How I Met My Wife: A Study in Shape Shifting

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man is seduced by a woman capable of shape shifting.

Submitted: April 27, 2009

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Submitted: April 27, 2009



HOW I MET MY WIFE by Devon Pitlor


When I arrived on the island, the night air was redolent with the scent of unwashed Canadians. A fat, shirtless man with an enormous flowing beard, laced with pieces of the evening meal, thumped a vague rhythm on the bronzed skin of his preponderous belly. Eventually he fell into an alcohol-induced slumber in his recliner, and, with gaping mouth, eventually tumbled off with a muffled splat onto the ancient paving stones of the hotel patio. Juan the bellman snapped his fingers, and a boy with a two-wheeled handcart came to transport the sleeping tourist to his room. I ordered another 50cc of island rum and asked Juan for a small pack of powder and a rolled up 500 bolivar note to snort it with. Obligingly, Juan brought me this amenity and inquired whether I wished for the company of a teenaged virgin to while away the languid night.

Stultified, I opted for solitude and sipped the lukewarm rum while casting a suspicious eye over the assemblage of expatriots, refugies and beggars who decorated the landscape of the patio. The Americans, always obvious, were grossly obese and slovenly. They clustered in a horrible montage of parrot shirts and too-tight summer skirts. They talked of real estate and the anticipated exploration of guano caves the following day. One of them confessed to killing a woman friend "long ago" because she had offended him with "overpowering perfume" on a first outing. The others roared in approval. Strong perfume, they agreed, was reason in itself for homicide. As the group became more lubricated with chucha, a 20 stone woman admitted that she had overdosed her late husband on Seconal "because he smelled like mushrooms." Suddenly, the company of the ex-pats became unbearable, and I rose from my chaise-longue to distance myself and experience the other side of the pool--wherein I saw floating a dead macaw, without doubt the victim of some unseen treetop violence.

Round the pool, another group--this time younger---had clustered. This band was different in that they were all slapping their hips and snapping their fingers to some unheard beat that seemed to reach them from the sierra above. They weaved together and undulated with clumsy, uncertain steps to sounds that only they could hear. Distracted by their simplicity, I decided to venture into the pueblo and explore the dark underbelly of island life.

[to be continued]


A bit about myself: Before arriving on the island, I had just edged my way barely through Yale's Charter School of Social Economics and grasped the almost purloined parchement in a less than fervid temper as if it were an unwanted and unearned prize. Looking for an avenue to escape the dreary confines of New Haven, wherein I had abandoned an ill-fitting gaggle of jagged female-centered affairs like the unmatched pieces of a psychotic jigsaw puzzle. I craved the grostesque, the baroque, the macabre, if you will, so I chose at random an offshore island, a mere atoll, and hastened to find a vessel which could deliver me there. The ship, merely a boat, was called the Mary Doom and her one port of call was this island. And it was here that my real adventure began.

[to be continued]

Wandering through the vine-choked villa, I caught sight of some black-clad nuns in solemn habit slaughtering a monkey and hacking its bleeding flesh into plastic bowls. I enquired of the good sisters in my best broken Portuguese whether their cloister accepted tourists and other visitors. The tallest one of the lot, whose name I later found was Maria del Fuerte, informed me without ceremony that I would be given a bed in a stone walled chamber of the cloister if I were indeed a penitant. I assured her that I was and that I would willingly submit to the ritual flogging with a barbed cat-o'nine tails which was required of all penitants. The sisters thus led me through an ancient mossy rock gate and into their modest quarters and bade me to strip naked, thus exposing my muscular chest and impressive bodily fixtures, which immediately inspired a burst of delighted laughter from the sisters assembled.

Maria del Fuerte took the whip and flayed me five times in unison across the rippling and defined musculature of my strong back. As she whipped, foam bubbled from the sides of her mouth. As the teeth of the flail bit into my taut flesh, I began to take without shame an erotic pleasure from the pain inflicted. Each of the four sisters in turn flogged my loins and flanks until, bleeding, I fell to the soft, damp earth beneath me and tasted the warm, salty brine of my own blood as it flowed from numberless lesions in my skin through my parched and beseeching lips and into my open mouth. I tasted the wet night soil of the cloister yard and begged an uncaring god for forgiveness for my trespasses on earth.

