tagIncest/TabooHomelands Pt. 07 Ch. 06

Homelands Pt. 07 Ch. 06

byjdnunyer©

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Author's note

This concludes Part Seven. Part Eight and Part Nine will continue the story of Clan Walker. Part Ten will take us to Winter, and begin to tie all the threads together.

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.

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Chin in his palm, sitting atop a mossy log in a remote corner of Clan Walker's lands, Cahill grappled with some heavy questions. Unfortunately, he wasn't thinking any deep thoughts. Mostly, he just kept asking himself over and over again what he was going to do.

Assuming Fiona was right about their mother, what reason could his sister have had for making him work so hard to get an answer out of her? To ensure that he interpreted her words as properly meaningful?

If so, it had worked.

It wasn't as though he'd have taken it lightly if she'd come right out and said it the first time he'd asked. But the build-up made the situation seem graver still.

He had to convince his mother that it wasn't worth it. That she'd be crazy to take on the queen. But how was he to do that? Was he supposed to pretend he wouldn't be interested in getting her pregnant if they were free to do so? How could he expect her to believe that?

"There he is," a voice said.

Cahill bolted upright.

As his father stepped out of the shadows, the cloven hooves of his goat legs crunched dead twigs and dried leaves. "Been looking all over for you."

There was a smile on the prince's face, but it didn't touch his green eyes. "Have you been hiding from me? Using glamour?" that look seemed to ask.

In satyr form, there was no telling exactly how tall Arawn was. His double-jointed legs had wicked curvature, far more dramatic than found in goats or other four-legged creatures. If he drew himself up to his full height, perhaps he'd tower over Cahill. At present, though, he barely reached his son's nose. Not counting his horns, of course.

But Cahill most certainly did not look down on his father.

"Been around," he said meekly. Which was true enough.

His father smiled, almost good-naturedly. Then clapped his son on the shoulder.

Cahill glanced down at the hand. At the thick hair covering it, running along the back and down his knuckles, stopping just short of his father's fingernails.

Few men in Faerie had much body hair. Perhaps including the prince. In this form though, he had a thick pelt running from navel to collarbone and down his arms. The hair wasn't as thick or curly as the fur on his legs, but it created a greater sense of continuity between the man parts and goat parts than there might otherwise have been.

It made him seem a little more masculine, a little wilder, than the other fey men.

"I haven't thanked you properly for this yet," he said, producing the silver flute from nowhere. He held it in his free hand, tapping it against his own shoulder, while still holding his son's with the other hand. "You have no idea how useful it's proving to be."

"Glad to hear it," Cahill said, eyeing his handiwork nervously.

He never should have given it to Liadan. Not without....

"So you've come to offer me a boon in return, right?" Cahill said.

His father's eyes narrowed.

"I'm new to Faerie, so if I've misunderstood, please forgive me. But that's how these things work isn't it?"

"It was a gift freely given," his father said cautiously.

That didn't really mean much. Depending on the circumstances, that could mean that Cahill was entitled to a greater boon than he could have expected to negotiate for if he hadn't given the flute as a gift. But in other cases, it would have meant that he wasn't entitled to any recompense at all. The precise difference between the two situations remained somewhat mysterious to Cahill. But he knew enough to know that this was one of those cases where, by accepting the flute, his father had indebted himself.

"I've already granted my sister a major boon," the prince continued. "Perhaps you ought not have used a middleman."

That, however, he hadn't considered.

How could he have not? What did he think, that Liadan was just going to hand the flute over to Arawn out of the goodness of her heart? She was the Lady of Mischief, not Benevolence. He might be entitled to a boon from her, but not his father.

Still, he could work with that.

"Hmm, good point," Cahill said. "Yes, next time, I'll do that. Just give my flutes directly to all of your brothers and sisters, without asking anyone else to deliver them for me."

The prince's hand fell away from his son's shoulder.

Cahill could have threatened to give one to his mother. Or to craft one for himself. But that was tantamount to declaring Clan Walker's intention to challenge the Dreamsmyths. Nothing to be gained by doing that. On the other hand, he could leverage his father's fear of his own family against him, and do so without fear of invoking the queen's wrath.

