In my youth, my home life was filled with love and acceptance. Perhaps the nature versus nurture debate is further confounded by my upbringing; the two intertwine to become almost one and the same. Looking at my life through one lens, the fact that I am exactly like my mother, despite my fullest efforts to the contrary, is starkly evident. Likewise, another snapshot would reveal that I am most definitely a product of my environment. Closer examination would reveal that divorcing my nature from the nurturing I was blessed with is an impossibility. Simply put, my parents and their friends were, overwhelmingly, my entire world.

My parents, Kristopher and Samantha, are X-rated, sitcom, cartoon characters. Their fairy tale romance, similar to Romeo and Juliet, without all the “Oh, happy dagger,” tragedy, is an epic story. Neither one of them finished high school, dropping out of school and traveling across the nation to have their first and only child, me. Their barely-running Volkswagen minibus broke down in Appalachia, a few hundred miles short of their goal of reaching the East Coast, and they took it as a sign from the gods.

Deeply stoned and even deeper in love, my father, who possesses a genius IQ, took on odd jobs, and my mom became a career waitress. Mom had gotten pregnant, and, rather than ending the pregnancy, as both sets of parents had commanded, they left their homes and eked out a living on their own terms. For some reason, their youthful exuberance never waned. They loved each other, deeply and passionately, and they both loved me with a ferocity that one seldom sees in typical, socially acceptable families. My kind and gentle side comes from their influence, as does the rampant bitch.

Named after the both of them, their only child, Krystal Samantha Greene, was a smart-mouthed, rebellious, free-thinking hellion. Suffering the egregious maltreatment of the entire, tiny town made me more than a bit reflexive, but their gentle guidance and constant edification tempered that. Sometimes, on a good day, I even seem normal.

“Like mother, like daughter, dear,” was mom’s constant refrain.

As bizarre and hellish as my outside existence was, my life under their roof was even more unorthodox but heavenly. I was seldom disciplined, and I was treated as an equal, having real input around the house. While we were poor to the point that I honestly believed that all utility bills were sent as shut-off notices and that McDonald's was strictly for the rich people, we had joy, love, respect, and resourcefulness. My parents never hid their lifestyle, religion, or hippie-like habits from me, and nobody, other than Jen, would grace me with an invitation to their house, so, I thought my life was normal. It was the polar opposite of normalcy, but it was integral in giving me the mental fortitude to be my own person.

Through serendipitous happenstance, my parents purchased a small, dilapidated campground as our home. Dad was working for an out-of-state property investor who couldn’t unload the acreage. Spanning roughly twelve acres of woods, gentle hills, and butting up against a small lake, the property, especially the main lodge, was in a terrible state of disrepair, and the four, plywood-walled cabins needed a lot of renovation before they could even be called ramshackle.

While we didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, I, at least, had my own cabin, and my beloved minibike, an old Honda that I rode daily, even after I wrecked it and the handlebars stabbed into my abdomen. That accident left me infertile, unable to conceive. However, it also freed me from the torture of monthly pains and cramps. In my defense, it was an epic jump; I got so much air time, before that tree jumped in my way, that it felt as if I were flying. 

We made the clothing I wore or bought it at second-hand stores, and that was before the idea was cool. My wardrobe became just another ammunition stockpile for my tormentors to launch abuse at me. But, at home, I felt loved, supported, full, and complete, despite wearing frilly skirts made from old curtains. Mom and Dad were the authority figures, but they were also kind, supportive, loving, and gentle—my friends as well as my parents.

My father loved many things, including me, the outdoors, and marijuana. Mom was not only a pothead hippie—dressing the part and wantonly displaying her embracing of the free-love mentality—but she also cultivated magic mushroom, Golden Teachers, strictly for ritual purposes, or weekends, or their orgiastic sex parties, or any day ending in “Y.”

My father was strikingly handsome, with a laid-back, mellow charisma about him. He was also quite the swinger and devoted to Mom. Their initial plan was to rebuild the campground, now a private residence, some miles past the outskirts of town, and turn it into a sort of pagan, hippie, swinger’s resort commune or something. While I never thought they’d achieved that goal, hindsight has corrected me.