[to be continued]


Following my flogging ordeal, the good sisters dressed my wounds with coconut leaves and palm oil and rendered to me a succession deep-muscles massages as I lay prostrate on a cot of thorny vines. As I recovered my senses, I became aware that the putative leader of the cloister, the tall and willowy Maria del Fuerte, was indeed a beautiful woman though concealed neath a rough and colorless garment of coarse cyanide-dyed cloth. Purposely she let her ample breasts fall from her shirt top as she stroked the muscles of my calves and thighs. Still in agony, I caught sight of two full nipples, swollen no doubt by the pleasure of seeing me helpless and supine. Eventually the vigor of her massage technique caused her formless garment to fall completely from her body and onto the dusty stones of the chamber to which I had been confined. Her body mirrored the very essence of pulchritude and my nostrils were at once assaulted by the piscine fragrance which emanated shamelessly from betwixt her thighs. Still writhing beneath my wounds, I glimpsed a trickle of womanly liquid snake a path down the inside of one of her legs. Despite my pain, I became desirous of carnal union with this stunning and radiant beauty. My wanton desire overtaking me, I became aware only of the pungent attraction of this buxom, ripe and libidinous charmer.

In the jungle's bosom, I could hear the nocturnal screams of howler monkeys, simian intruders who seemed to urge me forward in the very kernel of my lust.

[to be continued]


Maria del Fuerte, now scorchingly nubile, suddenly ceased her massaging and moved her full and pleasingly pouty lips toward the fount of my manhood, which without hesitation she engaged between the top of her wet tongue and upper lips. Swallowing my length, a full 13 inches, she gurgled in throaty pleasure and pumped her head with passionate purpose over my tumescent and pulsating manpart. I gasped in inexpressible ecstacy, searching through my weak Portuguese vocabulary for the words to describe the sublime sensation which her unceasing lips and their strong, purposeful vacuum rendered upon my maleness.

"Amo estar chupado," I stammered, gasping the only thought which crossed my mind, and this in Spanish, as the precise vocabulary of Portuguese fled from my overcharged brain.

"Si, amo chupar," she murmured between her teeth and my turgid member.

It wasn't Berlitz, but Maria del Fuerte, a Sister of Mercy, got the message.

Her oral frenzy remained unchecked and unabated until, at length, my passion was spent in one enormous gushing moment of sublime delirium which filled the nun's mouth with tangible proof of my aroused passion.

Ingesting my package, she left not a trace of my salty lust upon her full and sensual lips. Then she arose and lit a small rolled cigarette which she had previously secreted beneath an ancient cask near the corner of the stone walled cell.

[to be continued]


Spent and exhausted, I watched the good sister reclothe herself not without undue modesty. Indolently, she passed me the cigarette stub and bade me inhale the essence of some soporific narcotic burning within. A rush of disengaged nepenthe relaxed my every tendon, and I rolled languidly upon the thorny cot desirous to recover the turgidity of my manhood in order to explore the yet uncharted interior of her loins, but in vain, as the explosive discharge of my seed had precluded further congress for the moment. I drew again upon the cigarette stub and drifted off pleasantly into an opiate slumber.

As the first bars of morning sun broke through the tiny window crack of my stone cell, I became aware that I was naked and a prisoner of the good sisters. A plastic bowl of chopped meat and a crust of coarse brown bed had been placed by the door. I struggled to free myself from the room, but the strong wooden door had been bolted from the outside. I screamed for attention and to be released from my unwilling prison at the edge of the dense jungle.

As the sun's rays became bolder, I realized that day was well underway and that I had been abandoned in a stone cell where civilization as I had known it as a young economist from Yale did not but slightly penetrate.

My only compensation for this sad state of affairs was that my erect manhood had promisingly returned, and, upright, I realized that my member was poking against the wooden door as my fists banged upon its hinges for unheeded release.

[to be continued]


Bewildered by my plight, it eventually dawned on me that, as a trained Yale economist, I alone could find a way out of this conundrum and thus escape from the stone cell. I realized that the Brazilian island was off the coast of Trinidad upon whose exchange the escuedo-real (E-R) traded in flexible parity with the Trinidad-Tobago dollar (TTD) at a nominal futures rate of 6.35 TTDs to the $US and that the Trinidad market was often depressed by the sudden overvaluation of the Brazilian escuedo-real ceteris paribus depdending on the intrusiveness and elasticity of the Venezualan "strong" bolivar, which was also used as specie on the island. My thoughts turned toward the Brazilian commodities exchange board---and in desperation, horribly erect and pulsating with remembrances of last night's wicked pleasure, I relieved myself manually and fell prostrate once again to the hard stone floor of my prison. A wet puddle of my wasted seed washed over the floor. Once again I was spent and exhausted.

No amount of applied econ could save me from this stone prison.

My thoughts turned to other avenues of escape.

Suddenly the door creaked open.

[to be continued]


It was Maria del Fuerte, once again in full habit, standing at the orifice of the cell. Splendid in her nubile pulchritude, the comely beauty raised her proud chin and addressed me in perfect English. As she spoke, I felt a tautness return to my manly fixture.

