By her daytime secret identity, Ms. Cipher is a professional writer, editor, poet, and lyricist. Her kinky fiction appears in Getting It: a Femdom Anthology by SinCyr Press and She’s Yours Tonight, a cuckold anthology edited by Rose Caraway. This story is part of an upcoming collection of classics retold as erotica and co-authored by Vinnie Block entitled Essential Tales from the Pubic Domain. For more, visitbetinaciphererotica.com
Wendy and Peter Pan
with apologies to J. M. Barrie
The clock in the otherwise silent hall intoned the hour of twelve, ringing in Wendy Darling’s eighteenth birth-day. It was a windless night, yet some of the shadows in the room were moving; Wendy, still wide-awake in her bed, was too preoccupied to give them much notice. She felt a sudden wave of emotion wash over her; a stab of bright excitement coupled with a wholly unfamiliar sense of dread. Excitement, because there was to be a celebration the following evening, made even more noteworthy because she was now considered a woman.
That not insignificant detail was also at the root of her dread. This was to be was her last night spent in the nursery. Her last night in the attic room that she had shared with her brothers Michael and John for as long as she could remember. Her last night in the room where Peter Pan was a frequent visitor.
As fate often has it, at that very moment the object of her musing was gliding through the night air, straight toward the Darling home, unmindful of the jumble of thoughts tumbling through Wendy’s sleepless head. In a matter of moments, Peter Pan lit onto the nursery’s exterior window sill, balancing on his tiptoes, and intently peering through the glass as though he was searching for something.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim illumination of the nursery. It took considerably more than a moment to spot the object of his quest; he held himself still and eventually his patience was rewarded: His shadow, you see, was drifting casually about the nursery, completely on its own volition... with not even the slightest indication of any affiliation to him! In his time, Peter had battled pirates, tamed a fairy, and out-witted a gigantic crocodile, but somehow he found that his errant shadow was most vexing of all.
The window was unlatched, as it usually was. Peter lightly pressed his palm against the pane, and it swung open easily. He slipped over the narrow window sill and glided inside. With an outstretched hand, he silently flitted toward the shadow, which at that moment appeared to be fixated on the shadow of some flowers in a vase. But just before Peter could grab it, the shadow abruptly darted to the wall opposite.
“Curse you!” Peter snarled as he, tried to change direction and sideswiped a nightstand.
Her reverie suddenly broken, Wendy bolted upright, happy and somewhat relieved to see him.“Peter? What on earth are you up to?”
“I’m, er--” he started, but something caught his eye and he made another lunge. The shadow was quick; it ducked behind a chifforobe and Peter soared toward the ceiling, again empty-handed.
“Peter, why are you -- “ Wendy began as Peter floated down into a sitting pose on her bed. She sidled back to make room for him.
“Wendy, I really need your help,” he declared with a mixture of frustration and chagrin.
“Of course, anything! What is it?”
“Well.... “ He gave a half-shrug. “You have to help me catch my shadow.”
She looked incredulous. “Catch your... what?”
“My shadow. You see, the other night I was listening to your mother singing you and your brothers a song as she put you to bed-- I was too close to the window, I guess-- because when she shut it, my shadow got cut straight off.”
Wendy looked at him quizzically, unable to make up her mind as to his seriousness. “Your shadow.”
Peter continued. “She latched the window, and I couldn't get in to take my shadow back. It’s been hiding here in the nursery ever since, so I need you to help me catch it and... sew it back on.” He smiled at her encouragingly, hoping she’d understand the seriousness of the situation.. Wendy took his smile to mean he was only fooling.
She laughed. “That’s awfully silly, Peter,” she said as sat up and stretched, her night-gown strap sloughing off one shoulder, “shadows don’t-–” but then, there it was, from out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark shape resembling Peter’s outline frolicking behind the toy chest.
“Oh my!” Wendy exclaimed.
