The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It wasn’t often that Susie came home with shopping bags in tow. As a young couple, even though each of us worked, we didn’t have much money, and Susie was naturally frugal anyway. She went to the bedroom, and didn’t come out to dinner for quite a while. I asked her what she had bought.

“Oh, nothing, honey,” she said, and she went on eating, seemingly disinterested in my question.

“Does it have anything to do with your women’s group?” I asked.

She sipped some water and said, “Oh, it might, ... We’ll have to see.”

She was obviously disinterested, and, although I wanted to go into the bedroom and examine her new purchases, I restrained my curiosity out of respect for my wife.

And, in all honesty, she was a good wife, just the kind of girl I had always hoped for. She was trim, and clean, and intelligent. As Head Librarian at Kennedy Middle School, she had received several raises and good performance reviews. We had a good relationship, sexual and otherwise, and I had no worries that our marriage was going to be successful.

My only concern was Susie’s participation in her women’s group. Alana, one of her college friends, had invited her to join, and, while I had no objection to Susie meeting with her girl friends each week to discuss their special interests, I had questions about Alana. So did Tiffany, another of Susie’s friends, who, one morning at church, had warned me about Alana, and said basically that she was a “witch.” I didn’t take Tiffany’s concerns literally, but I shared her wariness. I had met Alana a couple of times, and I knew she had been divorced, that she had lost custody of her only child to her ex-husband, and that she was uncomfortably gorgeous, hardly the kind of woman that I would expect Susie to associate with, at least not on a regular basis. I consoled myself, knowing that the women’s group had 10 members other than Alana; they certainly couldn’t all be “witches.”

After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen, then retired to the family room to watch a basketball game on television. About an hour later, Susie came out, dressed in a new, floor-length robe, her long, brunette hair pushed high onto her head. She wore some long, dangling, gold earrings that I had never seen before; they were hardly her style. She picked up the television remote and clicked the mute button.

“Wha... ?” I began to ask.

“Relax, honey,” she said. Then she strolled to the sofa and stood before me, taking a long gold chain from her deep robe pocket. At the end of the chain was a burnished gold medallion, with a large, red stone embedded in its center. She lifted it before me, and it began to swing, back and forth, back and forth.

“Follow it, honey, ... Let it lead you, ... Follow it.”

I heard Susie’s voice in the distance, as my eyes involuntarily followed the brilliant red stone. A bright, red glow emanated from the stone and locked onto my retinas, burning into my brain. I watched the stone move back and forth, slowly, rhythmically. I was tense, confused, and distracted by the strangeness of it all.

“Relax, honey, ... Find the stone, ... Susie loves you, honey.”

Susie’s voice was distant, faint, a continent away from my inexplicable obsession on the stone. The red light had grasped my eyes and fixed them on its glow.

“You are mine, honey, ... I own you, ... You shall serve me always, ... Your only pleasure shall come in serving me....”

Again, I heard my wife’s words. I understood them, but I couldn’t comprehend them. What was happening? This was all so strange, it had come upon me without warning. Was it a dream?

“Jeff, ... I shall train you, ... Are you prepared to be trained?”

Train me? What was Susie talking about? The medallion continued to swing before my addled brain, my thoughts becoming muddled, distracted, vaporous; I could feel my will dissipating under the faint voice of my wife. I was traveling, moving into a part of myself that had never surfaced in my consciousness before.

“Yes, Susie, ... ,” I said, hesitantly. “I am prepared.”

“Good,” she said in a firm voice. “Follow me to the bedroom.”

I followed my wife down the hall to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and everything seemed to be in its proper place. Susie turned, dropped her robe, and revealed a new lavender lace bra and matching thong panties. She dropped the thong bottom to the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed, her legs spread, her pussy exposed.

“On your knees, Jeff,” she commanded.

I knelt on my knees, between her legs, and immediately noticed that my wife’s pussy was cleanly and completely shaved. She had never done that before, and I could see her naked pussy lips swelling and glistening with gooey, glistening, inviting love juices.

