Chapter 30: Katrina Takes Control
The dishes had been cleared, the last of Casey's famously mediocre decaf coffee poured and abandoned half-finished on the side table, and the Horny House had settled into that particular quiet that only comes after a houseful of guests departs. The fairy lights strung across the mantel cast their soft, warm glow over the living room, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.
Mike sank deeper into the couch cushions, one hand absently stroking Rembrandt's massive Maine Coon flank while VanGogh—true to his contrary nature—had claimed the armchair across from them, his yellow eyes tracking Godfrey III's every move from his spot on the windowsill until Jan had finally scooped the tiny dog up and gone home.
Casey was curled against Mike's side, her head resting on his shoulder, her breathing slow and even. She wasn't asleep—she rarely was when the house was this quiet—but she was close to it, that languid half-state that came from a long drive, a longer day, and the bone-deep satisfaction of a crisis resolved.
Katrina sat in the other armchair, her legs tucked beneath her, a throw blanket draped over her lap. She'd been quiet since they'd returned from Bentley Ridge, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Not the closed-off, guarded silence of the first few weeks, but something softer. Something that looked almost like peace.
"You don't have to stay up on our account," Mike said, his voice low so as not to break the spell of the evening.
"I know." Katrina's voice was soft, but there was a new note in it—a confidence that had been growing over the past two months. "I'm not tired, though. For the first time in thirty years, my mind isn't racing. It's strange."
Casey lifted her head, her dark eyes—still sharp despite the hour—studying Katrina with that particular intensity she reserved for her children. "Strange good or strange bad?"
"Strange good." Katrina's lips quirked into something almost a smile. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the nightmare to start again." Her gaze drifted to the fireplace, where the embers still glowed faintly. "But it doesn't. I'm just... here. With people who care about me."
The words hung in the air, simple but weighted with everything she'd endured.
Mike exchanged a glance with Casey—that silent communication they'd perfected over twenty years of marriage—and Casey nodded almost imperceptibly. They'd discussed this possibility, whispered about it in the dark of their bedroom after the children had gone to bed. Jan's spell, the lingering magic that had saturated this house for decades, the way it seemed to lower inhibitions and amplify desires. They'd decided, wisely, not to mention it to the kids. Not to Mandy or Beth or Rick, who would be heading back to Miami in the morning. Not even to Katrina, who had been through so much already.
If they chalked up whatever happened next to "weird vibes" and moved on, well, that was exactly what Mike and Casey themselves had done for years before they'd learned that magic was real and Jan had been casting sex spells all along.
Katrina unfolded herself from the armchair, rising with a dancer's grace that seemed almost unconscious. She moved toward the fireplace, her bare feet silent on the worn Persian rug, and stood there for a moment, her back to them.
"I was a dancer, you know," she said quietly. "Before. That was what I wanted to be. My mother wanted me to be a researcher, wanted me to follow in her footsteps at the Golden Wands." A soft, bitter laugh. "She pushed me toward knowledge, toward safety. Toward the path that led me straight into Aemelia's trap."
Casey started to speak, but Katrina turned before she could, and there was something in her expression that made Casey's words die in her throat.
"I've spent thirty years in a void where time didn't pass but my mind didn't stop. Thirty years of replaying every moment, every choice, every way I could have been smarter, stronger, faster." Her grey eyes, usually haunted, were bright with something that might have been determination. "And I'm done. I'm done being the victim. I'm done letting what Aemelia did define me."
Mike sat up slowly, his hand finding Casey's instinctively. "Katrina, you don't have to prove anything to us. We're just glad you're safe."
"I know." Her voice was gentle. "That's why I can do this here. With you." She took a breath, steadying herself. "Jules Nash has been helping me work through... everything. And she said something that stuck with me. She said that trauma lives in the body as much as the mind. That healing requires reclaiming your physical self, not just your mental one." Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn't look away. "I want to reclaim my body. And I want to do it here, with people who love me, in a place where I feel safe."