Peter screwed up his face with embarrassment. “If I catch it, do you think you can you sew it back on?”
Wendy was too awestruck to answer directly; she merely watched with fascination as the silhouette of the Peter Pan-shaped figure bowed and lengthened across the wall. She leaned forward, her nightgown slipping farther down the pale skin of her shoulder, and smiled curiously at the shadow with such beguiling warmth that it drifted along the wall toward her.
Like a shot, Peter dove forward and --
-- abruptly pinned the shadow’s heel to the floor with the palm of his hand.
“I’ve got it!” he crowed and then cringed at the sound of his own noise. Michael and John rolled over in their beds but kept on sleeping.
“I’ve got it,” he repeated in a whisper.
Wendy stood, her bare feet silent on the rug as she retrieved the sewing kit from her dresser. “I must say, Peter, you do get yourself into the strangest of situations.” She snipped some thread, licking the tip before stringing it through the eye of a sizeable needle. “Bring it over here,” she whispered and patted the bed.
The shadow continued to struggle as Peter held on, dragging it over to Wendy’s side.
“Thanks, Wendy, you’re truly the best,” he whispered as he climbed onto the bed.
“I haven’t done anything yet.” She smiled as Peter arranged himself in front of her.
“Now this needle is rather thick, I don’t think we should take any chances that it might come loose again, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Wendy, take whatever measures you must to get it to stick for good.” The shadow was fighting with surprising strength for something that had no actual mass.
“Stay still!” Wendy hissed. The shadow jumped as if startled, then slumped next to the bedposts. Peter looked impressed. With fine precision, Wendy pinched the shadow’s right leg between two fingers of her left hand. The rest of the shadow cast itself against the wall behind her in a posture of resignation.
“Where should we attach it?” Peter asked softly.
Wendy thought for a moment as she knotted the end of the thread. “What about here?” With a single finger, she touched Peter’s inner thigh.
“Good idea,” he grinned hopefully. “Do you think you should sew it onto my leg-sleeve?”
Wendy considered this, suddenly aware of her heart pounding in her chest. She sharply drew in a breath and shook her head. “No, Peter. I think it would be better to attach it right to your skin. After all, you want to be able to take your leggings off on occasion, don’t you?”
That seemed to make sense to him, and Peter Pan pulled down his tights to expose his lean legs. His tunic, belted at the waist, draped down mid-thigh; just above the point where the shadow was to be re-attached. He rolled over to face her and she readied herself by placing a palm on Peter’s upper thigh.
She brought the tip of the needle to his skin and told him, “Now look away and be brave, Peter.”
Then she jabbed the needle into his flesh, feeling a slight bounce of resistance before it slipped beneath his skin.
“Oh..!” He whispered. He twitched slightly at the needle’s bite, but he didn’t look away, watching with an expression of macabre amazement as she drew the thread through his tan skin.
“That didn’t hurt too badly, did it?”
“Nah, it didn’t hurt at all,” Peter responded with his accustomed youthful swagger. His shadow, now cast on the wall behind him, arched its back, fingers splayed, open jaw cocked wide.
Wendy studied Peter’s face and shifted to pull her nightgown up so she could sit “Indian style” before bending over his thigh again. Her forehead knotted and the point of her tongue fixed against her top lip as she concentrated, so bent on her work was she that she didn’t notice the silent moans and violent writhing of Peter’s shadow; its dark-wraith hand lifting its tunic and slipping into its trousers...
Peter watched Wendy’s dainty but uncannily strong hands continue with their work. As she bent over him, her breath began to gently tickle his skin.
“Do be still, Peter, or this will take even longer.” Wendy whispered.
The shadow was now shimmying and making obscene gestures over bent form, its erect ephemeral penis rising into full bloom and wagging right above her head.
Wendy drew back her arm to the length of the thread, her eyes resting on Peter’s face.
