Homelands Pt. 07 Ch. 03byjdnunyer©
Part Seven moves the story to Spring. It is not necessary for you to have read earlier parts of the story, though things may make more sense if you have.
This is primarily an incest story, but it is also sci-fi/fantasy, and supernatural elements are not incidental to the plot. Additionally, many chapters will feature elements of other categories, particularly group sex and anal.
All sexual acts are consensual and involve parties who are at least eighteen years of age.
As ever, if you have questions feel free to email me or leave a comment. Either way, I'll try to respond in a timely manner.
After he finished saying goodbye to Mary Donovan, Cahill returned to Savannah. The two cities were a thousand miles apart, but his house might as well have been just across the street from her apartment. All he'd had to do was remember her place, call to mind the way it looked and smelled, and the distance had melted away.
Getting back to Faerie wasn't much different. It was the first time he made the trip on his own, in broad daylight. Without that floating orb of silvery light to lead him. But there was no longer any need for such. He knew the way. As surely as he'd ever known anything.
He didn't take anything with him. No clothes, no cell phone, none of his equipment for making flutes, nothing. He'd have no need of it. Mary could sell his things, keep them, or give them away, as she saw fit. The same went for his house and the money in his savings account. It made no difference to him.
As he had so many times before, and as he never would again, Cahill walked into the woods at the edge of his property.
Familiar as the start of the journey was, though, he soon found himself entering a world he'd never encountered before. Or experiencing a world he knew well in an entirely different way. He couldn't really be sure which it was.
The small, sparse woods behind his house gave way to a thick, sprawling forest, teeming with life. As it should have. But the forest was different. Familiar footpaths were nowhere to be seen. Giant boulders covered in moss appeared where he expected to find none. The rivers and ponds, rope-bridges and clearings, all seemed to have moved around. Cahill found fewer piles of stones and none of the carvings in tree trunks that had once marked paths. Where once the forest showed signs of having been braved, if not tamed, by men, it now looked pristine and unspoiled. Cahill could almost believe that he was the first two-legged beast ever to set foot inside.
That wasn't the only difference though. Nor even the biggest.
The dank musk filling his nostrils was thicker, more pungent. The greens were deeper, save where they were brighter, giving the forest a less monochromatic look.
Eventually, Cahill realized that he was experiencing everything in greater detail. Different though the forest was, so too was the man walking through it. His eyes saw trees a dozen yards away as though they'd stood just beyond arms' length. His skin felt the lightest breeze as keenly as if it were a full gust of wind. The sounds of the forest critters were louder. The call of faraway birds sounded as clear as if they were right overhead. Yet somehow, the flood of sensory information wasn't overwhelming.
It felt right.
Faerie was welcoming him home. Reaching out to Cahill, sharing itself with him. Joining its senses to his. He wasn't dreaming of Faerie this time. He was reclaiming it, as surely as it was him. Taking it inside, making it a part of him, just as he was becoming a part of the world of his birth again.
He thought perhaps he understood better now why this world was known as Spring elsewhere in the Homelands. Whatever else the old tales had gotten right, they'd been sorely mistaken about that. The fey could never be divided into Seelie and Unseelie, Summer and Winter. Midsummer would never come to this land. Everything was green and new, young and vibrant, and would forever be.
And that wasn't just true of the Emerald Court. It couldn't have been. Though Cahill had never seen the other parts of Faerie, and had only met one person who hailed therefrom, he knew, just knew, that they were the same. All the lands of Faerie were places of rebirth and revitalization, renewal and rejuvenation. Nothing else would suit the fey.
How had he never noticed all this before? Had he ever even set foot inside Faerie proper?
After a time, Cahill's thoughts turned to the family that hadn't quite fully introduced him to this world. Why was no one waiting to greet him, as they always had in the past?
Just as he was beginning to wonder if it would be okay to disturb the tranquil forest by announcing his presence, a nearby tree opened up. Its bark split with a soft rip and the a low, reverberating moan filled the air as the trunk spread apart. Fiona stepped out and the proud oak pulled itself back together as seamlessly as water rushing in behind an oar.
