Wicked's Metamorphosis

Prologue

Disclaimer: This story is a substantial rewriting and joining of the "WicKed Spreads Her Wings 01-06" Series into one story. You might ask if you have read the other series, is it worth your time to read this also. I would allow that it does. I believe you will find it much better developed and with more powerful character development than the stand-a-lone series. This version provides better insight into WicKed psyche as well as her bond with Dr. Marie, more so than in the original publications.

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It takes a while before Katrina makes her appearance in this story, but she is at the heart of it as an eighteen-year-old girl, quickly growing into adulthood. She is determined to fulfill her mother's dying wish: caring for her father's needs in every way. She becomes entangled with her dad's and her mother's former, past love triangle partner. The latter is now a renown psychiatrist bent on helping resolve this highly troublesome, moral dilemma.

The story evolves as the lover's triangle goes through four years of college. Eighteen years later, Katrina's sexual awaking and metamorphosis into WicKed takes center stage.

All characters are purely fictional and any resemblance to any real person is entirely coincidental. Advice offered by the characters is purely inventive, imaginative, and readers are cautioned not to take any of what is offered as factual in nature or desirable in reality. No medical references cited are real either, so no need to look them up!

The sexual content, and there is lots of it, fits within the Literotica.com parameters: incest, lesbian, heterosexual, and dash or two of other forms -- probably none too displeasing to most readers who peruse this website.

Masturbation Bliss

Turning eighteen in December of my senior year fired up many hormonal spikes. Sexual fascinations crowded most other thoughts from my mind and the year seemed to end without my recalling much in the way of academics. I could only recall my conjuring up erotic thoughts of nubile, lithe bodies curling up next to me during many restless nights. One of those bodies, increasingly reoccurring in my dreams, is my tom-boy step-cousin, Marie.

Graduation day came and I had the chance to get out of the city and spend some time on the farm with Paint, my Appaloosa. Being out on Grandma's farm also gave me some uninterrupted time alone. I was in that experimenting zone, wanting to get out in the wide-open spaces, naked, and ride like the Indians across the land at a gallop. But the rides were confined to the wooded section of the farm since my step-grandma's farm was plagued with nearby neighbors, ones who would certainly be calling her if they saw me racing down the dirt road buck-naked.

Now, with the summer sun warming the mid-day air, I find myself stealthily climbing Grandma's barn ladder to make my way to the back of the loft. Eager to get naked, my clothes get discarded in a flash, allowing me to enjoy the feel of the soft straw beneath my toes. The warm air gliding around my unfettered balls feels so erotically comfortable as I jump from bale to bale. Yesterday, I had made a blind out of stacked bales to shield myself at the back of the loft. There, the softness of the loose wheat straw gives me the solitude needed to entertain myself.

My afternoon fantasy sessions always begin with coaxing Marie out of her outfit. Anticipation of being alone with her, peeling off her top, and stripping her jeans from her teen model body sends my mind racing with chaotic thoughts. I try mentally scripting an imaginary scene of us together. Groping for words to put her at ease and cajole her into shedding her top and shorts. Once she is stripped, we lie next to each other, exploring each other's bodies. I try to imagine my fingers slipping into her wet cunt and how she would moan as I slipped my finger in and out of her.

Yeah, right -- I've never seen a real pussy let alone know how one feels so it gets real frustrating trying to imagine how a real cunt must feel when it's aroused -- but my cock knows my hands so well that it's okay for now. Just thinking about her has my dick as hard as a hickory hammer handle. Someday I plan to get her pussy wrapped around my dick and I'll get to know the feeling!

The warmth from the tin roof radiates down into my groin. Despite the heat, I feel a tingling shiver permeating through me. My foreplay is undisturbed from the outside world. The raw sensation of my fingers touching it sends jolts of electricity coursing through my stiffening legs. I close my eyes, the better to imagine the erotic touches of her fingers playing with head of my dick.

I can hear the sound of air rushing in and back out through my nostrils as I imagine caressing her pear-shaped breasts during our stolen time together. My lips chap from the heat. My mouth springs open to accommodate the need for more air. Visions of her acquiescing to my touches flood my mind. As if in a movie playing behind my closed eyes, my dick twitches as images of Marie's delicate fingers glide over me. My mind runs crazily as I imagine her whispering, "Is this okay, baby?"

