TITLE    : How I Met My Wife
STORYID  : how-i-met-my-wife-5
SUMMARY  : Hunting trip ends in a shotgun wedding.
AUTHOR   : feverman@lit
DATE     : 2012-06-09
CATEGORY : adult-humor
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |humor|fantasy|


How I met my wife by Chad Sanders a.k.a. Feverman

"You know where road 119 is over on the national forest?" my buddy, Alan, asked me when I saw him at the little country store where some of us stopped by for snacks and to swap tall tales, lies and occasionally some token of truthful information on days when we were turkey hunting.

"Sure," I told him.

"I was hunting down past the end of 119 the other day and struck up an old gobbler out in there.  I can't do anything with him, brother.  He has run me in circles and jacked me around for three and a half days now.  My vacation time is all used up.  He is all yours, Chad, if you want him.  But, I've got to warn you, he is psycho!  That turkey is demon possessed and I'm not kidding," Alan shared.

"Did I?" was the question.  If Alan, an excellent turkey hunter, was giving up on this devious old bird, it meant I probably was going be in serious trouble too.  Alan wasn't one to give any easy ones away, not even at the end of the season and when he couldn't hunt any more.  But, on the other hand, it was late April with only a few days left in our spring gobbler season, the weather was getting really warm, I didn't have any other good prospects, and I only needed one more bird to fill out my limit.

"What has he been doing to you, buddy?" I asked.

Alan went on to explain, "He gobbles and moves away every time I call to him, then gobbles somewhere from behind me, then moves away again.  He will let me see him and get almost into gun range and then disappear and gobble three hundred yards off and going further away.  Ain't no rhyme nor reason to what that crazy son-of-a-bitch does.  I'm done with the wily bastard."

I thought, 'Well, since Alan has already tried and failed to get him, there won't be any shame in not bagging the old gobbler, but if I can, I will have bragging rights for a whole year.  This sounds interesting.'  Looking back, Alan knew dammed well I was gonna bite.

Before we parted ways, I got all I could from my friend, the details of where the old bird roosted, what time he had first heard him each day and where, what Alan had tried for tactics, what type of calls he used and so on.  'Sounds like a worthwhile challenge,' I decided.

I stopped by the all-night Piggly Wiggly (real name) grocery store to fill my thermos with coffee and get some sweet rolls at three a.m. the following morning on my way to road 119.

There was a pretty big moon up yet, so I used just its reflected light and took my time to make my way over two wooded ridges, two creeks and then parked my butt on top of the third ridge away from my truck with over a full hour to go till daybreak.  "Perfect," I thought as I poured myself a cup of coffee from my thermos and chomped down my first sweet roll, setting the others on the leaves nearby.

I should have gone home after my first bite into my second sweet roll had with it a really horrible tasting beetle that could have stood over a half-dollar and not touch the edges.  I spit that fucking nasty bug out of my mouth with the force of a small volcano, well most of him anyway, but not before he locked two giant hooks into my tongue and sacrificed the rest of his body (from the head down) for the thrill of piercing my language-former.  I didn't even have a little stainless steel clit-tickler ball to put in the hole he left clean through my tongue when I finally extracted his hooks from my profusely bleeding flesh.  I should have had those damn things mounted.  Really! They were something.  And, the damned gobbler, he gobbled a hundred yards up the ridge at my choking, coughing and spitting in the black of night (the moon had gone down by then).  Well there you have it; so much for my carefully executed plan of stealth.  I was busted before I got started. Know what I mean? 

Using my continuously swelling tongue as best I could, I spat blood till daylight when the old gobbler flew down and walked off gobbling once ever fifty yards or so as he went.  I should have gone home then too, but I didn't.  I followed him, calling with my best horny hen imitations now and then to see if I could stop him and get a hunt going.  Hahahaha&hellip; no!  Six miles and three hours later I came face to face with head-high barbed-wire and "No Trespassing" signs the type of which leave no doubt about the hostility to follow if one gets caught.

I swear to you, that turkey knew those signs were there; hell, he probably hung them.  Not even a hundred yards past that collection of ominous death threats, he set up a strut zone, gobblin', struttin' and drummin' to the horny hen chasing after him, me.

Me, I sat there sweating like drive-in movie car windows on a winter night with two couples getting it on inside, trying to get enough air into my lungs to puke, and I cursed that brainless bundle of survival instincts in my mind&hellip; because nothing else I could use to curse him with was working.