When other high school seniors were complaining about how their parents made them study for finals, I was storming out of my bedroom, screaming, “Will you fucking perverts stop making so much Goddess-damned noise with your orgy, so I can study? And make sure you wash my quilt when you’re done fucking on it.”

Many weekends were spent with my parents hosting swinger’s parties of sorts. To me, those people were our friends, and, as they never hid their sexuality from me, I accepted it as normal and a part of their essence. They were hair-metal-loving hippies, held wild parties, and worshiped all creation as divine. Outside their social and recreational lives, they were also extremely active in the pagan communities.

People seeking guidance, High Priestesses, and even Christian ministers would seek out my mother, asking for her sage advice. To me, it was surreal. She was just my slutty, always-horny mother, a source of infinite embarrassment and negative reinforcement. Often were the times I giggled, seeing her kiss a Catholic priest in greeting, knowing that less than twelve hours earlier, those same lips were wrapped around a plurality of penises and licking wet pussies.

Every full moon, the local covens would gather at my house for ritual. The offspring of our fellow pagans became my friends; the lot of us linked in camaraderie due to common roots. Of course, I was a third-generation pagan, and most of the others were just getting into it, inspired by the neo-pagan movements of Wicca and other offshoots.

Mom had and still has a youthful vitality about her. Her looks defy her age, which pisses me off. A strawberry blond with large, full breasts and a petite waist that curves out into luscious hips, she is, objectively, quite the sexy, green-eyed woman. While there’s a certain regal poise and dignity about her, she exudes an aura of sexual passion that seemingly permeates everything she says and does. Very few people, men or women, have been able to resist her horny charms, and her endless, infinite lust is a thing of legend.

In my late teens, there was a hometown scandal over the local, married minister having an affair with the town whore. The minister, a fire and brimstone type, always preaching to his flock about how vile and evil we pagans were, resigned his post and left town when it came out that his wife was also involved in both threesomes and lesbian love trysts with the same trollop. You guessed it—mom.

Missus Samantha Greene was and is, above all things, a child of nature. That mentality and inner peace, while latent in blossoming, was instilled within me. Like the divine aspect of nature, she can be kind, soothing, warming, and gentle. But, as nature can also be harsh and wrathful, so can she. While her horny personality was always prevalent, and I, by proxy, was encouraged to explore my own, her wisdom and outlook were my guiding lights. My big issue with her parenting stems from her always telling me the harsh, cold truth. Parents are supposed to tell you what you want to hear, not slam reality in your face.

“I don’t know why things didn’t work out with my boyfriend,” I’d lament.

“Oh, Kryssi,” she’d soothe. “That’s because you were being your usual, stupid-bitch self. Try not screaming profanity at your lovers, and accepting their flaws along with the parts you like.”

“Fuck you, mom.” 

”Incest is against the Goddess’ plans, Kryssi.”

“That’s not what I meant, you nasty slut. I meant, go fuck yourself.”

“I already did, three times today.”

“Mom! Eeew!”

“Like your father and I couldn’t hear you moaning all night, hypocrite. The Goddess knows all, and we mere mortals could hear you loud and clear.”

My home life was, at best, highly abnormal. In my world, multiple lovers, open sexuality, getting high, and exploring one’s desires were not only condoned, but also went hand-in-hand with my parents’ pagan beliefs. While I had the freedom to not be ashamed of myself or my desires, I also had to deal with my mother thinking that my sexual wildness was perfectly normal and polite, pleasant dinner conversation.

I had scant few suitors in my latter teens, never a boyfriend, and mom always had to test any young man who was brave enough to want me with her witchy shit and sexual allure. She’d answer the door braless, in a see-through top, and lavish innuendo, attention, and bare pussy flashes upon any callers. Brian, my first almost-boyfriend, never asked me out on a second date, but he did drop by on multiple occasions to put the moves on Mom.

Her wisdom, albeit executed in the worst, emotionally-scarring ways imaginable, was sound. By her reasoning, any young man who would ditch me to go after my mother wasn’t the right one for me. She was right, of course, but having to compete with your mother to get laid just sucked and didn’t help my self-image one iota.

“You fucking stole my boyfriend, you fucking slut,” I told her shortly after I found Brian lounging in the living room, peeking up mom’s skirt.