My hands fall away, as Marie's hands replace mine, replicating my actions. She strokes me. Taking my nipples between her teeth, she teases each one vibrating them with her tongue. My limbs stiffen. My toes curl each time her tongue glides over my pee slit. My dick strains reaching upward, struggling, and aching to climax. The slow, rhythmic stroking of my cock begins to rev up trying to match my panting. Breaths soon become gasps, as my throat dries out from panting. Hot air swirls down into my air-starved lungs.

Masturbation, and the sensual images of Marie coaxing my body into unimagined ecstasy, takes me to that erotic edge I so desperately try to stave off. I can't control my breathing. All the muscles of my body become ridged as I suck air deeply into my aching lungs. Images of this naked vixen flash behind by closed eyelids. Furiously, my hand pounds my dick despite my desire to slow the pace.

Trying, but against my will, I cannot slow the pace. My hand beats my cock with increasing speed, until my legs arch, lifting my ass off the crushed straw. My balls are welling up with the inevitable crest of erotic release. Opening my eyes and raising my head, I watch, mesmerized, as my hand becomes a blur pounding my cock toward climax.

Finally, my tense body can take no more pummeling and, as if on cue, I erupt. Volcanic cum spews onto my chest, lacing my nipples like white-hot lava. Slowly, my arched body goes limp, collapsing into the soft bedding. Spread-eagled, I lie exhausted, my legs weak from the release of my sexual tensions. After having held my breath during the pummeling, my oxygen-starved lungs gasp deeply for more air. The rush of air burns my parched throat.

Falling backward into the pile of straw, I lie still, suppressed by the heat until the moist remnants of cum dry on my skin. Marie's panting body, covered in a fine sheen of perspiration and her 'O' shaped lips spelling out orgasm, fades from my mind.

No matter how much I try not to cum and keep the sensations alive, the images of her willing body, playing to my fantasy, slip away. True, carnal knowledge eludes me, again. As usual, following the release of my sexual urges, this erotic mind play gives way to me feeling guilty.

Redressing, I looked through the cracks of the barn walls to see if anyone would be able to see me exiting. I would always get that feeling that they would know about my forbidden rendezvous with Marie high above the barn floor if they saw me leaving the barn brushing the telltale remnants of chaff from my shorts and tee shirt. The thoughts of having a sexual liaison with my step-cousin weighs like a millstone around my neck. It clings to me just like the guilt of masturbatory sexual gratification. The disdain toward teenage masturbation has a way of stealing the joyful pleasures that should rightly be derived from self-gratification.

I made my way toward the back porch, satisfied, satiated for now, and thought back to how I had arrived at this point in my life.

Transplanted into Corn Country

Each and every day began the same for my mother and my father. Up at dawn, with a cup of coffee in hand, Dad and Mom would be sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of invoices and the green lined 18x11 ledger sheets going over the bills and balancing accounts for the ranch. Most days the ledger had black entries, but just barely covering costs after paying off the ranch hands. More frequently, though, the red ink numbers were creeping into the balance column. Dad took those in stride with his stoic western outlook on life.

As part of our daily ritual, by the time I made it downstairs for breakfast, Dad was waiting at the kitchen door to say, "Good Morning, slacker. Be sure and mind your manners in school, today." This is the same speech he gave me each morning before heading out the door to the stables.

Then Mom would smile, ruffle my hair, and ask all the usual questions. Homework? Lunch bucket? Etcetera, as I scrambled out the back door to jog the half-mile down to the front gate and catch the school bus for John Bufford Schumacher High School.

Paul Schumacher, Dad, was a sixth-generation rancher and proud of his heritage. He counted everyday a good day as long as he could walk out the backdoor and gaze up at the Four Peaks of the Mazatzal Mountains in central Arizona, before strolling out to the bunk house to rouse Raul and Laraby. Like Dad, they were the two steady hands living in harmony with the land. The three of them loved working out under the bright skies where the Nahua peoples once hunted the bountiful deer. Those damned critters my mom always complained about for constantly devouring her garden produce.