When the nausea of the exhausting up-and-down mountain hike passed, I put plan B in to action&hellip; which was to act like I was leaving, but to circle back a couple hundred yards down the fence, cross it and get on the other side of the devious prick, all of which I did; well, at least until I slipped on the barbed wire and stuck the longest steel barb in the county in my ass and proceeded to rip out the butt of my pants trying to get the mini-harpoon out of me and me off the fence.  Certain types of sounds of woe don't require much use of the tongue (coming directly from one's soul as they do) and he gobbled again when I emitted my sonic cries of pain.  He was probably rolling around up there in the leaves laughing his ass off.  I should have gone home then, but I thought my luck had changed when I landed on the other side of the fence.  Know what I mean?

After the yellow caution lights from my wreck (when I hit the ground head first) cleared and the green came back on, the race was on again.  When I fell behind him sufficiently for the old gobbler to think I might have died, he was kind enough to come back and get me.  (Pay special attention to that word "kind.")  He'd gobble a hundred yards away until I recovered and took up the chase again. He was very thoughtful that way.

Well, to cut out quite a bit here for the sake of brevity, he took up struttin' and gobblin' on a sand bar on a little mountain creek I didn't know was even in that part of the world, not that I had any idea where I was anymore by then.  I found him there in the picturesque little lick when I tripped on a kudzu vine and somersaulted head-over-heal off the mountain side, through a thick patch of some kind of psychedelic thorn bushes, launched myself airborne off a small bluff and landed flat on my back in the creek.  It could have been a lot worse, you know, and I took my good fortune at landing that way and still being alive as a sure sign my luck was changing for the better.  

Sitting in the water waist deep and after I checked all my big bones for breakage, I took the opportunity to wash out the mud that was jammed half way up into the end of my shotgun barrel.  Hell, I even got naked and took a nice little swim.  I cleaned up the scrapes and scratches all over my body and face and plucked thorns out from all over my torso and extremities.  I figured it was time for a change of tactics and so I didn't give the old gobbler the time of day as he strutted, gobbled his ass off and tried his best to lure me back into the game.  Come to think of it, that may have been my finest moment.

As I swam around and enjoyed my first semi-pain-free moments in awhile, I noticed I was getting high as hell from&hellip; well, from what I didn't know at the time.  (I later learned it was those damned thorns, of which I had plucked a couple dozen out of me).  The old turkey taunted me by staying in eyesight down the creek and gobbling every few minutes.  I mocked him right back with roaring laughter each time he did, well, as best I could with my swollen tongue and all&hellip; but it felt wonderful and it made me happy to piss him off anyway.  I could tell I was getting to him by the demanding rattle in his gobble when he cut off my laughter.  He he!

The idea of playing a game with him occurred to me and I decided to alternate between peek-a-boo and hide-and-seek.  I'd go under water and swim half way to him and then jump up out of the water and yell, "peek-a-boo."  He'd run off and hide, only to come back after a bit for more. Well, after a couple of times to establish the pattern, the next time he ran away I grabbed my shotgun and sprinted to the edge of the woods down his way and hid behind a big old blown down oak tree.

That poor dumb turkey came right back up there and gobbled in the exact spot were he had every time before and I knew then I had him.  I was already thinking about whether to have biscuits or rolls for dinner with him in my vision of victory.  I crawled down the far side of the big old oak log (naked as hell, mind you) and peeked around the end of the hurricane (the roots end).  There he was, only just past him maybe fifty yards (which I couldn't see beforehand) was a girl sunbathing naked on a little sand beach.  I got to looking at her and started feeling really light headed and my vision was sending goofy images to my brain.  All of the sudden, the crack of my crotch and my dick started stinging like hell, like I was in lying in a bed of fire ants or something, which it turned out I was... each bite being the equivalent of putting a freshly-blow-out match to one's skin (in case you haven't had the pleasure).

"Oh fuck&hellip; ouch&hellip; ouch&hellip; get the fuck off me you little demons&hellip; oh fuck&hellip;" I yelled out (as best I could given my swollen tongue) as I stood up and danced around in little spinning circles (still naked of course) and raked those fire-filled devils off my dick (first) and the rest of me later until the giant shadow of a man suddenly fell over me and everything went black.