“Eat it, Jeff,” she commanded, as she grasped my head and guided it firmly between her legs. She lay back, raised her knees, and splayed her legs. She held my head on her pussy as my tongue entered her cunt. She was soaked, and her scent almost gagged me with its sweet pungency.

I heard her voice again. “Tongue-fuck me, Jeff.”

I pushed my tongue deep into her, as she held my head firmly in her love nest. Her hips were grinding her pussy into my face as my tongue explored her wifely puss. She writhed under me, then I felt her hips tense, then writhe, as she howled with the orgasm of an uninhibited animal. She jammed my head into her crotch with both hands, wrapped her legs around my head, and ground her pussy hard into my face. Her raging juices gushed onto my cheeks and down my chin.

Then, her orgasmic impulses satiated, she collapsed, panting on the bed. She dropped her legs and her hands, and lay on the bed, breathing heavily. My face was soaked with her thick, sticky juices.

“Clean up your mess,” she said.

I knelt there, stunned, not only at her casual insolence, and her shaved pussy, and her new bra, but also at the sheer volume of pussy juice she had gushed onto my nose, cheeks, and chin.

“Now,” she commanded.

I retrieved a warm wash cloth, and carefully wiped her neatly shaven pussy and thighs, as well as my face, chin, and neck.

Then, Susie spoke again. “Leave me to my sleep.”

I got up, and left the bedroom. I heard Susie bolt the door. I slept that night in our spare bedroom.

When Susie came out the next morning for breakfast, she seemed perfectly normal and natural. She was dressed in her usual work attire of cotton blouse, khaki skirt, and penny loafers. I was frankly afraid to bring up the events of the night before, so I just avoided it. We both left for work without any mention of the medallion, my wife’s new clothing, my wife’s shaved pussy, or my wife’s animalistic orgasm.

But my visits with the medallion became a nightly event, and each evening I followed Susie into the bedroom for her regular session of passionate cunnilingus. Sometimes she would have a single orgasm, and sometimes she would have several, all of them howling and aggressive. I was frightened the neighbors would hear her orgasmic screeching, but there was nothing I could do. I had to obey.

Susie now slept alone, the door to our master suite securely bolted. She moved my clothing into the spare bedroom, to which I would retire after I had serviced my now demanding, sexually insatiable wife. We no longer had normal sexual relations, and I was reduced to lonely, pathetic masturbation. But, I soon found that Susie didn’t approve.

The medallion swung lazily before my eyes, burning its red light into my rational faculties. I had become helpless before its power, although I recognized it was ruining me, ruining Susie, and ruining our marriage. I couldn’t control it, I couldn’t control Susie, and I couldn’t control myself. My life had been infiltrated by a power I couldn’t fathom or comprehend.

“Jeff, you require further training,” Susie said, standing before me in her black satin thong panties and 6-inch stripper platforms. Her naked breasts swayed pendulously over my head; they had blossomed from small, pert librarian breasts into intimidating, globular tits. I so wanted to fondle them, but Susie would not permit me to touch them.

“Jeff, I know you masturbate,” she said, with a touch of feminine malice. “You have no permission to masturbate.”

“May I have permission, Susie?” I asked meekly, my eyes in the shadow of my wife’s huge, fleshy tits.

“No, Jeff,” she said, curtly. “You have no permission, ... And you shall never masturbate without my permission.”

I cringed, but knew I would have to obey. My mind calculated that I could masturbate at work, if I really needed to, and she would never know.

“And,” Susie continued, “if you masturbate while away from home, I shall know, ... And I shall punish, ... I know all, my poor Jeff.”

She must be joking, I thought. There was no way she could know. She may able to control me inside our home, but she couldn’t control me during the day.

I played along, foolishly thinking I retained some personal power over my life. “Yes, I understand,” I said, agreeing with her.

Susie and I never discussed our strange sexual activities, or the fact that we no longer had normal sexual relations, or that I no longer slept in the master suite with my wife. Our life proceeded as if everything was perfectly normal. We both continued to work, and Susie appeared to be perfectly normal in her daily activities. Until, one Saturday morning, at the breakfast table, Susie pulled out a pack of Marlboro Light 100s and lit one right in front of me.