“My, you are a brave boy, Peter, I haven’t heard a single peep out of you.” Peter gave her a hyperbolic smile of enthusiasm as she gripped his thigh and plunged the needle in again. His eyes once again took heed of the wall behind Wendy:
The shadow loomed huge, its wraith-phallus warping and swaying a serpentine dance around Wendy’s shadow. Peter watched with what was most likely ecstatic agony as the shadow appeared to shed clothes, a wrought iron little body with a jutting and gyrating cock.
Wendy was completely unaware of the shadow-play on display behind her, mesmerized as she was by the feeling of the tiny lance piercing his skin and (despite herself) reveling in the dark beads of blood forming, the spongy resistance of his flesh and the undercurrents of electricity passing under her hands. With full license, she let her hands cradle his taut, undulated muscles, muscles of a grown man. She snuck a deep breath out of pure curiosity for his smell and fought a strange and not altogether uncomfortable temptation to lick the blood from the puncture wounds. Get ahold of yourself, young lady, she chided herself in her mind.
Peter’s shadow? Well that was billowing and wriggling with an almost grotesque abandon, dancing around in a madcap display of sexualized mockery. Peter’s face glinted with sweat as he waved off his lascivious shadow, and when Wendy’s attention turned her head toward the shadow’s direction, Peter quickly redirected her back to the seam by saying, “Say, you are really good at this... are you almost finished?” She took a small hanky and dabbed at the seam.
“Yes, just a few more stitches now, hold as still as you can for me, Peter.”
The needle penetrated his flesh once again, and he reflexively placed his right hand on her bare shoulder. The shadow was now quite out of control over Wendy’s oblivious shape, its head thrown back, hips bobbing, cock thrusting toward her. Wendy bent over, leaned in close to Peter’s thigh and bit down on the thread, allowing her lip to graze his sutured flesh. Peter chomped down on his lip and watched as the shadow threw its arms wide into the air in celebration, as a spurt of shadow ejaculate burst from its shadow shaft.
Wendy sat back up, completely oblivious to the fact that her own shadow just missed the lace of apparent shadow-cum by barely a fraction of a centimeter. “There! That will teach it to get away from you!”
Peter gasped and sighed as Wendy pulled the thread into a neat knot for the final stitch. He looked back at his shadow, now fully dressed, moving in perfect accordance with Peter’s body.
Glancing yet again at the now normal shadow, then at Wendy, Peter made no move toward the window. Both of them were breathing at a rate that would usually accompany great exertion.
“Peter...” she asked tentatively, “how old are you? How many years?”
He looked at her strangely. “What a queer question,” he replied. “I’ve never thought about it. Who pays any heed to the years?” he scoffed.
“Oh.” She looked disappointed.
She seemed so upset that he forced a smile and volunteered: “If it helps, I do love summers. I can remember some jolly good ones.” He thought for a bit. “At least a couple hundred really good ones. Maybe more. Probably more.”
She opened her mouth and then thought better of it, deciding instead to say not a thing. Peter cast a sidelong glance at the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her bed-clothes. “And how many good summers can you recall?” he asked.
“Summers good or bad, I have only lived through seventeen,” she told him, “ I am only now concluding my eighteenth.” She cocked her head slightly as she spoke, knowing that most of her questions would go unasked and therefore, unanswered. “Somehow, Peter, you have long been able to maintain the first blush of youth. But I am afraid I am no longer a child.”
“Oh, that is too bad, Wendy.” Peter commisserated, missing the point completely.
They were silent for a moment longer. Wendy became aware that Peter could just about make out the dainty fabric of her knickers and that his staring made her pulse race even further. His tattered tights were still bunched at his ankles.
She wondered, why did he not raise them? She wondered, did he want her to touch him? She scooted closer. “I have never in my life sewn a person’s shadow on. Thank you for trusting me, Peter.” She avoided eye contact; lightly traced a finger along his thigh, above the stitches she’d just sewn on him, letting her touch languidly meander to stop just short of his tunic. She drew in a slow, deep breath. Then she asked him, almost in a whisper: “Aren’t you curious?” It might have been a trick of the dim light, but it seemed to Wendy that Peter’s face was displaying the earliest insinuation of a man’s full beard...