"I have not always been a holy sister," she began, mouthing the words through her sensually ample lips, her well-spaced almond eyes flashing in supernal loveliness. "My real name is Jan Winston and I'm from Canarsie which is a part of Brooklyn, New York."

I stood dumbfounded as this superb, resplendant and dazzling chocolate-box beauty revealed her secret to me.

"Canarsie..." I stammered, still somewhat obtruded by the growing rigidity of my viril appendage. "I would have never guessed it. Oh, maybe I would. You sound a little like Brooklyn when you speak English. How did you come to this island? To this cloister?"

She explained that pirates off the coast of New Jersey had kidnapped her as a teenager and brought her here three years earlier. "The coast of New Jersey is full of white slavers," she explained. "That is why kids disappear. When the pirates had had their way with me, they left me here in this cloister with the other sisters. Of course, being from Canarsie, I immediately took charge."

"Of course," I said knowingly.

"I need you to help me escape from this cloister," she added. "I find you most attractive, and I want you to take me as your wife."

"I really like you too, Jan," I said, "but I'm not sure I'm ready to commit."

"Men never commit," she said with obvious disgust.

She flung her coarse garment once again to the floor, revealing the explosive splendor of her overwhelmingly alluring and charmingly nubile physique. Overcome with raw lust, I sprang upon her and omitting foreplay penetrated with impassioned relish to her deepest recesses. I heaved and arched and our bodies rose and fell to the same tempo until, we both discharged in a mutual furor of shared orgasmic pleasure.

"I love you and must have you as a husband," she murmured, coiled at my loins.

"We'll see about that, Jan," I whispered.

[to be continued]


Days of passion, nights of lust passed endlessly until I grew weary in the fleshy embrace of this stunning and ripe enchantress---for even the greatest of passions spends itself eventually if overworked. And Maria del Fuerte aka Jan Winston and I definitely overworked it.

So, dear readers, you who know me well [and there are many of you reading here whether you admit it or not] know that I did indeed marry Jan Winston aka Maria del Fuerte and I did in effect take her from the grasp of the stone nunnery at the jungle's edge on the barren Brazilian island off the coast of Trinidad where I found her.

So how did this come about?

And why are we still together as a couple to this very day?

How did we keep the flame lit?

None of the rest of you sorry economists have managed to do that, have you?

What was our secret?

The story goes on, and I will tell you presently.

[to be continued]


Maria del Fuerte, aka Jan Winston, had learned a forbidden secret from the Tobagan pirates who kidnapped her off the coast of New Jersey when she was 16. They had taught her....

Well, let me explain it in a narrative manner.

One day late into the monsoon season, I was once again planning my escape from the sensual bosom of Jan Winston (or Maria del Fuerte if you prefer) with whom I had been held a virtual prisoner of coital congress for months on end. The boredom which often dulls the passions of even the keenest lovers had started to set in betwixt us, and I was building a leafy raft to paddle my way off the island when she entered my room and told me that she had a secret.

"I can give myself totally to you," she exclaimed. "I can super-heighten your lust to pinnacles you never dreamt of." Of course, she had already done that time and time again, and as a man and trained Yale economist, I was growing languid and flaccid by all the sexual demands placed on me. Men often do that---and we, alas, start either pretending or looking elsewhere.

But she continued. "The pirates taught me the secret of assuming whatever form I want. I can become whatever you want me to be. For instance, a jaguar."

And she immediately transformed into a spotted jaguar. I was dumfounded but assured her that I did not wish to have sexual congress with a cat.

"Perhaps a tortoise," she said as she morphed into a large hard-shelled turtle.

Again I was shocked. But I declined. The thought of sliding my most cherished asset under a dry shell repulsed me.

"How about Brooke Shields at seventeen," she said assuming the precise 1970s form of this now-aging beauty.

I was tempted, but my thoughts turned--naturally---to commodities futures, and I once again declined.

"Your mother," she said, as she became just that.

I almost regurgitated the monkey flesh and coconut oil she had fed me earlier. I had never desired sex with my mother.

Finally, she acquired a strange glint in her eye and said "I will do anything to please you. I will even become you." Suddenly, before my eyes she changed into the exact simulacre of myself standing naked before myself.

I stared at my naked torso in awe, admiring the muscular curves of my taut body, and, overcome with bursting passion, I released every pent up drop of sexual energy and vigor imprisoned within my frenzied being upon Jan (aka Maria) as she was in my very form.

Nothing so pleases one such as me as to make love with oneself.

And thus it has always been.

The rest of the story you know. You have come to dinner. You have drunk our wine and seen our children. But in the bedroom there is only me in duplicate.

By Devon Pitlor  September 2008

"Dedicated to the tireless men and women of international currency exchange."


© Copyright 2019 Devon Pitlor. All rights reserved.

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