I remember sitting in English class during my freshman year in high school when the principal appeared in the doorway, with his gaze fixed on me. My teacher stopped speaking, having taken in his somber look. "Ray, I need you to come with me to the office," Principal Rattler said, filling in the silence.

Dad was as sound as a dollar and worked from dawn to dusk without any indication of a health problem. His thirty-eight-year-old life ended that fall morning while walking halfway to the corral. That's where Laraby found him, a bridle in one hand, and a lariat in the other. No one was prepared for his death, especially not me.

Mom struggled for another year after Dad's death, reentering the business workforce in commercial advertisement, trying to hold onto my dad's legacy. But we could not make a go of it and had to let go of the ranch. Raul and Laraby hung on with us as long as Mom could keep them fed and slip them some whiskey money. But, eventually, the bank loans outgrew the income from the cattle and horse sales and six generations of western life ended.

Meeting a corporate lawyer on some business trip, Mom re-married. Love re-kindled, she tells me. I didn't get to voice my opinion in the matter and I was pissed to say the least. My new stepfather wasn't a westerner -- just some city lawyer from back east of the Mississippi. To make matters worse, the corporate bank, holding our loans, was after our land. The amount owned is far less than the appraised value of the ranch, but that didn't mean much to some dip-shit banker thousands of miles away from the heartland we loved so much. They saw it as a big cash grab and their lawyers were salivating at the chance to pry it out of Dad's cold dead hands to add another limo and more luxury to their new headquarters building back east. That would have been Dad's take on the situation; Mom shared that view, too. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad didn't have life insurance policies to handle Dad's unexpected demise.

But I had to give mom's new lawyer fellow some credit; he filed papers for bankruptcy and some other stuff I didn't understand at the time. He said it would hold the bank off for a while. Time enough to find a buyer and also one who promised to keep Raul and Laraby on as hands as long as they wanted or were able to work steadily.

Once the ranch was signed over to the new buyers, Laraby took what little we'd packed and put it into a U-Haul. He hitched a two-horse trailer to it. I cried, but tried not to show it, as he walked my Paint up into it. I loved that horse so much. Laraby said he found a new owner and would drop him off on the way to taking our belongings back east for mom and me. It would be a long drive; 1,400 miles. I said I would ride along with him and help drive, but Mom said we already had flight tickets and would be leaving that afternoon from Scottsdale.

I felt my soul sinking into my boots. My ranch life faded away that afternoon. As Laraby drove the U-Haul out of the ranch gate, we followed in a rental car onto the highway. Laraby when east and we turned north. We rode in silence all the way to the airport. What should have been an exciting first flight of my life, just felt numbing as the jet roared down the runway, lifted off, and as the wheels folded up under its belly, it banked east. I watched as the land below rolled away and flatten behind us as we approached the Mississippi. It had been a long night without sleep. My eyes closed and I drifted off dreaming of being in the saddle with Paint galloping out across the plains.

My mother uprooted us from our southwestern Arizona habitat and transplanted us into the cornfields in mid-continent. Instead of sweeping plains and rising mountains, this new territory was flat, as far as the eye could see. It was awash in corn and grain fields for hundreds of miles. Even the air had a different smell and taste. I missed the crispness of our mountain air and being able to gaze up at the Four Peaks that my Dad reverenced every day as he walked out the backdoor and headed to the corrals.

A life adjustment to a stepfather when you are seventeen doesn't go easy. But I do my best to respect him for Mom's sake. He's a good man -- just not made from my Dad's mold or possessing his easy temperament. He treats me well -- respects my disdain for city life -- and makes sure Mom and I are well provisioned. He loves Mom. For that, I begrudgingly make allowances for the fact that he is poking what was rightfully the place where my Dad should be. Now, at least, my bedroom is upstairs on the far end of the house, so I'm not tortured by the sounds of their bed squeaking. At the ranch, I could always hear Dad and Mom going at it late at night when they figured I was sleeping. I have to admit that frequently my hand kept rhythm with those squeaks and intensified, ending with a lot of moans and grunts before I stopped.