Peter shifted in a manner that brought them even closer together. “Well, Wendy... I got the strangest feeling down there–” His voice seemed to crack ever so slightly, and he gave a little cough to clear his throat.
When Wendy whispered into his ear, “Shh, you mustn’t wake the boys,” the head of his manhood extended beyond his foreskin and peeked from below the bottom of his tunic. Wendy hesitantly touched it with her thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently back and forth. Peter looked down, his eyes once again afixed to her hands.
With the quiet of a mouse--and looking slightly terrified--Peter reached under the little awning of Wendy’s nightgown, hooking a rough finger around her knickers. He pulled them down slightly, revealing a little furred patch. The hair there was soft and Peter petted it for a moment as though it were a small animal.
Another oh my escaped her.
She leaned back a little, opening her hip angle as he had done so that he could run a fingertip along her secret seam. The little stab of pleasure she abruptly experienced was almost excruciating, as was the enveloping desire to grip his cock tighter...
...and then she was floating.
She hadn’t meant to, but there she was, with Peter following in kind. Suddenly, there they were; both bobbing a few feet above the bed, her hand clasping Peter’s shaft, his hand pressing against the slick crevice that she had never given any real thought to until tonight. This place on her body where Peter’s hand stroked and explored had instantly become her center, at least for the moment. Peter drifted just a little toward her, and she felt the shaft of his cock rub against her curled finger-pads as it slid through the circled fingers of her hand. She felt his pubic bone against her pinky-finger and the soft thatch of hair against the side of her palm... and then he began to drift away, her hand letting his cock slide back through... she, feeling his tumescence... he, stopping when his prick-head was in the center of her gentle grasp and then he began to float back toward her. They continued in this way, swaying gently back and forth in mid air.
So this is what it is like to be in love, she thought so dreamily that they were barely words in her mind. All that was left to do, she supposed, was to follow her instincts and so she held her hand firmly for him, her cooperation guided and influenced by his rhythmic, pronounced breathing. Her concern that their noises might wake Michael or John had vanished, largely because (in addition to the sensation of his sliding cock), his finger was exploring the warm, smooth terrain between her own legs.
She ached for the finger to enter her, discomfited by the idea, but yearning for it just the same. With almost involuntary daring, Wendy pressed against his finger, twisting in the air and angling for penetration. They floated higher still as she gripped Peter’s cock with growing alacrity and spread her legs open wide, and that was when her ankle swung square into a potted table fern, knocking it to the rug below.
The resulting clatter, minor as it was, obliterated the charged levity between the two. They both tumbled to the bed below, the bedsprings groaning in protest.
Wendy’s brother Michael snorted, muttering “Whuzzit..?” then rolled over and fell back asleep. John slept soundly on.
“Oh my,” sighed Wendy, dazed, legs akimbo on the bed.
Peter flew above her with renewed vigor, pulling his pants up, giggling: “Wowee! That was...that was...” He flipped into a tumble in mid-air. “Barmy! That was barmy.” He giggled again.
Wendy noticed that the beard-shadow on his face had now totally vanished, and momentarily wondered if it had ever been there at all.
”Dash my skittles, that was barmy to be sure!” he exclaimed, leaping toward the ceiling and then spiraling out the open window, giggling and merrily skipping across the rooftops until he disappeared into the thick night fog.
Wendy found herself alone on the bed, feeling confused and a little lost. She felt as if she’d had an accidental glimpse at some great secret, one that she might well spend the rest of her life trying to puzzle out.
But more pressing for her at the moment: Wendy Darling knew, in her heart of hearts, that Peter Pan--the boy who could never grow up--would eventually return to the nursery. And when he did, she would no longer be there to greet him.