Casey's eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning. "Katrina, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." Katrina's voice was firm now, cutting through Casey's gentle protest. "I want to. For the first time in thirty years, I want to feel something other than fear or numbness. I want to feel." Her gaze swept across the room, taking in Mike and Casey on the couch, the cats watching from their perches, the warm glow of the fairy lights. "I want to direct tonight. If you'll let me."
The silence stretched, thick with possibility. Mike's heart was pounding in his chest—not with fear, but with something else. Something that had become familiar to him over the past few days, courtesy of Jan's meddling, but that felt different now. Intentional. Meaningful.
Casey reached over and squeezed his hand. When she spoke, her voice was soft but certain. "Whatever you need, Katrina. Whatever you want. We're here."
Katrina's smile was tremulous but real. She crossed to Casey first, extending her hand. Casey took it, rising to her feet, and Katrina led her to the center of the living room, where the Persian rug gave way to a thick, cream-colored carpet that Casey had always privately thought of as the "sex rug" because it was the only thing that made kneeling comfortable during their more adventurous evenings.
"Sit," Katrina said, her voice taking on a new quality—direct, commanding, yet somehow still gentle. "Kneel for me."
Casey went down willingly, her knees sinking into the plush carpet. She looked up at Katrina, her dark eyes—still bright with the remnants of the spell and the warmth of the evening—meeting Katrina's storm-grey ones.
Katrina's hands moved to the hem of her own shirt, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. Beneath it, she wore nothing—her pale skin luminous in the fairy lights, her breasts full and tipped with dusky rose. She was slim, almost willowy, but there was a strength in her frame that spoke of the dancer she'd once been and the survivor she'd become.
"I've imagined this," Katrina said, her voice barely above a whisper. "So many times, in the void. Not this specifically, but... being touched again. Being wanted again. I thought I'd never have it." She stepped closer, close enough that Casey could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Show me I was wrong."
Casey didn't need to be told twice. She leaned forward, her hands finding Katrina's hips, drawing her closer. She pressed a kiss to Katrina's stomach first—soft, reverent—then lower, her lips tracing a path down the smooth skin of Katrina's belly. Katrina's breath hitched, her fingers threading through Casey's hair, gripping just tight enough to anchor herself.
"Casey," she breathed. "Please."
Casey looked up at her, a question in her eyes. Katrina nodded, and Casey bent to her task, her fingers hooking into the waistband of Katrina's loose linen pants and easing them down. Katrina stepped out of them, now completely bare, her body open and vulnerable under the warm glow of the lights.
And then Casey's mouth found her.
Katrina gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily. It had been so long—decades—since anyone had touched her like this. The sensation was overwhelming, flooding through her like a wave of heat after years in the cold.
Casey was skilled, her tongue moving with practiced ease, finding the spots that made Katrina's knees buckle. She worked slowly, deliberately, building Katrina up with each pass of her tongue, each gentle suction on her clit.
"I want Mike to fuck you," Katrina managed, her voice strained. "While you're eating me out."
Casey paused just long enough to look back at Mike, who had risen from the couch and was watching them with undisguised heat in his eyes. He was already hard, his cock straining against his jeans as he crossed the room.
"You heard her," Casey said, her voice husky. "Get behind me and fuck me like you mean it."
Mike didn't need further encouragement. He dropped to his knees behind Casey, his hands finding the waistband of her yoga pants. She lifted her hips, letting him pull them down, and he groaned at the sight of her bare ass, already wet with anticipation.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he muttered.
"Less talking," Casey said, already lowering her mouth back to Katrina's cunt. "More fucking."
Mike obliged, lining himself up and driving into her in one smooth, deep stroke. Casey moaned against Katrina's flesh, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through the dancer-turned-researcher.
"God, yes," Casey breathed. "Just like that. Don't you dare slow down."
He didn't. He fucked her with steady, rhythmic strokes, his hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her from behind. Each thrust pushed Casey's face deeper into Katrina, and she responded with equal fervor, her tongue lapping at Katrina's wet, swollen flesh like a woman dying of thirst.