Of course, Susie had never smoked; or, at least, I thought she had never smoked. But, I sat there and watched as she took a deep, hungry drag on her cigarette, holding the smoke deep in her chest for what seemed like forever, then she exhaled, slowly, sensually into the center of our breakfast nook. I was stunned.

“Susie,” I asked, “you smoke now?”

She took another deep drag while she sipped her morning coffee. Then she eyed me, and said, “Shakira has always smoked.”

What was she talking about? Was my wife going insane? Was I going insane? Things had gone too far. I could go along with Susie’s kinky sex games, and let her sleep alone, and put up with her outrageous lingerie, but was my marriage worth this insanity? Could I do anything about it? I wanted to reach across the table and take her by the scruff of her neck and slap some sense into her. But, I sat paralyzed, hopelessly mesmerized by Susie, the apparently meek, submissive librarian I had married, as she held her head back and exhaled another of her deep, luxurious drags. She held her cigarette in her delicate hand, and looked towards me.

“Shakira knows, Jeff,” she said.

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“You have no permission to masturbate, Jeff,” she said, firmly. “Modify your sinful, selfish behavior, or you will suffer unwelcome and painful consequences.” She brought the cigarette to her lips and took a deep drag, her piercing blue eyes fixed upon me.

So, she knew. “Susie,” I began to say, until she interrupted me.

“Jeff, you have no permission, ... I think it’s shameful and disgusting that you would disobey and cheat on Shakira like that, ... I never took you for a slimy cheater, ... You are a tremendous disappointment as a husband.”

I was a disappointment as a husband? She wouldn’t even sleep in the same bed as me, and now I was the disappointment. What had happened to her? What had happened to me?

“Susie,” I began again.

“Shakira, Jeff,” she interrupted. “I have told you that, ... Many times.... And, remember, Jeff, you have no permission, ... Please behave like a good husband and end your disgusting, childish habits.”

I felt like a little boy caught with my hand in the cookie jar. She had a natural air of dominance that I could not penetrate nor resist. She sucked casually on her cigarette and stared at me. I shrunk under her searching, blue eyes.

“Yes, ... I understand,” I said.

“You should understand,” she said. “Please grow up, leave your childishness behind you, and serve me properly.”

“I will,” I said.

“Jeff, Shakira does not traffic in promises,” she pronounced, “I want mature and manly behavior from my husband, ... So please give up your childish masturbation habits. I have no wish to live with a child in the house.”

I could only agree with her.

We had planned to go to a movie that night, but Susie cancelled our plans. She retired to the bedroom, and emerged after dark, at about 10 o’clock. Immediately, she brandished her medallion, and had me once again in the throes of her frightening feminine power. I sat paralyzed on the sofa, staring into the intoxicating red light of the burnished medallion, my brain immobilized.

Then, Susie turned, placed the medallion carefully around her neck, and went and stood, feet wide apart, before the mirror on the family room wall. As she fixed her gaze upon it, the mirror began to shake perceptibly, then, with a gust, a funnel of light descended from the glass and engulfed my wife’s body, drenching it in a white glow until her form became transfigured. I saw her body shake, her arms tense at her side, her chest heaving almost uncontrollably. She threw her head back, and I could see her howling, her soul writhing within the prison of gleaming light, but I couldn’t hear a sound. The light pulsed around her body, then her shape began to change, her hair grew larger, her ass became high and tight, her thighs long and slim, her already large tits becoming pendulous before her petite body. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light dissipated, instantly, leaving us once more in the cool darkness of the room.

I sat stunned, shaken, on the sofa. I wasn’t sure that what I had seen was real.

Susie turned and walked slowly towards me. But, she was no longer Susie. She had been transformed into some kind of outrageously voluptuous woman, overpowering in her now brazen sexuality and sensual, intimidating beauty, a beauty so overwhelming and penetrating that my mind could not comfortably absorb it.

Surely, this wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be real.

