by Selena Kitt
King Cole’s gaze found them as he stood, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he’d seen the medallion. Artan had left it around his neck and exposed, the glittering black jewel in the center like the eye of a crow.
“They’re from the other side! They came through the portal with the medallion!” George insisted. “Men! Seize them!”
Artan stepped forward, pulling off his mask and bowing in King Cole’s direction. “Your majesty, I am returned.” A gasp of recognition echoed through the hall. “Has it been so long, then, that Georgie Porgie now gives the orders here?”
The King held up his hand to his men, his gaze moving to Mother, who pulled her own feathered white mask off to reveal her visage.
“I’ve come to claim what is rightfully mine.” Father Goose held the medallion high, turning toward the crowd so they could see as well.
“It doesn’t belong to him!” George’s shriek, the stamping of his foot, drew little attention.
“It belongs to me, and my line before me!” Artan turned back to King Cole. “It belongs to my wife, my family, and all my children who come after us.” The Queen of Hearts stood beside her husband, her hand at her throat, her face perplexed. “It is our freedom, to fly where we choose, in this world, or in others.”
“What is this jewel?” King Cole frowned. “Is it true, as George has said, that it opens the portal?”
Father Goose gave him a brief nod. “This, and all portals. We are the guardians of the gate. It has always been so with our kind, until it was stolen from us generations ago. We know not by whom.”
“No!” George, frustrated by the lack of action on the part of the King’s men, reached for a sword and wrestled one free. It was too heavy for the man, but he struggled forward with it, determined. “You do not deserve it! It’s mine! Give it to me!” His eyes moved toward Mother, who stood staring at her husband, as stunned by his revelations as the rest of them. “Give her to me!”
Father Goose disarmed him with one swift twist of the man’s wrist, but his more impressive move, the one that made the crowd gasp in shock and awe, was the shrugging off of his cloak, and the impossible sprouting of two enormous white wings from his now-bare shoulder blades. No one had ever seen him in his real form before except Mother herself, and even she was taken over by the shock of it.
“Men!” King Cole seemed to come to life in that moment. “Seize him!”
“Finally!” George panted, trying to shake the giant bird-man’s hold on him, but was unable.
“Not that one!” The King shook his head as the knights moved toward Father Goose. “The other—the little fat treasonous liar who has been feeding me poison in my ear for months!”
“No!” George wailed as the King’s men grabbed onto him, but his struggles were no match. They hauled him quickly from the room, leaving a stunned silence that all of them felt quite deeply.
“I remember the stories.” King Cole stepped forward, his face reddened, his demeanor apologetic. “My grandmother’s grandmother told her, even wrote some of them down. Your kind was always welcome here.”
Father Goose inclined his head at the man. “Now we are to be hunted and killed and denied passage between worlds, then?”
“I apologize. I was misinformed.” The King flushed. “You are free.”
“Yes, we are.” Artan reached his hand back for his wife, and Mother went to him. He glanced down, smiling at her, and whispered, “Reveal yourself.”
“No…” She shook her head, glancing around the room. To do so, here, in front of everyone? But his eyes commanded her, and she took a deep breath, throwing off her own cloak and slowly unveiling her own set of white wings to the gasping amazement of the rest of the hall.
“Father and Mother Goose, indeed.” The Queen of Hearts stepped forward, smiling. “Welcome home.”
“Now, I’d like you to release my charges.” Artan glanced up at the ceiling. “I would like to take them home, and then I will set them free.” “Free?” The King raised his eyebrows, and Father Goose fixed him with a long, challenging stare. The rotund man cleared his throat and shrugged. “Well…of course. You’re free to do what you wish with them.”
Artan’s huge wings flapped slowly, pushing him aloft, and he rose to the young woman still hanging off the precipice of the arch. Jill groaned when he snapped her chains—his strength was incredible in his current form—and collapsed into his arms. Mother rose above the flames of the chandelier to unfasten Jack, careful with the leather strap around his cock as well, releasing the pressure gradually, making him groan with both pleasure and pain. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered as she floated them back down to the ground, and she smiled, kissing his cheek.