Katrina's head fell back, a low, guttural moan escaping her lips. She could feel everything—Casey's tongue on her clit, the vibration of Casey's moans against her flesh, the slap of Mike's body against Casey's with each thrust. It was overwhelming, too much, not enough.
"That's it," she managed, her fingers tightening in Casey's hair. "Just like that. Oh, god, just like that."
The living room filled with the sounds of their coupling—the wet, rhythmic noises of Casey's mouth on Katrina, the slap of flesh against flesh as Mike fucked her, the ragged, desperate gasps of all three of them.
Mike could feel his orgasm building, coiling in his gut like a live wire. But he held back, wanting this to last, wanting to give Casey what she needed—what Katrina needed.
"I'm close," Casey murmured against Katrina's thigh, her words muffled. "So close. But she's close too. I can feel her."
"Don't you dare come until I tell you to," Katrina commanded, her voice shaky but authoritative. She looked down at Casey, her grey eyes glazed with pleasure. "Not until I say so."
Casey obeyed, forcing herself to hold back even as Mike's cock drove into her with relentless precision. She focused on Katrina instead, on the taste of her, the feel of her, the way her thighs trembled against Casey's cheeks.
"Calista," Katrina called out, her voice carrying through the house. "Mandy. Beth. Rick. I want you in here."
One by one, the Williamson children filtered into the living room, drawn by the sounds of pleasure. Their eyes widened at the scene before them—Katrina standing naked and commanding while Casey knelt between her legs, Mike fucking Casey from behind.
Rick entered first, his eyes going wide. "Whoa. Did we miss something?"
"No," Katrina said, her voice steady despite the pleasure coursing through her. "You're right on time." She gestured to Mandy and Beth, who had followed their brother into the room. "Mandy, I want you to ride Mike. Beth, Rick—I want you two together."
Mandy's smirk was already in place. She crossed the room with deliberate grace, stripping off her shirt and jeans as she went. Her body was young and firm, still carrying the echoes of her parents' energy. She positioned herself above Mike, who had pulled out of Casey at Katrina's command, his cock slick and hard.
"Ready, old man?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.
"Always," Mike managed, watching her with half-lidded eyes.
She sank down onto him with a satisfied groan, her inner walls clenching around his length as she began to ride him. Her movements were fluid, practiced, as if she'd done this a thousand times before—and perhaps, in some other version of this night that Jan's spell had conjured, she had.
What must be happening was something like synchronicity—a shared drunkenness of the senses where no one wanted to examine how improbable this all was. They were so intoxicated by each other and by the magic humming in the walls of this ridiculous house that they simply surrendered to it.
Beth had already pulled Rick to the floor, her mouth finding his in a fierce, hungry kiss. They tumbled onto the carpet together, limbs tangling as clothes were shed with frantic urgency. Rick's hands found Beth's breasts, cupping them as she gasped against his lips.
"I've never done this with you," Beth whispered.
"Neither have I," Rick admitted. "But something feels right about it."
Beth answered by reaching down and taking his cock in her hand. It was thick, heavy with need, and she stroked it slowly.
"Condom?" she asked.
Casey, who had been watching Katrina's body respond to Mandy's movements, reached into a drawer in the coffee table and tossed a foil packet their way. "We're prepared," she said, her voice still ragged from her own encounter.
Rick caught it one-handed, tearing it open with a practiced motion. Beth knelt before him, her body open and welcoming, as he positioned himself between her legs.
"Whenever you're ready," she said.
He pushed inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust, watching her face as he entered her. Her eyes fluttered shut, a low moan escaping her lips.
"Oh god," she breathed. "You feel incredible."
"You too," he managed, already lost in the sensation of her. "God, Beth, you feel so fucking good."
Meanwhile, Calista had emerged from her room, drawn by the sounds of her family's pleasure. She entered the living room to find Katrina standing in the center of it all, her body shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat, her head thrown back as she watched Mandy ride Mike with increasing abandon.
"Calista," Katrina said, her voice a command despite its softness. "I need you."