She stood before me in her 6-inch platforms, a scent of sexual availability nearly overpowering me. Her hair was no longer brown. It was a thick white blonde, rising high above her forehead and cascading over her shoulders to the cleavage of her fleshy tits. Her breasts were supported by a satin halter top that barely covered her protruding nipples. Her high, tight ass was bare, left uncovered by her obscenely brief thong bottom. Her face was perfectly made-up, heavy eyeliner outlining her large blue eyes, her brows long and sinuous, her lips heavily glossed.

“Shakira,” she said, in a throaty voice. “I am Shakira.”

I was dumbfounded. “Susie, ... ?”

“I am Shakira, ... And Susie is Shakira, ... And Shakira is Susie, ... And, you shall serve, Jeff, ... You shall serve Shakira, ... You shall serve Shakira always.”

“Susie, ... ?”

“Do as I say,” she said, firmly. “Always.”

I ate out Shakira that night, and I have to admit I enjoyed it. Being sexually close to a woman like that was overwhelming to an ordinary guy like me. I knew it was wrong, so wrong to pleasure and serve an insolent, demanding slut like her, but I did it anyway, without a qualm, eagerly, willingly, an obedient, broken husband, and then went meekly to my bedroom for some restless sleep.

I awoke the next day, and cautiously approached our kitchen. I saw Susie’s thick, long blond hair hanging down her back as she stood in the kitchen, preparing her coffee. She turned and came to the table. Her appearance hadn’t changed since the night before; she still had the persona of “Shakira.” She was wearing a floor-length, black satin robe, her long, fluffy blonde hair enveloping her face and most of the upper half of her body. I saw the fleshy cleavage of her globular tits under her satin robe.

She sat down and lit her cigarette. She saw me and said good morning. I didn’t know if I should call her Susie or Shakira. I tried the former.

“Susie?” I asked, tentatively.

She quickly replied, not looking up from the newspaper. “Shakira, ... My name is Shakira, Jeff.”

“How long has your name been Shakira?” I asked. “I thought your name was Susie.”

“My name has always been Shakira, Jeff. Susie was a pedestrian name given me by my well-meaning, uncomprehending parents. You shall call me “Shakira.”

I was stunned. Not only had my wife’s appearance changed dramatically, but now she was claiming to have a new name. And, it was obvious her personality had changed as well. In fact, it had been changing for quite some time. I should have done something to stop it earlier.

“Susie, how are you going to work looking like this, ... ?”

“Jeff,” she said, quietly but firmly, “my name is Shakira, ... And Jeff, Shakira doesn’t work at the Library. You shall support Shakira, financially, and in every other way, ... Just do as you are instructed.”

“You don’t work, ... ?”

“Shakira has her work, about which you know nothing, Jeff, ... but Shakira doesn’t work at the Library.”

“But what about Monday morning? They’ll be expecting you, ...”

“Jeff, don’t worry your pretty little head. Shakira will not be working on Monday. I have already informed the School, and I have taken my last paycheck.”

“Great,” I said. “And what are we going to do for money? We can’t afford this house without, ....”

“Quiet, Jeff,” she said. “We have plenty of money. You shall have all the money you want. So, please relax and do as you’re told.”

I gave up. I sat there over my steaming coffee and stared at the outrageous creature that had come into my life. I knew this was wrong. Our entire life had been completely upset. I no longer had my wife; she was apparently gone. I didn’t know whether to grieve or scream. We had lost my wife’s income, and could no longer afford our new home and its hefty mortgage payment. And, what about our future? Could I ever have children or a family with this woman that now occupied the house with me? We never had normal, healthy sex; I just ate and serviced her oversexed, shaved, insatiable pussy. She wouldn’t even let me masturbate, and I was continually tense, irritable, and distracted with sexual frustration. I couldn’t live this way.

And how could I possibly go out in public with this woman? Yes, she was beautiful. That was just the problem. She was too damn beautiful. She was conspicuously beautiful; her beauty was devastating, at least for an ordinary guy like me. I never bargained for this. That’s why I married a calm, reasonable, quiet librarian. I didn’t marry, or even want to marry, a brazen sex Goddess with a casually insolent, sexually obsessed attitude. This creature would be impossible to hide or avoid.