“Like mother like daughter, Kryssi,” she laughed. “He’s not smart enough for you.”

“God damn it, Mom, he’s the only boy in school dumb enough to date me, you whore!”

“Language, Kryssi! Mind your language, young lady, and say it properly.”

“Sorry, mom. GODDESS damn it, Mom, he’s the only boy in school dumb enough to date me, and you’re still a whore.”

“Better.”

When I was in my late teens, thinking I was completely alone, I settled down to watch some television. I have a nerdy streak several miles wide. I wasn’t into dolls or frilly things that young women should get excited over. I liked swords and sorcery stuff, science fiction, and working on my minibike. Star Trek, The Next Generation was on, and, since we could never afford cable or the internet, syndicated television was the only choice. I was incredibly horny, so I lifted my skirt, exposing my pantiless, red-haired pussy, and began finger-fucking myself to Beverly Crusher.

I had no idea my mother had returned from work until I heard her voice sing out right about the time I was reaching orgasm, “When you’re done flicking your bean, come help me make dinner; just wash your hands first.”

“Diana fucking Pan, mom!”

“It’s perfectly natural, dear, and a thing to be celebrated. We are primal animals, with instincts and the need for physical pleasure, as well as descendants of the divine, filled with the powers of life and creation. An orgasm is the closest we can get to achieving the divine until we shed our mortal coils. Enjoy.”

The very next day, I received my first-ever sex toy. It was a simple, white, battery-powered vibrator. That was embarrassing enough, but her two-hour “lesson” on how to best use it, including verbal descriptions of how she likes using hers, was emotionally harrowing.

“Now, Kryssi,” she said, smiling. “Why don’t you run to your room and play with your new toy? Be sure to thank the Goddess for giving us the capacity to receive infinite pleasures.”

Sex and spirituality intermingled in my existence. In our breed of faith, sexuality is to be celebrated, responsibly. It seemed natural. However, I also learned that self-responsibility and always being one’s best self were of paramount importance. Do good things in the world, be open and empathetic, so you may help others find their path and peace, and you, only you, are responsible for your actions were mantras that ran parallel paths in my head.

My mother was a living embodiment of all of these ideals. Mother was like life, like Mother Nature. She gave the test first, then the lesson. All the while, Dad, whom mom always calls “Pooh Bear,” remained his laid-back, permissive self. Unbeknownst to me, those two formed the essence of my outlook, morality, or lack thereof, and, somehow, through all the chaos and self-conflicting guidance, formulated my psyche.

Within myself, I was a child of two worlds. Part of me embraced the freewheeling, Goddess-may-care, do what you want so long as nobody gets hurt, always help others attitude of my lineage. But, the normal, socially-typical world also held sway over my personality. I viewed my parents as a shameful embarrassment; I tolerated them but ignored them in my quest to be perceived as normal.

When I left home, I aspired to reinvent myself as a normal, acceptable woman. However, one can take the witch out of the coven, but one cannot take the coven out of the witch. I liken my upbringing to being a minister’s daughter, and everyone knows how wild and rebellious they are. For me, though, I was used to a sexually permissive existence, seeing all of this green earth as a divine miracle, and being able to speak my mind, no matter what. Shut the fuck up and keep your legs together went against my ingrained nature. The battle between my true nature, thanks to my parents, and my aspirations raged within my soul, becoming evident when sex got involved.

Despite trying to normalize my urges, as soon as I felt safe and comfortable with somebody, the wanton slut with pagan morality would emerge. The fissure between who I was and the sort of person I felt I needed to be to find happiness permeated every facet of my life. The “one foot in each world” trope may be dramatic and exciting in novels, but it sucks in reality. I was too perverted and broken to be socially accepted, too conflicted to adhere to my teachings.

Still, though, I leveraged my upbringing, never noting that I was almost an extension of my parents, whom I hid from anyone that I was interested in. The habit of ignoring my pains and soldiering ever forward worked well enough on the surface. Beneath my false veneer of being a sane, well-adjusted person, the war raged on. My ethics and morality showed up at the oddest times. Others began to see it as quirky or enigmatic; to me, it was just my emotional damage resurfacing.