"Well, I'll be," his sister said, smiling from ear to ear. "Here you are, in the flesh."
"That's right," Cahill replied.
He imagined his sister letting out a high-pitched squeal before running over to him, throwing her arms around him, and hugging him tight. Perhaps showering him with kisses. But that would not be like Fiona at all. Other guys' sisters might have done something like that, but not his graceful lady of the forest.
Still, once she closed the distance between them, Cahill gathered his tiny little big sister in his arms and swung her about. Though he knew her to be older than him, she looked as though she were a decade his junior. And though she was incredibly curvaceous, she stood nearly a foot shorter than him and weighed a good hundred pounds less. Stately and serene, wise and mature, no more excitable than a stone, Fiona was no little girl. But, in that moment, she might as well have been, so far as he was concerned. And he didn't care how embarrassing she might find it to be treated as such.
Nor did she, it seemed. Her smile had faded to a slight grin, but there was no displeasure on her pretty face, nor in her Libido. Just this one time, he could be forgiven.
As Cahill set her back down on the soft dirt, his sister rubbed one of his round biceps and said, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you here, Kay. To have you back with us, for good and true. Mom's going to go crazy." Then Fiona punched him. Hard. "That's for keeping us waiting so long, you big oaf!"
He laughed as he rubbed his arm. The blow had hurt, but mostly because it had taken him by surprise. So much for not being excitable. Small as her fists were, though, and as modest as her upper body strength was, it would have taken a lot more than she had to give for Fiona to really cause him pain.
"Sorry bout that," he said.
"Yeah, I bet you are," Fiona grumbled as she glared up at him.
Despite her tone, the gentle pulsating rhythm inside told the truth. A deep contentment filled his sister. All was right with the world, so far as she was concerned.
Cahill was flattered enough by that. He didn't need her to be exuberant.
Her thick, glossy hair was in one of its green phases. The feel of her soft body pressed against his made his loins stir. Though he'd just noted her lack of upper body strength, he was keenly aware of the thick muscles in her shapely legs and her outsized ass. Her lower body wasn't as hard as Liadan's, but he liked the combination of thick muscle and soft padding. Her ass was big and perfectly shaped, yet pleasantly soft. His hands, poised at the small of her back, ached to reach down and take hold of it.
A hint of what passed for perfume, a mix of flowers and berries, mint and tea leaves, teased his nostrils. Her smell was unconventional, but not at all in a bad way. Earthy and natural, sweet yet subtle, and unmistakeably Fiona. It made him think of burying his head between her soft, milky white thighs. And reminded him of everything he admired about her. Her deep connection with nature, her refusal to be anything other than who she was, even if that would have meant that few men would chase after her the way they did Oona.
Their aunt was an incredible woman. Free-spirited, endlessly imaginative, and beautiful. But he was still glad that it was his sister who would welcome him home and not his aunt.
Of course, he'd have really preferred to see his mother. But he'd known that Caronwyn wouldn't be the one to greet him. She hardly ever did. In time, the red goddess would be his. But he would have to win her over.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Fiona asked, blushing. She tucked a lock of now brown hair behind a pointed ear. "Like you've never seen me before."
"Almost feels like I haven't," he said softly. "Not truly."
"Funny you should say that," she replied.
Only then did he realize that she wasn't looking up at his face, but somewhere just above him. Large as the difference in height between them was, Fiona had to crane her neck back to look him in the eye anyway. But she had her head tilted back even more than necessary.
Cahill reached up with one hand and patted his head gently. Hair. Hair. More hair.
And then antlers.
A giant rack, such as those found on an elk. Perhaps even larger. Hard as bone, and with deep grooves like the bark of an oak tree.
Once he noticed them, he couldn't un-notice them. There was a strange sensation against his scalp, like he was pressing his fists against it. His head didn't feel heavier necessarily, but there was a distinct sense of a weight that shouldn't be there, bearing down on two points near the center of his head. They couldn't possibly have been there all along. He'd have noticed them. If not on its own, then when brushing low-hanging branches with the things. They had to be half again as wide as his shoulders, and he'd to reach to touch the uppermost points of them. But with a mere thought, they changed, turning immaterial. His hand passed right through them. Yet he felt a slight chill as he did. One moment, they were solid, the next, spectral. Still there, but in little more than a symbolic sense.