So, I went forward with my first weekend with “Shakira,” as she insisted I call her. She was pleasant, and had many of the qualities of Susie, once you looked past her imposing physical attributes. She was calm, reasonable, directed, and intelligent. After my first attack of uneasiness passed, I began to actually enjoy her company. And, she showed no signs of going anywhere; we went about our usual routines as if nothing had happened.

I found it slightly ridiculous to be walking through the grocery store with her, as all the men, and many of the women, gazed at my wife, her long, blonde hair piled heavily on top of her head, her face heavily made up, her large tits straining against her vulgar spandex top, her ass hanging out of her tight nylon shorts. I had dreamed of women like this, or maybe seen such images on the box covers of porn movies, but here I was, walking through a grocery store with an impossibly gorgeous vixen, discussing lettuce, cereal, and low-fat milk. I should have been in heaven, but I was instinctively confused and insecure.

I continued to call her “Susie,” and she continued to correct me; her name was “Shakira,” she insisted. I didn’t do it on purpose, but she seemed to be Susie, as far as I could tell. It became obvious that she really hadn’t changed much at all. She was kind, considerate, and helpful. We got along great, just as we always had, with the slight exception that she seemed a little more assertive than she had been. But, I could certainly live with that. So, why had she gone off the deep end and transmogrified herself into some kind of outrageous porn slut with an obscene wardrobe and kinky sexual habits?

I was depressed, not because she abused me, but because I was so obviously powerless in her presence. I couldn’t leave her, but I couldn’t stay without the continuing confusion, humiliating sexual service, and lonely nights in the spare bedroom.

She was right though. We had no financial problems. In fact, money seemed to appear in our account from nowhere. Shakira bought herself a new car—a metallic blue BMW convertible—which seemed perfect for her, assuming we could afford it. I eventually found out she paid cash for it. Where was this money coming from? I couldn’t detect any criminal, or other unusual financial activity, on the part of Shakira. Maybe her parents gave it to her. Her father was very wealthy, but he had never taken any interest in Susie, or in her life, or in our life together. I supposed it was possible, even if it was unlikely. My new wife was a woman of impenetrable mystery.

I went on with work as before. My buddies at work thought I had gotten a divorce when they saw me with Shakira at a softball game. I reassured them; “No,” I said, “that’s Susie.” They about barfed, and I could understand why. She was little Miss Fuckable, walking through the suburban crowd in her short, tight jogging shorts and nearly sheer halter top, her pendulous tits hanging out in front of her gorgeous face and huge white-blonde hair. It was hard to admit, in that crowd of ordinary, middle-class guys like myself, that this brazenly sexual, sensually vulgar woman was my little librarian wife, Susie. I didn’t tell them about the name change. They eventually accepted that I was still a married guy, but they were confused, to say the least.

“Shakira, do you have to dress like a porn slut when we go to company softball games?” I asked in irritation, as we drove home.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, and smiled a small smile with her pouty, glossed lips. “Jeff, are you ashamed of your own wife?”

“Of course not,” I insisted. If anything, I thought she was incredibly gorgeous. That was just the problem, but it didn’t seem to compute in her new, somewhat distorted mind. “Did you see any of the other wives dressed like you?”

“Jeff,” she said quietly, “I was quite comfortable, ... And I hope the other wives were quite comfortable also, ... None of them said anything to me.”

It was true. They hadn’t. In fact, Shakira was accumulating friends by the boatload. The other women loved her. She was kind, charming, friendly, and amiable, even if she looked like an expensive whore, shook her ass like an overly available slut, and dressed like a brazen bimbo. It was difficult to believe there was a sharp, intelligent mind underneath those huge gobs of bleached blonde hair. Shakira now spent much of her time at meetings, parties, and coffee sessions with her new girlfriends, and she was constantly receiving phone calls from them. She seemed quite content with things, and I was pleased, and slightly dumbfounded, with her new popularity.