Calista crossed to her without hesitation, her silver hair catching the light as she moved. She was beautiful—ethereally so, with her half-elven heritage giving her features an almost unearthly quality. She knelt before Katrina, looking up at her with warm golden eyes.
"What do you need?" she asked.
"Taste me," Katrina whispered. "Please. I need to feel you."
Calista didn't need to be asked twice. She leaned forward, her hands settling on Katrina's hips as her tongue found Katrina's clit. Katrina gasped, her knees buckling, but Calista held her steady, her skilled tongue working with a precision that belied her youth.
"Fuck," Katrina groaned. "Yes. Just like that."
The room became a symphony of pleasure. Mike's grunts as Mandy rode him with increasing desperation, her hips moving in circles that made him see stars. Rick's low moans as he thrust into Beth, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. Casey, kneeling beside her daughter, watching as Mandy took Mike, her own hand drifting between her legs to bring herself to completion.
And at the center of it all, Katrina stood, supported by Calista's hands and mouth, as wave after wave of pleasure built within her.
"I'm going to come," Katrina gasped, her voice high and desperate. "Oh god, I'm going to come, I'm going to come—"
And then she was coming, her body convulsing as the orgasm tore through her with a force that made her see white. Calista held her through it, her tongue never stopping, her hands supporting Katrina's weight as her knees finally gave out.
Katrina collapsed onto the carpet, breathing hard, her entire body trembling with the aftershocks of her release. Calista crawled up beside her, pressing gentle kisses to her face, her throat, her shoulders.
"Are you okay?" Calista asked softly.
Katrina's answer was a sob—but not one of pain. One of release. Of joy. She clung to Calista, her arms wrapping around the half-elf like an anchor.
"I'm okay," she managed, her voice thick with tears. "I'm more than okay. I'm whole."
Casey crawled over to them, enveloping both in her arms. Mike followed, pulling them all into his embrace despite his own shaking limbs. Mandy and Beth and Rick joined, forming a tangled pile of limbs and love in the center of the living room floor.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They simply breathed together, basking in the afterglow and the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Finally, Katrina spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you. All of you. You gave me something I thought I'd lost forever."
"We gave you nothing you didn't already have," Casey said softly. "You just needed to remember where to find it."
Mike pressed a kiss to Katrina's forehead. "You're family now, Katrina. You always will be."
"Family," Katrina repeated, tasting the word. A tremulous smile crossed her lips. "I can live with that."
"Good," Mandy said, her voice full of laughter. "Because we could all use more family. We don't always make the best decisions, though. I'm Mandy, and I'm about to fall asleep on the floor."
"Same," Beth said, stifling a yawn. "But in the best way possible."
"Don't leave me behind," Rick added, already settling into a more comfortable position.
Calista just smiled, her golden eyes warm in the fairy lights' glow. "I'll stay until the others wake up," she said. "Someone has to make sure you all get to your rooms before sunrise."
Katrina laughed—a real laugh, bright and free, the first one any of them had heard from her. "You'll have to carry me."
"Deal," Calista said, her grin widening.
Say someone—say the young ones like Mandy and Beth—would talk about this in the morning, passing it off as just another strange, lovely, all-consuming experience of being a Williamson. When the spell faded, they would still know that something profoundly loving had happened, and they would hold on to that without needing to understand the mechanism. They would go home to Miami, laughing over their breakfast of eggs and pastries, swapping knowing glances whenever their parents' names came up. And they would never truly untangle whether they had chosen it or been guided into it—but they would know, deep down, they had needed it.
And it was enough. It was more than enough. It was exactly what the magic of this family was supposed to be.
The hours they slept on the living room floor were ones of real repose, of breath moving slow and sleeping hearts beating, of the fairylights still humming in the rafters. Beside them all, near the warmth of the bundled bodies, Rembrandt settled into a loaf beside Casey's shoulder, and VanGogh had already claimed his spot on the armchair's cushion.
When dawn broke over the Chicago suburbs, the Williamson family woke, one by one, to a new day with the scent of old woodsmoke and coffee drifting in from the kitchen—the promise of breakfast and another story to tell.