"Fitting that you should be a horned god," Fiona said, smiling wistfully. Her eyes did their best to focus on his, but they kept drifting up to his antlers. "Thought maybe you'd self-identify as a centaur. Mom certainly likes you that way. But this, this is good."
Their mother liked him as a centaur? Maybe he should make that his fey form.
But no. His sister was right. This fit.
Cahill knew a little something of the myth of the horned god, which was a figure that played a significant role in the belief systems of neopaganism. But he'd never paid much mind to that. The neopagans he knew, of which the folk music scene boasted quite a number, professed a deep faith in the things he'd always struggled to disbelieve in. But their beliefs, however reverently espoused, seemed almost mocking. Like they were making it all up as they went along. They seemed just as interested in upsetting Christians as anything else.
The horned god had ancient origins, being associated both with Pan and various Catholic depictions of Satan. But in his modern incarnation, he was seen as the male counterpart to the Triple Goddess. He personified nature and sexuality, wilderness and survival. He was perpetually on the hunt, and only sometimes for food. Just like Cahill.
Had Faerie imposed the choice on him? Or had he made it subconsciously?
It didn't matter. It was who he was, either way.
Distracted by the thought of what he'd become, Cahill almost hadn't noticed the change in his sister's Libido. The energy deep within her pulsed more rapidly and insistently now. No longer was it mere contentment or affection that animated her.
Her hand drifted down over his broad chest and hard abs, her fingers trailing through tufts of hair that were a bit thicker than he remembered, to settle on the front of his pants. "You really have grown," she said, gripping a cock that had never been small through his leather breaches. "Are you going to rip me apart?"
The way she said it, no one would guess that she was describing a violent and painful act. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing rapid, and her considerable chest rising and falling. Full lips turned deep red, and spots of color made their way into her normally alabaster cheeks. Cahill had never seen Fiona so turned on. He wondered if even Seamus had.
Some part of him, a residual memory of the Cahill who believed himself mortal, thought that this was strange. That upon seeing her wayward brother return home at last, his sister should have been eager to inform the rest of the family. Or to hear what had finally gotten through to him. Yet the tree nymph had no interest in hearing his tale or sharing the good news with anyone else. All she wanted was to get him inside her.
Yet another part of him, one that had lain dormant for far too long, knew that Fiona's behavior was precisely what was to be expected of her. The fey were deeply physical. It was only through pleasuring one another that they gained access to the energy they needed to truly be themselves. One could almost say that without sex, they'd lose their glamour. Cease to be fey. That wasn't quite right, though, because it made it sound deliberate and calculated. It wasn't like that. When the urge struck them, they were all but powerless to resist it. Yes, those urges led them to engage in acts that served a purpose. But they were still little more than slaves to their bodies and their needs.
Mortals sometimes spoke as if the same was true for them, but they would never know what it meant to need sex the way he and his kind did.
Liadan had helped him remember that, but Cahill had always known that he craved sex the way no mere mortal ever would. He'd tried to tell himself otherwise. Denied what his girlfriends had all intimated. But deep down, he knew. The why of it had been a mystery, but the phenomenon itself had not been.
Suddenly, vines burst forth from the ground and swung down from the trees, encircling his wrists and ankles. Cahill was lifted off the ground, his limbs spread wide. Beneath him, a stone altar rose up from the dirt to meet his back and support his weight.
He could resist, if he so desired. His sister was strong, and far more practiced than he was, but he himself was not weak. The vines would rip easily enough, and the stone would crack with a single blow, should he put some glamour behind the effort. But Fiona meant him no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was simply using him to live out a fantasy.
And he was happy to oblige.
As the tree nymph climbed up onto the altar, her green and white dress poured off her like water, melting away and leaving no trace of its existence behind. His sister's unreal body seemed to glow in the faint light of dawn, or dusk, or whatever time it perpetually was here. Her inhuman curves and astonishingly pale skin captivated him. He dared not blink, lest he miss out on the pleasure of beholding her otherworldly beauty for so much as a fraction of an instant.