“Time to go home, little one,” she murmured, looking over at her husband. He nodded, folding his wings up tight as he carried the girl from the hall, out into the bright moonlight of the courtyard. His wife followed him, carrying her own charge, and then together, Mother and Father Goose spread their wings wide and flew toward home.
—
He had her suspended by the strong muscles of her wings, spread wide, white down splayed, her toes barely touching the floor. And he was torturing her. Slow, sweet, aching torture, the sort her body had remembered and longed for. Artan slipped the crop between her newly shaved pussy lips—she couldn’t believe how sensitive she was there now, the exposure making her feel swollen and ready all the time—his breath hot in her ear.
“Have you had enough, love?”
She gasped as the crop, the tip now wet, slapped the side of her hip, leaving an immediate red mark.
“Never.”
He chuckled, his gaze searching her face, flushed and hot, gauging her readiness.
“What if I told you I couldn’t stand another moment?” he asked, the crop following the curve of her waist upward, dipping under her breast, over her nipple, clamped and chained to its pair.
Mother smirked, her eyes bright. “I win.”
Father Goose gave a low growl, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her hard, his tongue plunging deep, making her moan. His cock pressed her belly and she ground her hips forward, her pussy searching, but he moved back just enough to keep it out of her reach.
“Who wins?” he murmured, waving Molly back. The cat woman had lifted her head protectively at the sound of his growl, stalking forward to make sure her mistress wasn’t being harmed. Seeing their play, hearing Mother’s moan, Molly stretched, yawned, and curled back up in the chair.
“We do.” Mother gasped as he knelt before her, plunging his tongue between the soft, smooth lips of her pussy. She moaned, grabbing his hair—her hands were free, as she was restrained only by her wings—and pressing him against her mound. “Ohhh Artan...”
His tongue lashed at her clit, his fingers probing deeply into her wetness. She felt as if she’d waited forever for this, and his giving was the best gift. Her whole body trembled with her desire, her wings shaking and straining against her bonds as she spread herself wider for the soft press of his tongue.
“Who’s your master?” He stopped, shoving her hips back against the wall, making her gasp. “Tell me, Maren. Who do you belong to?”
“You,” she breathed, her fingers lost in his dark curls. “It was always you. It has ever been.”
His mouth fastened itself between her legs, sucking and licking with a fierce persistence that sent her flying—it was better than flying. When he tugged gently on the chain fastened between her nipples, pulling off first one clamp and then the next, she moaned and let him take her climax, grateful for her bonds as she bucked and shuddered, the hot, wet heat between her thighs pulsing against his tongue again and again.
She panted, gasping, unable to hold herself up, and he stood to support her, unlocking her manacles and letting her fall into his arms, folding her into the soft press of his wings. He took her that way, wrapped in a safe cocoon, to their bed, pulling her onto him and positioning her poised above the aching throb of his co
ck.
“Ahhhh Maren,” he groaned as she slid him inside of her, rocking on him, her hips moving back and forth, shifting his cock deep. She rode him that way, looking down at his wings spread, now, on the mattress, and he gripped her grinding hips as she balanced herself with her hands against his broad, strong chest. His eyes half closed in anticipation of his ultimate pleasure, letting her take him there, push him toward the edge with every shift of her body.
She’d waited so long, through hours of his sweet torture, that her body reached its peak again first, her wings spread wide as she came, her dark hair falling in contrasting midnight waves as her head went back, eyes closing. He grabbed her aching breasts, squeezing, tugging, thrusting himself up hard into her spasming wetness.
“Maren!” He called her name again as his orgasm overtook him, the heat of it filling her throbbing pussy. She moaned and collapsed against his chest, and he wrapped her up again in his arms, both sets of their wings spread wide, their tips touching as they kissed themselves back to earth.