Our nightly sex sessions continued as before. If anything, Shakira was more sexual than Susie, having orgasms that nearly broke the bed, her hips thrashing on my face, her juices squirting down my chin, her chest heaving like a bitch in heat. What were once 15-minute sessions were now extending late into the night, my wife cumming over and over, until she couldn’t go on any longer, her thin, shapely body heaving in sexual exhaustion on the bed, drenched in perspiration from her sexual exertions. She seemed completely insatiable.

She seemed to be faithful, and I became more comfortable with her over time. I felt emboldened to confront her. I either wanted to leave her, or have a normal sexual relationship with her. The problem was that I couldn’t leave her; I was under some kind of supernatural spell that I couldn’t control or comprehend. My wife’s medallion had paralyzed my will, and, although I could think rationally, I couldn’t act. It was difficult to respect a woman who kept a man as her slave. Why should she bother with this ridiculous drama? She could keep a man out of love; why bother with the invisible prison that I was in?

“Shakira,” I said, as we sat at the morning breakfast table, “do we really have to continue with our fucked-up sex life? Can’t we be like other couples, and actually have sex like a man and a woman should?”

So, I had confronted my dominating and intimidating mistress. She didn’t seem too perturbed by my questions. She sucked on her cigarette and sipped her coffee. “I was wondering how long you would wait before you asked, ...” she said casually, “... maybe now I can respect you, ... Even if your organ isn’t big enough or strong enough for my perfect, eternally pretty pussy.”

I was instantly humiliated. It was the first time she had humiliated me in quite a long time. Sure, she could have big cocks if she wanted them, but was it necessary for her to drive me into the ground. So, my dick was average, but it had been good enough for Susie. It was hardly something I could do anything about.

That evening Shakira appeared in the family room in her now routine apparel of an expensive bra and panty set—this one of deep lavender lace—and 6-inch stripper platforms. She walked effortlessly on her impossibly high heels, her protruding bubble ass hanging high over her long, shapely legs. I still couldn’t believe this woman lived with me, and depended upon me for sexual satisfaction. After dark, she was a sexually hungry animal, a throbbing cunt on the prowl, and I was slightly amazed she hadn’t cashiered me for some young, buff stud with a thoroughbred cock. I was still mystified by her.

Soon, she had her powerful medallion out, and it was swinging before my mesmerized brain. I sat helplessly under her imposing figure.

“Jeff,” she said quietly, “you’re happy with Shakira, aren’t you?”

Of course I was happy with her; I just wanted some normal sexual release with my wife.

“Jeff?” she asked. “Can’t you answer a simple question?”

“Yes,” I said finally, “I’m happy.”

“I thought you were,” she said. “Now, Jeff, listen carefully to Shakira, ... It is time for an important change, ... The soft wheels of time are about to carry us forward, ... It is time for Jeff to join Shakira and to become her mate, her mate in every way, her inseparable soul-mate for the eternity that beseeches us, that calls us into our future as a blessed and eternally interlocked couple of destiny, ... You shall join to me now, Jeff, ... You shall become Shakira‘s companion in time, ... And, in eternity.”

I heard her voice, in the distance, again hearing that faint voice but hardly comprehending what my wife was saying.

“To the bedroom, Jeff,” she said.

I got up and walked slowly to the bedroom, my wife following me.

“Pull the covers off, Jeff.”

I did as she commanded, exposing her gold, satin sheets.

“Lay on the bed, Jeff.”

I lay down, my eyes still locked onto my wife’s medallion. She leaned over me in her platforms, swinging the medallion close to my eyes. My brain began to distort and go black with the intensity of the glowing, invasive light, but I could hear her voice, as if it was in the far distance, calling faintly to my consciousness, reaching for me.

“Jeff, you shall join Shakira. You shall become her mate, ... Her inseparable and loyal soul mate.”

My brain turned on and off, darkness alternating with light, unfamiliar impulses driving through my mind. Some things were happening, but I couldn’t process them. I heard her voice, sometimes distant, sometimes close, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. It seemed to be some kind of chant, in a language I had never heard and couldn’t understand. I was frightened, helpless, and panicked. I wanted the light to return, but I had no power over it, it came and went, pulling me up and down, to the left and to the right, deforming my mind into shapes I couldn’t comprehend or organize. I had strange, spasmodic feelings, in my limbs, in my chest, in my genitals, burning feelings, an electric series of jerks and shocks as I lay helpless and defenseless under my wife’s ministrations.