However, it wasn't too harsh to adjust to the new family structure. I found out it was rooted in rural life and Mom said they have horses out on the farm. The widowed family matriarch managed to raise two good sons -- Broderick, my mom's new husband and Eli Johnson. Grandma, as they all called her, even her sons, readily accepted mom and me.

Everyone seemed friendly and glad to see me Mom and me and I was really glad to get out of the city smells and all the traffic. Just breathing the country air helped lift my spirits. Even more so when Bro said he had something to show me as we walked out to the barn. Standing in the barnyard was my Paint! I was never so happy as to see him transplanted into corn country! It turned out that Laraby took one look at the new buyer and turned the sale down. He told Bro that the man was just an ignoramus when it came to a fine horse like old Paint and loaded him back into the trailer to come back east with our other stuff. Bro told Laraby that a boy needed a best friend in a new world and paid Laraby to bring old Paint with him. Bro got another notch higher in my book -- still not my Dad's level, but real acceptable.

The second son, Eli, has a daughter my age, well just a bit older by three months. Spoiled and bratty, is how I came to see her, at first. It took a lot of effort before I realized that she wasn't much different from most other girls, except for her bossiness. Fortunately, we don't have to spend much time together as she lives out in the cornfields; a whole world away from the city where Bro conducts business.

But, at least once a month, we make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to visit Grandma Johnson' farm for the monthly family gathering. During those gatherings I got to know Marie and she slowly grew on me, as they say, over the next year.

Rendezvous with Marie

Having dusted the last of the chaff from my clothing and half way to the house, I spot Marie a short way down the road. I could hear her bike's tires crunching through the dusty gravel. Just as I reach the veranda of Grandma Johnson's century old home, she turns into the driveway. Marie lives one mile away and would come each summer's day to check in on Grandma. I, too, am spending a few weeks at the farm to handle the gardening chores as my mom and stepfather are away taking care of my Uncle Edward's affairs. Dad's brother, just entered hospice care in Arizona; same genes as my dad -- heart issues.

For Marie and I, it is one of those life adjustments, transitioning from high school graduate to almost a college freshman or freshwoman, in Marie's case. A time of quiet reflection about what life holds for you as you look forward to this new sojourn. Marie has a tight bond with her grandma. I can tell by the way they interact with one another. It seems Marie spends more time with her grandma than with her own family members. For my part, I also find it easy to get along with my step-grandma -- more easily than with 'the boss' Marie. Grandma has a way of making me feel at ease and I often catch myself telling her things that I wouldn't even consider telling my Mom or my Dad, if he were alive. She has a distinct gift of ingratiating herself into your soul, it seems.

Grandma welcomes our companionship on these quiet summertime days. She loves the attention and likes to spend time baking and reminiscing about earlier years with the family members. They had grown up leaving her mostly alone, except for an occasional family gathering for birthdays and such. Now, it's just Marie and I that provide most of the summertime companionship she craves in this secluded, rural setting.

Truthfully, I do not mind coming to handle the gardening, but during the last year the focus of my desire to help out on the farm changed. My hormones took over the majority of my daily thoughts. I surmised that Marie must also have similar thoughts, although I had no idea as to what extent since we were too shy to even discuss such matters between us. Marie and I were together often last summer and now again during this second summer.

It was inevitable, perhaps it was Karma, that my thoughts of sex focus on getting into her pants and riding her svelte frame. As I reach the porch, Marie rides up. Grandma calls out through the kitchen's screen door then, swinging the screen door open, she strolls out as Marie swings her leg over the boy's bike she always rides. I watch as that tan leg makes a high arc and comes over the handlebars, hoping for glimpse under her shorts.

Marie's staccato laugh calls out, "Hey, Grandma. Hey, Ray. How are you?"

Tossing her auburn boyish haircut out of her eyes, she climbs the steps. Her tomboy personality seems to be incongruent with her lithe body marked by hazel eyes and a fair complexion. She's gorgeous enough to be a teen magazine model. However, she never seems to be aware of her striking model image. She doesn't flaunt it, which speaks well of her. Most any other girl of her beauty would be playing it up to the hilt for attention; not Marie.

'Gorgeous enough to -- to, well, to ride my dick,' I find the errant thought running around my mind in rapid circles before heading south to my pole.