely see it in the darkness, his cock made its presence felt in the room, thumping in unison with each beat of his heart. To call him well endowed would have been an understatement. I tossed his boxer-briefs over my shoulder and kneeled at the bottom of his bed. I slowly felt my way up his long, limber legs toward the source of the beating sound. His legs were hairy and devoid of muscle — they were the legs of an old man — but I could not have loved him any less for being what he was than he could love me for being such a naughty sex fiend. Although I could not see his blue eyes without the aid of my phone's light, I was compelled beyond all human sense to make love to this old man nonetheless.
I crawled up his legs toward his groin, which was the gold at the end of my rainbow. When I brushed his tightened scrotum with the back of my fingers, the old man groaned. His entire body was now pulsating to the beat of his heart; the sound of the blood pumping through his cock filled the room. I can only imagine what the blood sounded like rushing past the old man's eardrums! Even for someone who had lost most of his sense of hearing years ago like the old man had, it had to be deafening. And maddening! Oh how we were both on the verge of going mad with lust.
I ran my tongue up and down his length as he shivered in ecstasy. He was on the edge of madness, the very edge that his beautiful blue eyes had driven me to for the past eleven days while his wife was away. A low moan escaped his lips as I took him inside my mouth. I tried to trap that mighty, bleating beast of his, but it was not easy the nearer he came to his breaking point. It was like trying to hold onto a train chugging at full speed toward a damsel-in-distress!
No one would rescue her.
The old man fired himself into the back of my throat with the force of a thousand trains. I held onto the base of his cock for dear life as the aftershocks racked my mouth. He shot a few blanks before finally stopping his spasming.
I swallowed and then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. The smell of bleach hung in the air. For many minutes, the old man's hardon continued to beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the walls. At length it ceased. He fell over onto his side and lay there in silence. I placed my hand upon his limp cock and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. I put my ear to the man's chest and heard nothing.
The old man was dead; his heart had stopped in the afterglow of our rutting. This was the fifth time this had happened to me. Why did I keep fucking these old bags of bones???
Disposal of his body was of the utmost importance, since his wife would return home from abroad the next morning and would be none too pleased to find that I, their lowly houseguest, had boned her husband to death.
I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all, I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited the body, the shit-stained bedsheets, and the handsaw below the floor. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out of the woodwork — no stain of any kind — no bloodspots whatsoever. I had been too wary for that, chopping him up in the bathtub and showering afterward.
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock — still dark as midnight. As the old man's grandfather clock sounded the hour, the doorbell rang. I threw my robe back on and went down to open the front door with no worries — for what had I now to fear?
There entered two uniformed police officers. A neighbor had heard a shriek during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police station, and the officers had been dispatched to search the premises.
I smiled and bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man and his wife, I mentioned, were both away on vacation. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to the master bedroom. I showed them his wife's jewelry, secure, undisturbed. There hadn't been a robbery. There hadn't been any foulplay. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the chamber, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the old man's lifeless body.
The officers were satisfied; my schoolgirl manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears, but still they sat and chatted. The ringing became more distinct. ... I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale, even for a white girl. I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much like a distant clock ticking nearly out of earshot. I gasped for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men — but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! What could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It turnt up louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled.
Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! And now — again! — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, throwing myself on the floor. "Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! here, here! — It is the beating of his hideous hardon!"
The cops looked at each other. "Did she just mention the magic word?" the taller one asked his partner as I writhed on the ground. Any moment, they would arrest me for my landlord's murder!
"I believe she did," the other cop said. "Hardon."
"Better call dispatch," the taller one said, undoing his belt. "Code three-eleven."
"What's a code three-eleven?" I asked.
The other cop began unbuttoning his shirt. "Three-way in progress," he said with a smirk.
Three-way?What about the dead body rotting under their feet? "Can you not hear it?" I said, astonished. "Can you not hear the telltale sound of the beating hardon?"
The taller cop dropped his pants and boxers to the ground. "You mean this one?" he said, standing tall over me as his throbber pulsed rhythmically.
So I had not gone crazy! It was the police officer's erection that had been penetrating my eardrums. I pulled myself up off the floor and onto my knees. I grabbed at the cop's pink nightstick and started sucking hungrily. Freedom had never tasted so sweet — or so much like a telltale harden.CHAPTER 2
THE GOLD BUNS
Many years ago, I became friends with a certain Sir Mix-a-Lot. The stress of the rap game finally got to him, and he retired at age 56 to a beach house in Fort Myers. While on my honeymoon, by mere accident at a bar that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, I made his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship — for there was much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. His chief amusement was sauntering along the beach with a handheld metal detector in search of buried treasure. He never found anything of monetary value on these expeditions, but enjoyed himself nonetheless.
About the middle of June, 20 —, I found myself back in Florida. I had long since divorced my wife and retired from my own line of work as a monster-truck driver (both are stories for another time). I was living at a condo on the beach not far from Mix-a-Lot's place. We drank together on occasion and told old man tales about the women we'd fucked but wished we hadn't, and about the women we hadn't fucked but wished we had.
One night he told me of grim news from his doctors: He was in ill health. He'd been advised to quit drinking. Predictably, this terrible news caused Mix-a-Lot to spend all afternoon drinking. I worried about him, but he was old enough to make his own decisions.
He wasn't interested in talking about his health, anyway. While at the bar, the former rapper had spied the most miraculous female specimen. "You should have seen her ass. I was hooked; I couldn't stop staring. It was of a brilliant gold color —"
"She had no pants on?" I interjected.
"Might as well have not had anything on," he said. "Her butt cheeks completely swallowed her thong bikini. After years of scouring this damned stretch of beach for gold coins, I have found the real treasure. You never saw a more brilliant metallic luster on a backside. I saw it just as the sun was setting, and cannot wait to see it during the daylight! In the meantime, I can give you some idea of the shape. So big and round — nothing like those beanpole dames in Cosmo."
He drew from his shorts pocket a receipt, and made upon its back a rough drawing with a pen. While he did this, I grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and popped the caps off. I set one on the table next to Mix-a-Lot, and he nodded his thanks but made no effort to drink from the beer, so absorbed was he in his work. When the sketch was complete, he handed it to me.
"Well," I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, "this is a fine ass. I must confess that I have never seen anything like it before. However, I must wait until I see the buttocks for myself, if I am to form any idea of their personal appearance."
"You do not trust me?" said he, a little perturbed. "I draw tolerably. At least I fancy myself an artist."
"Of course," I said, certain that such a perfect ass could not exist in life as in my friend's drunken dreams. I handed the paper back to him, not wishing to ruffle his temper.
As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in melancholy, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. The alcohol had clearly gotten the better of him. It had been my intention to pass the night at his house, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his usual cordiality.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Telltale Hardon and Other Perversions"
Copyright © 2016 Andrew Shaffer.
Excerpted by permission of 8th Circle Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
The Telltale Hardon,
The Gold Buns,
The Fall of the House of Usher Raymond,
The Cask of Dijon,
The Pit and the Pendulous Ballsack,
The Murders Across the Street from the Rue Whorehouse: A Christmas Story,
The Purple Death,
About the Author,