Mother rolled off him finally, folding herself up beside him, and he tucked her head under his chin with a happy sigh, his eyes closing. “Nap time.”
“Molly seems to think so,” Mother replied with a laugh as the cat woman snuck up onto the bed and curled her soft self against Mother’s side. She was the only one they had kept. The other two had been too excitable when either of them had changed from human to bird form. Molly was the only one who, while interested in the transformation, didn’t act as if they were dinner. Old King Cole had been happy to add them to his cat folk collection, and Mother knew they were happy there, with much more room to roam.
“Jill will be over in less than an hour,” Mother smiled at her husband’s almost-snore as he woke himself up at her words. “They’re so happy down the hill, in that house that Jack built. I would expect we’ll have little redhaired babies running around some time next year.”
“Mmm,” Father agreed, not opening his eyes. “Less than an hour, huh?”
“You and Molly can take a catnap,” Mother said indulgently, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest. “I’ll entertain Jill.”
“Tempting.” He smiled, pulling her closer as she tried to move away. “But I prefer birds to cats.”
“Mother!” The sound of Willie’s voice startled them both and Mother sat up, glancing down to see the little man carrying the large nest they’d made for the precious thing Artan had brought home with him—the golden egg, she saw, was cracked along one side, an entirely new development.
“Is it time?” she gasped as Father sat up beside her.
“I’ve been sitting on it long enough,” Willie grumbled, watching at the egg shook and trembled. “Very undignified.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job, precious.” Mother smiled, kneeling down before the wooden, down-filled box, glancing up at her husband. “You know, if it was ever revealed that it’s the men of our species are the ones who lay the eggs…”
Artan gave her a black look. “Do you think I’m so unsure of my masculine nature? Or shall I strap you to the wall again?”
Mother chuckled, running her hand over the fragile surface of the egg. “And all that time, I thought I just couldn’t get pregnant…”
“Mother! Look!” Willie was excited, in spite of his annoyance at being appointed temporary mother-hen, and even Molly peered over the side of the bed to watch the hatching. It was the tip of the wet wings, with their sharp, taloned edges, that were sharp enough to break through the surface, and they all watched, fascinated, as their offspring emerged.
“She’s beautiful,” Mother whispered, tears stinging her eyes as she lifted the naked, wet human baby, who didn’t cry but rather crowed in her mother’s arms. Father Goose looked proudly over his wife’s shoulder at the bundle of flesh and feathers cradled in her arms.
“Just like her mother,” Artan whispered, kissing Maren’s cheek. “Sweet little bird.”
“Now you really are a Mother…Goose.” Blue spoke from the doorway, leaning there with a huge grin spread across his face. He had brought Jill up behind him, and Jack had come too. They poked their heads past the big man to see.
“The baby’s here!” Jill squealed in delight.
Mother Goose kissed the drying forehead of her daughter, looking up at her husband through a prism of tears. “And you’re a father.”
“I’ve never been happier or prouder to be anything.” Artan unhooked the medallion from around his neck, dangling in front of his newborn daughter. The child’s hands waved, batting at it. “I suppose it will be a while before she can wear this.”
“A while, yes.” Mother smiled. “But she will fly free with us.”
“Yes.” Father nodded, kissing first his baby, and then his wife, echoing the sentiment as he put the medallion back on, glancing around at the smiling members of their make-shift family gathered around them. “Free. Wherever we decide to go.”
The End
ABOUT SELENA KITT
Like any feline, Selena Kitt loves the things that make her purr—and wants nothing more than to make others purr right along with her! Pleasure is her middle name, whether it’s a short cat nap stretched out in the sun or a long kitty bath. She makes it a priority to explore all the delightful distractions she can find, and follow her vivid and often racy imagination wherever it wants to lead her.
Her writing embodies everything from the spicy to the scandalous, but watch out—this kitty also has sharp claws and her stories often include intriguing edges and twists that take readers to new, thought-provoking depths.