When a frat boy got a little too hands-on with me, on campus, and got caught “molesting” a student, I went to his defense at the disciplinary meeting, saving him from expulsion, provided that he apologized for grabbing my ass. He did, however, receive a friendly lecture about consent. Although I was the “victim,” my hopes of drawing out his goodness prevailed over being upset that some random idiot grabbed my ass.

“Will you make amends for your sins and walk with Jesus,” came from the evangelists that seemed to permeate the quad in those days. Now, the Bible-thumpers aren’t as pervasive. I was still taking the odd class back then, and the trek from student parking to lectures was always eventful.

“No, but thank you,” I replied. “I’m a witch. Would you like a dead cat?” Pagans don’t sacrifice animals, of course. It goes against our life-loving nature. It was, however, what I thought was a witty retort. Mom was very proud of me that day.

One lovely day, my advanced theology class got into a discussion about pagans, Wiccans, and witches. I’d completed a plethora of classes, using my burger-flipping money to finance my thirst for knowledge, as well as to experiment with sex toys, since I was incapable of maintaining a relationship much further than after I made them cum. I’d worked my way up to senior-level classes and advanced, multi-toy masturbation marathons.

“But,” one of my male classmates asked our professor, “since pagans worship Satan, doesn’t that make their faiths a direct bastardization of Christianity and the enemies of decency?”

I couldn’t help myself, and I laughed aloud. I’d kept my head down, not correcting the teachers, despite their ignorance of all things pagan. Such an outburst from me was unusual, in class.

“Something funny? Miss Red?” I had managed to become invisible enough that even Professor Anderson, a PhD in theology, but non-religious, didn’t know my name.

“Yes,” I chuckled. “He’s entirely wrong. In fact, Christianity is a bastardization of the religions you’ve erroneously lumped into a singular sect of ‘paganism.’ The Devil figure is a construct, actually non-existent in Christianity until the Middle Ages, designed to not only absolve humanity of responsibility over its terrible behavior but also intentionally made to appear as the prolific Horned God figures of paganism to support the expansionist ideas of Christians.”

“Look at that!” Professor Anderson said, his face lighting up. “Three-quarters of the way through class, and we have an informed expert. Good job.”

“I disagree,” my classmate countered.

He and I, with the class and our instructor looking on and taking notes, got into a somewhat heated debate. I channeled Mom. Rather than fall for any baiting, I countered with truth, facts, and knowledge, lessening the impact with empathy and the willingness to accept and ponder the opposing view before reacting on an emotional level. After having edified him as to the vast and varied disciplines of paganism and pointing out that the roots of everything, from the stories in the Bible up to, and including all the holidays, were of prior, pagan origin, my debate opponent, Chris, thanked me.

“Miss Greene,” my instructor said, “you’ve obviously studied all of this, in depth, and you even taught me a thing or two.”

“Studied it? I grew up pagan.”

“Wicca?”

“No. It’s more of a nature-based faith, similar to Wicca and the neo-pagan Green Witchcraft, but the roots extend further back, as Gardner and the Green Witch stuff only goes back to the 1950s. But, for basic understanding, you can assume that it’s mostly the same.”

“Would you be willing to lecture the class, tomorrow, and teach me and the rest of the class about your faith?”

To my surprise, and something that seemed foreign to me, the entirety of the class wanted to learn about me and my faith. To my complete shock, Chris waited for me to exit the stadium-sized classroom to speak to me.

“Your wit and candor were refreshing, Krystal. I’d love to continue our discussion over a beer if you’d like.”

“Are you asking me on a date, or do you just think I’m an easy slut because I’m pagan?”

Chris stammered and stuttered some contrarian denials. I gave him a pass, interrupting.

“Well, it’s a date, and I am easy if I like you, but no beer. It’s like making love in a canoe.”

“Fucking close to water! You know Monty Python.”

“And I can quote Shakespeare,” I retorted, breaking my unvoiced oath to not reveal my intelligence. “Meet you on the quad at, say, eight?”

“How will I find you?”

“Look for a redhead riding a broomstick!”

Chris met me on campus that night, and we sat in an off-campus bar, drinking, eating bar food, and heatedly debating. He was cute, but not pussy-drenching hot, toned, but lacked the lithe, sinewy muscle definition that always made me wet, and witty, which I loved. The opposing views of sexuality, mine being that it is natural, divine, as well as primal, should be celebrated, and his, that sexuality is private, never to be discussed, and only between a committed couple, got lots of attention.