"Suppose I was feeling generous," his father said.

"I just might be dissuaded from making any such gifts," Cahill finished for him.

Green eyes glowered at him. Cahill could almost hear his father contemplating whether it would be easy to remove all of Cahill's memories of his life in the Dreaming, and the knowledge of how to craft flutes along with it. But, of course, he didn't need to give the others flutes in order to threaten his father's hold on power. And he knew that.

Silence reigned for a few intense moments before the prince said, "Perhaps I do owe you a boon." He tapped the flute against his shoulder again. "Mighty fine handiwork, after all."

"A major one," Cahill said.

His father drew a deep breath. "Naturally."

"Thanks, Dad," Cahill said. "You're alright, no matter what your mom says about you."

No response came. The Prince of the Emerald Court, Lord of Remembrance, and Piper of Dawn, stared coldly at his youngest son.

Cahill hadn't expected his father to laugh at that stupid joke, but that expression still made him wish that he hadn't made it.

Without another word, his father gave him a nod and disappeared without a trace.

"Well," Cahill said to himself. But he didn't finish the thought, having no idea how to feel about what had just happened.

#

The part of the woods his mother usually inhabited was empty. Cahill searched all around for her but there was no sign of the red goddess. Eventually, he let his Libido guide him to her. Opening himself up, he called to mind her smile and her smell, her beautiful auburn hair and her impossibly proportioned figure.

He found her in the big clearing near the center of Clan Walker's territory, where they held official gatherings on those rare occasions where such were called for. Which they hadn't since the day they'd acted out their retelling of Alice in Wonderland for Brittany.

It appeared his aunt had something similar in mind for that morning.

When he saw everyone gathered there, Cahill had muttered a string of profanities under his breath. He wasn't in the mood for one of Oona's games, fun as they could be. Family orgies were never a bad time, of course, but he wanted nothing more just at that moment than to be alone with his mother. He wasn't sure yet whether to tell her about his encounter with his father. She didn't know about the flute, and he'd have to tell her about that to tell her about the boon. But either way, he wanted to be with her. Where he belonged.

Before he could say a word though, the busty nymph spotted him, waved, and called out, "Hey you! Thought we were going to have to start without you."

His mother shot him a sympathetic look over her sister's shoulder. She mouthed "sorry" as Oona rushed over to talk to him.

"Caron told us not to look for you," his aunt explained as she approached him, using a nickname his mother disliked even more than he did Kay.

He'd called her that once himself, but the frown she'd given him had been enough to ensure that there was never a second time. There was a story there, no doubt, but his mother hadn't yet seen fit to share it with him.

"Needed some time alone," he said. "But I'm here now."

It didn't surprise Cahill that his mother had known not to disturb him. The connection between the two of them was powerful, and growing more so. She often knew how he was feeling before he himself did. Why should a little physical distance negate that?

"Well, there aren't a lot of options left, kiddo," Oona said, glancing around the clearing with a poorly hidden smirk. "Maybe you can be...Toto?"

Cahill snorted derisively.

But she was right that there weren't many options left. They were going for an Oz theme, as they hadn't for some years.

Well, for Cahill, it had been years since the last time they'd last re-imagined that classic American fairy tale. But that would only have been a few months for the other members of Clan Walker, given the differences in how time flowed here in Faerie as compared to the Dreaming. He was still getting used to that. Hard as it was to believe, his mother had recently informed him that she'd only given birth to him less than two years ago.

This time, Fiona was to play Dorothy. It had been Oona when last they'd done the whole Oz thing, but his aunt was currently opting for a part they'd previously neglected, casting herself as the Wicked Witch of the West. Much to Cahill's amusement, Gallech and Reilly had accordingly taken on the guises of two figures likely to spend a lot of time with the Wicked Witch -- a winged monkey and a green-skinned winkie guard, respectively. His younger sister would serve as the Tin Man, as her beloved Finnie had the last time. Finnegan was dressed up as Scarecrow and Seamus had claimed the Cowardly Lion.

As was only fitting, his mother would again be the Good Witch.