When she’s not pawing away at her keyboard, Selena runs an innovative publishing company (www.excessica.com) and in her spare time, she worships her devoted husband, corrals five kids and a dozen chickens, all while growing an organic garden. She also loves bellydancing and photography.
Her e-publishing credits include: Rosie’s Promise published by Samhain and Torrid Teasers #49 published by Whiskey Creek Press featuring two short stories, French Lessons and I’ll Be Your Superman in 2008. Her stories and poems are in the following anthologies: Coming Together: For The Cure, Coming Together: Under Fire, Coming Together: At Last Volume II, and finally, Coming Together Volume 1 and Volume 3. Two stories, Sacred Spots and Happy Accident, have been published by Phaze Publishing, as well as her novels Christmas Stalking, Blind Date, The Surrender of Persephone. The Song of Orpheus is also coming soon! She has also been published online in The Shadow Sacrament: a journal of sex and spirituality, and The Erotic Woman.
Her novel, EcoErotica was a 2009 Eppie Finalist. Selena’s story, Connections, was one of the two runners-up for the 2006 Rauxa Prize, given annually to an erotic short story of “exceptional literary quality.” Her story was chosen out of over 1,000 nominees, where awards are judged by a select jury and all entries are read “blind” (without author’s name available.) She can be reached on her website at www.selenakitt.com.
If you enjoyed THE REAL MOTHER GOOSE, you might also enjoy:
SHIVERS
Selena Kitt
Eight darkly erotic and horrifically delicious stories guaranteed to give you shivers, in more ways than one! Stories include: The Velvet Choker, Pumpkin Eater, The Ride, Mercy, Advent Calendar, Silent Night, The Laundry Chute and The Gingerbread Man.
Warning: This title contains graphic language, sex and erotic horror.
Excerpt From “Advent Calendar” in SHIVERS:
“So, seriously, what’s the joke?” I asked.
She was hanging her head off the end of my bed, watching the tail end of A Charlie Brown Christmas Special upside down.
“Don’t you love the way they talk? Wah, wahhh wahhhhh. Isn’t that totally how you used to hear grown-ups?” She lolled her head off the corner and put her bare feet up on the wall, crossing them at the ankles.
“I still hear grown-ups that way,” I snorted, pulling my t-shirt on. “Come on, Betz, give.”
“Oh, this wasn’t enough for you?” She t
eased me, opening her thighs and pointing between them. Her pussy lips were still a little swollen and they glistened. I sat next to her, my hand inevitably drawn to the wetness, rubbing the moist and slightly sticky skin with my thumb. God, she’s intoxicating.
“Everything isn’t about sex, you know?” I tried to sound serious, although my fingers betrayed me and slid through her slit as my cock began to throb against my thigh.
She laughed—god, I loved her laugh—it tinkled, like ice crystals forming in midair. Rolling off the bed, she grabbed for the remote and started to flip channels. “Do you have CNN? I have to see if they’re broadcasting any other signs of the apocalypse.”
“Ha.” I said. “Ha.” She grinned up at me, sprawled naked on my floor, her hair like dark chocolate streams covering the generous swell of her breasts. “Well, if you’re not gonna tell me what it’s all about, I’m not opening any more of those stupid doors.” I grabbed a new pair of briefs out of my top drawer, shoving the advent calendar aside to do it. It toppled toward the wall and balanced there, its first five black doors hanging askew showing five decidedly blank white spaces.
Every morning I felt like a fool, opening a new door in the hopes that this time, something would appear. I had noticed a different odor each day—first the oranges and cloves, then cinnamon, then something I couldn’t identify at all, then something that smelled faintly like pumpkin pie. I joked with her on the phone that she had invented the world’s first “Scratch ‘N Sniff” advent calendar. She just laughed. There was a different smell today, like those red and white pinwheel peppermint candies my grandmother used to keep in her pocket to keep us quiet in church, but it didn’t linger long. I was getting really tired of whatever game Betsy was playing.
“Nice ass,” she commented softly. I didn’t reply, tugging my jeans on. God, she pissed me off sometimes.