“So, you’re saying that your mother openly screwed people, who were not your father, in front of you, and you don’t see a problem with that?”

“First off, neither of my parents nor their friends ever fucked in front of me. They were, however, open about it, discussing it openly. And no, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Our faith and our humanity are to be celebrated, not mourned.”

“And they had no problems with your being sexually active?”

I thought back and smiled. “How’s this? The night I lost my virginity to a man,” I didn’t think he was ready to learn that my first lover was a woman, “my parents were outside, by the fire, with the guy’s parents, taking bets on whether he’d give me an orgasm.”

“That’s wild.” I stopped, blushed, began to speak, stuttered, then finally found the words. “Did you?”

“Not until I got inside and dug out my trusty vibrator!”

“You’re amazing.”

“I’m also horny. Want to fuck, later?”

“Are you serious? YES!”

Chris lived on the other edge of town, but it was closer than my place, so away we went. He was nervous and unsure of how to proceed, so I had to take the lead. Feeling appreciated for who I was rather than my body, I realized that I also enjoyed others salivating over my physical form. Just like my mother, I was a child of nature, intellect and instinct, urges and thoughts, and of sexual hunger and educational thirst. However, the wanton slut in me, stimulated by intellectual debate and all fired up, needed her fix.

“What are you doing?” he stuttered.

“Undressing so you can fuck me.”

I didn’t stop there. I slipped out of my clothes and attacked his garments, tugging, pulling, and wrenching them off his body. He seemed nervous, shy, and unconfident, so I dropped to my knees and sucked his cock into my mouth. Overcome with lusty passion, I fingered myself as I sucked, moaning on his shaft.

Chris humped against my mouth, only getting halfway hard. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get him fully erect.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“You’re not into horny witches?”

“Oh, I am… it’s just that… well…”

“Just say it. I’m a big girl.” I expected him to say that he wasn’t into trashy sluts, or that the problem was me, personally. I steeled myself for another failure at love.

“I like to be tied up and spanked. I know. I’m a freak. I just thought that you, so assured with sex, would maybe be into it, too.”

“I’ve never done anything like that, before,” I admitted. “But it sounds kind of hot. Got any ropes?”

Chris not only had rope, but he also had a lovely, little wooden paddle, a blindfold, and some leather cuffs for binding wrists and ankles. Most of it was unused. I’d been experimenting with everything I could think of, even doing sex-toy-assisted online research, so I was more than happy to try that particular kink out.

“Tie me up and spank me until I cum, then I’ll do whatever you want to you.”

“Okay, how do you like to be tied up?”

“You’re not going to tell me what a freak I am and insult me?”

“Sweetie, I go out in public in a short skirt and no panties just to flash people, and I get off on it. Who am I to judge?”

The anticipation of what we were about to do did the trick for Chris. The familiar, horny feeling also overtook my soul. Knowing that I was going to be doing something sexy and kinky had me in a sexual stupor. As soon as the first length of rope touched his flesh, his manhood sprung to life, growing thick, long, and hard. I bound his wrists behind his back as requested, dropping to my knees and feasting on his cock. If it started to shrink in my mouth, I’d roughly smack his butt, and everything would be just as I wanted.

Gruffly forcing my new lover to his knees, I bent his torso over his couch, bound his ankles together, and hefted the paddle. I drew my arm back and wound up, landing a firm, thudding blow on his exposed ass.

“Ooow! Fuck.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry. Is that too hard?”

“Harder! Punish me. I deserve punishment for my impure thoughts.”

I spanked him with the paddle, switched to my hands, then back again, and Chris began writhing and moaning under my abuse.

“Do you like that?” I asked him sternly. I wasn’t into watching porn, but, every so often, I liked a little visual and mental stimulation when I fucked my growing collection of toys. I’d watched some bondage and spanking stuff, even spanking my sexy butt while I masturbated to them.

Mother’s words came back to me. “You cannot expect a lover to please you if you won’t make the effort to please them.” I laughed at that. This wasn’t any effort; it was fun.

“Yes, Witch Mistress. I’m yours to abuse.” That stunned me for a moment, but I covered my shock by wailing on his now-red butt.