With red patent-leather pumps that were thickly encrusted with glittering rubies, white knee-high stockings, a skimpy blue jumper and frilly white blouse, Fi looked a good deal like the iconic character, even if hers was a decidedly more grown-up take. His sister even wore her dark brown hair in pig-tails, just the way Judy Garland had.

Of course, that Dorothy hadn't shown quite so much skin.

His sister's apple bottom was slightly visible beneath the hem of her dress. Without the white petticoats, her outfit would have granted an almost unobstructed view of that treasure. The bodice of the jumper didn't cover half of his sister's considerable bust, and the blouse only covered up a little more. That left an impressive amount of cleavage on display.

Oona's skin was green and her nose was longer than usual. Thick eyebrows had grown thicker, and acquired a wicked arch. Her lips were black as pitch, the same as her eyes. She wore a wide-brimmed black hat with a pointy tip. A black cape stretched from her shoulders down to her ankles. The similarities mostly ended there, though. At least, no version of the witch Cahill had ever seen had worn a fishnet body stocking, leather boots with six inch heels, or a black leather corset. Though Cahill could imagine some creative uses of the infamous broomstick, his aunt hadn't bothered to incorporate it.

As the Tin Man, Brittany wore stiletto heels, tight leather pants, a silk corset worn over a long-sleeved shirt, a choker, leather gloves, and a little funnel worn off to one side of her head. All of which, of course, were silver of one shade or another. She carried a woodsman's axe whose shaft was of a piece with its dull blade. Somehow, her getup managed to make her look both more imposing than usual and sexy as hell. If not for the axe and the funnel, it would have been hard to tell who she was supposed to be. But that didn't matter. Cahill would never again think that the Tin Man should be played by a man, even if there was a certain symbolism to seeing his quiet and eerily detached cousin dress up as a character who'd famously been in search of a heart. Her outfit wasn't nearly as skimpy as Fiona's. The only place any skin was visible was from the neck up and the ankle down. But, to his surprise, Cahill found that he rather liked the way the outfit complemented Brittany's body, suggesting more than it revealed.

Of course, no one could compare to his mother.

Caronwyn wore bright pink heels and white stockings with pink rainbows at the center of their elastic bands. Her full hips seemed even broader with her short but wide bright pink skirt. The soft pink overskirt that lay atop it only added to the effect. Her white corset had soft pink stripes and cups and a bright pink ribbon at the center. Soft pink epaulets covered her shoulders and she wore long pink gloves that reached past her elbows. Bright pink rainbows adorned the wrists. To bring it all together, she carried a star-tipped wand and wore a tall, thin silver crown atop her pile of red-brown curls.

Never had a woman looked so good. Never.

Of course, even at her worst, his mother put every other woman to shame. If it could even be said that she had a "worst," come to think of it. But the costume fit her so perfectly, in both the literal and metaphorical senses, that Cahill was surprised he didn't explode the instant he laid eyes on her. Her costume wasn't as modest as Brittany's nor as skimpy as Fiona's or Oona's, and he liked that very much. Her getup struck the exact right balance. No man could gaze upon her and doubt that she had an ultra-feminine form, nor without feeling a painful need to see more of that biologically impossible figure. His sisters looked good, to be sure. As did his aunt. But the redhead looked amazing. And then some. She was not only the best-looking to begin with, but hers was the best costume as well.

In fairness, even Gallech and Reilly looked a lot better than the characters they were depicting. Cahill didn't spend much time admiring their appearances, the way he did the women of his family, but he had to admit that they'd managed to eke more sex appeal out of the Wicked Witch's henchmen than one might expect.

Gallech's skin had turned light blue, and he'd grown a good deal of dark blue body hair, but he didn't actually look like a monkey at all. He still had the same handsome face that bordered on beautiful. The body hair that he'd grown was too sparse, too absent from unwanted places, to be mistaken for fur. It really only made him look more masculine, Cahill had to admit. The same way his father's pelt did when he was in satyr form. The blue vest with red and white trim, matching hat, prehensile tail, and feathery wings all made it quite clear who and what his brother was supposed to be, but it wasn't hard to imagine that a woman with a sufficiently open mind would still find him more than a little appealing.