Slowly, the light began to return, slowly, then steadily. My eyes opened, and I began to take in the sights around me, my beautiful wife standing over me, the medallion swinging slowly near my face, the bed beneath me, my chest heaving with labored breathing.

Shakira stood up and put her medallion to the side. She sat on the bed and stroked my thigh, just as you would expect a sexually interested woman to do. Then, I felt her long, acrylic nail flick at the flesh of my cock. I was quickly aroused, and she encouraged me further with soft strokes on my manhood. Her face was contorted into the beginnings of lustful obsession, her lips moist, her eyelids hooded like a predatory animal.

I raised my head, looked down, and saw it. I let my head collapse again into the soft satin sheets and closed my eyes. Now I understood. Now I understood what my wife was talking about, but I still couldn’t believe it. I raised my head and looked again at my hardening cock, and my wife’s small hand caressing it. I let my head collapse again into the sheets, attempting to comprehend what was happening to my body, to my life, to my incomprehensible marriage.

Shakira continued to fondle me, cooing like a submissive, seductive slut. My cock hardened, and she squeezed it softly like the intensely sensual woman that she was. As my cock hardened, her fingers could no longer reach all the way around it. She had enlarged my cock, and it was now thick and huge, long and hard. I felt Shakira’s submissiveness as she fondled me, and held me, and stroked me. She had made me into a virile stud, and she instinctively became the willing, submissive female in the presence of her new man, now magically endowed with a massive, pulsing, aggressively throbbing reproductive organ. She had sacrificed her dominance to mate with me.

Her mouth barely embraced the first two inches of my now engorged cock. She gagged on it, trying to lube it for coitus with her mate. I took her shoulder, and pushed her onto her back. I knelt before her and saw the raw lust in her face, her mouth slightly open, her eyes hooded, her hips involuntarily gyrating. I sensed the odor of her sex fill the room and enter my inflamed nostrils. My cock was heavy, thick, and hardened between my legs as I poised over my woman, her chest heaving, her fleshy tits dripping thin milk onto her tummy. My cock-head touched her pussy, and she yelped, instantly crying for more, crying for it all, crying for it now, raising her legs around my tensed ass trying to pull it in. I impaled my wife with a single thrust, her cunt soaked with juice, her love muscles relaxed and receptive. I fell onto her chest, grabbed her head, and thrust her with my new love shaft. She howled with ecstasy, her pussy squeezing, contracting, relaxing, her rhythm soft and firm underneath me. We copulated like two naturally free wild animals, aggressively, wildly, mindlessly, my wife’s profuse love juices dripping onto the sheets, perspiration rising and dripping from my back and face. It was soon over, my monumental load of mating juice exploding from the throbbing shaft, in thrust after aggressive thrust, loads of cum jetting inside my receptive, needy woman. She grabbed me, then held me, then scratched me, then bit me, then howled like a banshee as more and more jism squirted deep into her insatiable, lusting womb. Shakira had mated with me.

We live quietly now. Shakira and I are the model of a happy family. Nine months after our first mating session, my gorgeous, impossibly slutty wife gave birth to a baby girl, whom Shakira named Fabiola, a name in celebration of our new life together, which Shakira insists is fabulous.

I couldn’t agree more, though all of this was highly improbable. Having married a librarian named Susie, I was now married to a sex Goddess named Shakira, a woman of mysterious, magical powers, who had now graced our home with a beautiful little daughter. I consoled myself that this was a good thing, that I really wasn’t breeding with a seductive witch, that we were a normal family of three living peacefully in the suburbs. I can’t worry about it. If you want to worry about it, go ahead. I have a little girl to raise, and a gorgeous, sensual wife to enjoy. I’ll worry about it when Fabiola sprouts wings, or starts to walk on water. With Shakira by my side, nothing would surprise me anymore.