The Fiona he knew enjoyed sex. All the fey women did. But she never let it turn into a contest of dominance. His sister neither liked to be in control nor to be controlled. For her, sex was a mutual act of giving. A delicate dance whose beauty would be marred if either partner fell out of sync with the other. And that had always been one of the things he admired about her. Though Cahill never failed to have fun with Oona, who couldn't have been less like his sister in that respect, his own views were far closer to Fiona's.
But just then, an entirely woman was busy ripping his pants to shreds. His sister was staring down at him like he was a wounded animal. A meal to be consumed. And though that probably should have unsettled him, he liked seeing that look in her eyes.
"Me first," a voice said.
It was a feminine voice, less deep and husky than his sister's. But not as high in pitch as Oona's. A magical voice. The voice of his mother, Caronwyn.
Fiona whimpered in protest. Yet even sulking like a child, the dryad was intensely desirable. It was hard for Cahill to let her retreat without protesting himself. The green-brown locks spilling about her heart-shaped face framed her beauty perfectly. The tips of her ears poked gently through those unnaturally colored sheets. Her lips pouted and her heavily-shadowed lids batted up and down, dragging thick lashes through the air as they pleaded with him to tell their mother to be patient. Cahill had never noticed just how pretty his sister was. He'd always thought her pleasant to look upon, but not quite as beautiful as Oona or as blindingly gorgeous as their mother. The latter might have been true, but the former was not. His sister was a true wonder to behold, and not just because of her incredible body. He wanted her to have all to herself, to do with as she pleased.
"Move away, child," their mother said.
No, he didn't.
Seeing his sister through waking eyes gave him a new appreciation of her beauty. If forced to choose between her and Oona, or Liadan or any of the other Dreamsmyth women, he'd have had no difficulty picking his sister. Try as he might to deny it, he envied Seamus, and always would. But no one could ever come between him and his mother. No one.
Just then, his red goddess stepped into view. And the moment she did, Cahill's lungs forgot to draw air. He would always have that reaction when first laying eyes on her. Each and every day, for the rest of his life, his heart would stop beating upon his mother's arrival.
His mother was so gorgeous that to speak of another woman's beauty was to cheapen the word. No woman had fairer skin, nor such stunning eyes and luscious lips. Though she had to be a few decades older than Fiona, there was no sign of it in her face. Not a hint of crow's feet or laugh lines, not the least sign that the fat in her cheeks had begun to melt away. She could have been of an age with her daughter, perhaps even younger. Her big, brown eyes were as breathtaking as any Cahill had ever seen. She had the thickest lips, colored deep red. So big and so soft, they simply begged to be kissed. The hair falling to her slender shoulders was every bit as beautiful as everything else about her. Against her glowing white skin, those dark red locks seemed even darker than they were, yet more colorful as well.
To hear Liadan tell it, no living woman was more beautiful than Queen Titania. Having seen an incredibly lifelike rendering of the woman, Cahill could see why any daughter of Titania's might think so. And indeed, many men, whether born of the queen's womb or not, would be inclined to agree. But not Cahill. Not so long as Caronwyn drew breath.
His mother wore a heavy brown robe that almost masked her figure. But even that heavy garment couldn't hide the size of her breasts. It wasn't until she slipped out of it though that Cahill was reminded of how impossibly narrow his mother's waist was. How broad her fertile hips were. His eyes drank in her incredible body, from her huge tits and perfect nipples to her flat stomach, protruding hips, and shapely legs. Then his eyes traveled back up said wonders to her womanhood. The neatly trimmed bush of red-brown hair sitting atop her mons made his dick twitch. As did her prominent, curly labia.
Some men liked their women shaved bald. Those same men often preferred slender little labia that curled inward, leaving the woman's pussy looking like a clamshell or a pistachio. Cahill couldn't listen to men express such a preference without thinking that they secretly feared that which they claimed to love. Himself, he liked to see a nice dark tuft of pubic hair, and a full set of labia. His mother's lower pair of lips could not have been any more perfect than the ones defining her face.