Like his mother, Reilly had gone green. He carried a nasty polearm just like the ones in the film and wore more or less the same uniform. The one difference was the absence of thick plates of steel that should have covered him from neck to waist. Though armor covered his upper arms and all the other details were as they should have been, his torso was unprotected, and he wore his coat open so as to reveal his hard chest and chiseled abs.

If Gallech and Reilly rose above the limitations of their costumes, Finnegan and Seamus transformed their characters into veritable sex symbols.

Finnegan wore loose brown drawstring pants, a tight blue vest, a burlap sack over his head with a hole cut out for his face, and a broad-brimmed black hat. Straw hung out from the bottom of his pants and encircled his wrists and throat. His face had changed color to match that of the sack, save for his nose, which was brown. While Finnegan didn't have his brother's pecs or biceps, Cahill thought that his cousin looked at least as good in his loose but tiny vest as Gallech did in his tighter one. Of course, it helped that he wasn't blue and that his washboard abs weren't hidden beneath a thick layer of hair.

As for Seamus, well, he almost made Cahill wish he swung that way. He'd grown a tail, leonine ears, and a thick golden mane. But aside from that, he'd basically just thrown on a leather loincloth, made his skin golden-brown, and allowed some body hair to grow out. Not nearly as much as their oldest brother though. He hadn't bothered to adopt a feline nose or whiskers, nor to turn his hands and feet into paws. There really wasn't much difference between this Cowardly Lion and ordinary old Seamus. But his brother's best qualities were on full display, from abs any man could envy to long thighs that were powerful but not overdeveloped, and the animal likeness made his typically restrained brother seem wild and dangerous in a way that Cahill could only imagine would drive Fiona and the others crazy.

"So," Oona said, tapping a slender finger against her mouth. Even with her skin green and both her her fingernails and lips jet black, he found her incredibly beautiful. Not nearly as beautiful as his mother, of course, but there was no denying that his aunt was gorgeous. "Toto. Think you can make that work? Or are we all going to have to laugh at you?"

Part of him wanted to say that he had no time for the silly exercise. That he'd come looking for his mother, and he didn't care what the rest of them did, so long as they let him talk to her. But he'd only end up piquing everyone's interest, guaranteeing that he and his mother would get no privacy, if he said as much. Besides, the news would wait.

So. Toto.

"I...guess," he said.

Oona snickered. "You're too cute, Kay," she said, reaching out to pinch his cheek, the way his mortal aunts often had back in the Dreaming.

He took a page from Seamus' book, opting for a very minimal costume. He grew a short, bushy tail and donned a knit hat that depicted the face of a terrier. His goatee grew thicker and took on a lighter tint. His hands and feet turned dark gray, nearing black, but did not turn into paws or grow any hair. Aside from a gray furry loincloth and his hat, he wore no other clothes. His well-muscled body was almost fully exposed.

Yet, he knew before the snickers began that he didn't look as good as Seamus.

A man could liken himself to a lion and add to his sex appeal. But a terrier? Not a chance. It didn't matter that Cahill had an enviable body, a sharply v-shaped torso, long legs, and a huge dick that his loincloth could barely contain. His biceps and calves might look like baseballs, and his abs might have been almost as perfect as Seamus', but with his cute puppy dog cap and his waggly tail, he was a big joke.

"Awwww," Oona tried to say, though she was failing so miserably at stifling her laughter that it didn't quite come out that way. Pressing a hand to his hard abs, she said, "Don't you just look...." Whatever she'd intended to say turned into a mix of snorts and snickers.

"Thanks," Cahill said, infusing the word with as much sarcasm as he could.

"Oh, you're adorable, sweetie," his aunt said, sounding now almost as though she meant it. She went up on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the lips, helping his shame to recede a little further. "And you know it." The hand that had been pressed against his abs fell a little lower and rubbed his manhood through his skimpy undergarment. "Dorothy better keep her eyes on you. This Wicked Witch isn't all that interested in girls from Kansas, but her little dog? Him, we'd very much like to get our hands on."

Cahill kissed his aunt back. Deeply. And gave her ass a firm squeeze before letting go.

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