When I woke up I didn't know if I had been knocked out or just fainted, but I didn't ponder the question long.  I was itching in the worst sort of way, really, really bad, and couldn't scratch the urgent attention my burning, itching dick and ball sack needed because I was tied up, bound with my hands behind my back with my ankles wrapped in duck tape.  All I could do was roll onto my belly and hump whatever I could find on the dirt floor in the old tool shed where I found myself to try and relieve the unbearable misery of my sex organs.  It was really bad, really, really bad. Know what I mean?

Well, I was rolling around humping everything in sight when the door suddenly opened and Paul Bunyan's big brother bent down and came through the doorway (because he was too tall otherwise).  He dragged me outside and threw me over his shoulder (because he was too tall to do so inside) and carried me to my trespassing trial, paying no attention whatsoever to my constant begging for him to scratch my dick and balls for me (which I thought was very insensitive of him not to.  Know what I mean?)

"Uncle Lenny caught you trespassing naked up at the swimmin' hole with my daughter," the Judge charged me, "Now, you gonna marry her, ain't you boy?"

"I don't know anything&hellip;" I was saying.

"Shet up," he yelled at me. "No sniveling, you sneakin' little bastard.  You either gonna marry her and be family, or you gonna pay the stiff price fer traspassin' and trying to kill my pet gobbler."

Well, what was I to do?  I didn't like the sound of that "stiff price" punishment, especially with big old Uncle Lenny eying my naked butt as he grinned and rubbed the huge bulge in the crotch of his coveralls, which looked about as big as two large Irish potatoes stacked end to end. Know what I mean? 

So, I told the Judge, "Yes, Your Honor, I sure am going to marry your daughter," wondering all the while where she was and what she might look like.  I tried my best to conjure up optimistic visions of Daisy Duke and will her to appear.

"Oh my god, No!" my mind screamed when I saw her just before everything went black again.

The next thing I knew the wedding party was fully assembled and Uncle Lenny had just dumped a bucket of water over me to bring me back to life.  I looked around the room and there my future wife still stood, all three hundred pounds of clock-stopping horror, and my head was hurting, my mind swimming in a fog, and my dick was still itching like crazy from those damned fire ant bites.  My day wasn't going nearly as well as I had hoped.  I figure you know what I mean.

"You best have a drink of this," the Judge said as he grabbed my hair, tilted my head back and poured some clear liquid that tasted worse than gasoline into my mouth.  Then, he pinched my nose and held my jaw shut until I had to either swallow or die of suffocation.  I couldn't really decide which the better of the two choices was.  But, I guess I finally swallowed (or else died) because then shit started getting downright weird on me.

Tamara Ann, that was her name, started looking better and better.  Every time I blinked, fifteen or twenty pounds dropped off her and other miraculous transformations took place.  Her face, which had resembled a carved watermelon beforehand, got prettier and prettier.  Her teeth straightened and got whiter and whiter.  Her breasts rose up and became proud and succulent looking.  By the end of the changes, just the sight of her made my dick hard as a steel flag pole and pointed in the same direction, but it still itched.

"Cut him lose," the Judge ordered.  "He's got to do this of his own free will."   Two of Tamara Ann's cousins flipped open big ole hog-sticker pocket knives in the blink of an eye and cut me free.

So, I stood there naked as the day I was born, scratching my itch furiously while we got married.  I took my life sentence for trespassing like a man and gave up my thickly garbled, "I do." (My tongue, remember?)  

We honeymooned in a family cabin back in the hills there and I finally got my itching pecker fully scratched, I mean really well scratched!  Now that, boys and girls, made me feel a whole lot better.  

Well that is about the long and short of it, what happened anyway.  My old buddy, Alan, is kin folk with me now, more or less.  I had no way of knowing about this at the time, but he was already married to one of Tamara Ann's older sisters.  That medicine they gave me took hold permanent (or else it cured my thorn-poison distorted vision when I first saw her) and my loving wife looks every bit as beautiful to me today as she did during our honeymoon.  She is pretty damn good at scratching any itch I get too.

I reckon, come springtime, I'll drop by the little country store we use during turkey season and pass that old gobbler on to some unsuspecting young fellow the Judge has picked out for the next daughter to marry.   He has three more coming up that want to get married and he asked me to be the one to carry on the family tradition next time.  Gotta take care of family and all these days.  Know what I mean?