I paddled Chris, hard, for what seemed like forever. My arms were growing tired, and I switched swinging hands at least three times. He was growing more and more aroused, veritably shaking.

“I’m going to cum. Please touch my penis, Witch Mistress. Please, please, please!”

I didn’t just touch it. I kicked him out of his submissive position, using my foot to turn him, so he was on his back, hands tied beneath him, with his hard, pulsing shaft sticking up. I pounced on his cock, sucking his cum out while I lightly slapped his balls, spanking them.

The first shot of his cum went straight down my throat. I’d planned on drinking his horny gift, but I nearly gagged at the surprise of hot, sticky goo splashing into the back of my throat. My mouth retreated from his cumming organ, and I aimed his ejaculations at my tits, giggling as the hot splashes coated my nipples.

“Thank you, Mistress Witch; thank you.”

I untied him, then lay back, my hands caressing my overheated, sultry flesh, rubbing his cum into my skin.

“Now crawl between my legs and lick my pussy until I have at least three orgasms,” I commanded, sounding much more confident than I felt.

Luckily, the paddle was still within reach. If Chris’ technique wasn’t to my liking, I just needed to swat his behind a few times to correct him.

“Lick my pussy. Your tongue feels so good. I’m going to cum. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Chris loved to sexually serve. That was his kink. He not only orally pleasured me, but, after my third orgasm, his cock was hard again. Mom’s sage advice, “Talk like a foul-mouthed whore, and men will want you,” proved true.

“Fuck your Mistress,” I urged. “Stick your Christian cock deep in my witch’s cunt and fucking fuck me.”

Missionary position, ironic and logical, allowed me to spank his ass, driving his hard cock further into my greedy pussy. I didn’t cum, but he did, shooting his second load all over my stomach.

Chris and I lasted over a month. His penchant for being bound and abused quickly evolved into light BDSM play, with me as his Witch Mistress. I didn’t feel particularly dominant, but I did heartily enjoy telling him what to do and wailing on his ass with various props. What made him stand out, aside from the realization that most people are embarrassed about their true sexuality, was the fact that he always treated me with respect.

My kink of showing off my body lent itself well to his desire to feel humiliated. When we went out, I’d dress like a cheap, dirty whore, attracting men’s attention. Although I always left with him, he felt degraded, which made him hard for me. We had lots of fun, together, and I even made the long trek out to my parents’ home to introduce my boyfriend to them.

“He’s no good for you, Kryssi,” mom chastised. “His aura’s all muddled and dim. You’re far too powerful for somebody like that. Plus, he’s going to change in a very short time, so the boy you think you love isn’t who he ends up being.”

“Sure, mom. Like you can tell all of that from his staring at you, flashing your pussy, and reading his ‘aura.’” My fingers did some air quotes, demonstrating my disbelief in her self-proclaimed ability to read everybody’s life force.

“I won’t force you to believe, in the powers the Goddess provides to us all, or in me. You’ll see.”

“No, Mom, you’ll see! Chris is the one; I know it. We’re going to live happily ever after.”

Experience showed me that Happily Ever After meant six weeks. Chris became needy and clingy, always needing to know where I was, what I was doing, and, more importantly, who I was doing it with. We quarreled over that and parted ways. However, Chris and I remained friendly acquaintances after that, keeping in contact with each other until he married a very dominant and controlling woman and moved away about two years later.

One of the things he taught me in my journey of discovering my sexuality, was that it was fine and natural to surrender to your desires. I already knew that, academically, but seeing it play out in the bedroom was a refreshing experience. Chris and I were done with each other, but my performance in class led me to a guest speaker position the next semester. Suddenly, I was the go-to authority on all things witchy. It was too bad that I’m such a shitty witch.

Also, a pattern began to emerge within me. Getting sex was easy for me. I could have as much of it as I ever wanted, which was a lot and often. I’d pick somebody and seduce them, or let them think they were seducing me, which amounted to the same thing, and then decide if they were, perhaps, my one and only. I always chose incorrectly. I’d latch onto anyone who seemed even remotely compatible, letting my hopes cloud my judgment. I eventually learned that lesson and listened to my mother’s witchy, slutty intuition.

To Be Continued…