Elizabeta Brooke - Never - an erotic retelling of Peter Pan

"I love fairy tales," she replied, smiling to encourage him even though his eyes were still closed.

"Even if the wicked witch is very frightening."

"Yes, even then."

"Good." He nodded. "This witch was especially frightening because she was hidden inside a beautiful Queen. The Queen had two sons. Did I mention that?" Without waiting for a reply, went on, "Well there were, and the younger one was particularly fond of his mother, and she of him.

"They would often play together alone and the boy grew to love these special hours together, even though there were times when his mother would talk to herself in a quiet angry voice, a hard voice that said horrible things about the Queen. He did not know then that this was the witch.

"But the King knew and he set out to punish the witch for living inside his Queen. When the young prince was five, the King started to take the Queen down into his dungeon to call out the witch, employing all manner of physical punishments in an attempt to destroy her. But alas, this only seemed to strengthen the witch who appeared more and more often, with cronies who would talk to each other in different voices and grope at the young prince's body even as his mother's voice pleaded with them to stop.

"The witch and her friends encouraged him to continue feeding from her breasts as he grew, and while he did they would do things to his body that he knew were not right. Things that made it sing with pleasure and yet at the same time cringe with revulsion. And always afterwards they would beat him."

Pietre's eyes opened and Dee was shocked to see they were completely empty. It was like looking into the eyes of a dead man. She shuddered.

"No pity," he reminded her.

"I understand."

He closed his eyes again. "The young prince grew into manhood, helpless to save his mother from the clutches of the witch and her cronies. All through those years, day after day they continued their obscenities with his body. Then they would beat him, but even pain at his beloved mother's hand brought him pleasure and the witch would ridicule him for his involuntary reaction.

"After a time the witch stopped touching him directly, and would whip his back and buttocks until he gave her his essence which she fed on like a vampire.

"Finally, in his seventeenth year, when the young prince could take no more, he confessed to his father the King. He pleaded with his father to call for a physician but the King had become so engrossed with his torturing of the witch that he had lost the desire to destroy her. There was more pleasure in his debasement of her, and he had refined the art to include several of his courtiers who would assist their liege in the purging of his Queen.

"As you may imagine, the young prince was horrified to learn this, but in an unforgivable way, he was also excited by it. He could see how his father had separated the witch from the Queen, and that in fact, the punishment afforded the witch was recompense for all the pleasure the witch had denied the King when she'd stolen his wife.

"The young prince wondered then, whether there might be justification for him to punish the witch. He sought out his older brother, whom he knew had also suffered at the witch's hand, and asked his advice. The elder prince told his brother that it was the King who was mad and that they must wrest their mother from him before he destroyed them all."

Here, Pietre fell silent and Dee held her breath. She watched his chest rise and fall as naturally as though he were asleep. There had been no emotion in his voice, no horror, no sadness or anger, and Dee wondered at the forces that had either destroyed it in him or held it at bay.

"What happened to the Queen?" she asked, unable to raise her voice over a whisper.

"She died," he answered softly, "and so did the King and his courtiers. The young prince spared his brother, but banished him from their kingdom."

Dee felt a chill premonition. "The witch?"

"She lived on for a long time," he said. "She lives yet, in my memory."

"But she is dead now?" Dee had to be sure.

"She died with the body. It is done." He looked up at her again through those hollow eyes.

"And now?"

"Now that knowledge will live in you for a time. It will mature into something we can share." With a seemingly enormous effort, he raised himself into a sitting position. "I must leave, but before I do, I would test the fates that sent you to me?"

They looked at each other for a long moment before Dee asked, "How?"

"I will touch you."

She swallowed tightly, her mind full of the horror he had related, all swirling around and not ready to settle into anything she could analyse. She didn't know whether she was revolted by this body that had known such pain, or excited by it.

But she did know she wanted Pietre to touch her, and she wanted to see the look in his eyes as he did. So she lay back on the bed at his side and waited.

Pietre nodded for a few moments, his mind obviously elsewhere. Then closed his eyes — drawing strength she suspected — before opening them again and reaching a hand towards her.

It was a strange movement, painfully slow, as though designed to penetrate the defences of a terrified quarry. A centimetre above her chest, his hand hesitated, then pressed downwards, flat and surprisingly firm against the space between her breasts.

Dee didn't make a sound and her eyes never wavered from his. She had seen his pupils dilate, felt his body stiffen, but they were the only reactions she could discern.

"I will now move the hand," he breathed hollowly, as though the pressure was against his own chest, emptying his lungs.

Dee nodded, felt it slide upwards, the pressure still firm, hesitating again for a moment at her collarbone before gliding onto the smooth skin of her neck.

His fingers were around her throat and still she stared up at him, knowing his fear was greater than her own.

For a split-second longer he held the hand where it was, then he lifted it off and away. His eyes were feverish in a bloodless face.

"What is it you want from me?" she asked. "I'm not your Queen or the witch."

Pietre's chest expanded as he took a breath and she could almost hear the hiss of it filling his lungs, so quiet was the room. Then incredibly, he smiled. "You're everything I'd hoped for, Wendee," he said. "I knew fate would bring you to me one day," and "You will give me my immortality."

"Immortality?"

"You will become blood of my blood."

She blinked, looked deeply into his eyes. They'd never seemed more alien to her than they did at that moment. "How will I do that?" she asked.

Pietre reached out, his hand only hesitating a moment before closing over her belly. "You will lie with me and bear me a child."

Wendee stood looking in the mirror, at the ghastly shroud that covered her body. This was the secret of the locked cupboard. The garment with a specific purpose.

Had it been black, she would have felt more comfortable, but it wasn't black. The layers of tulle that had transformed her into a gothic nightmare were bridal white. A clean, virginal white that she knew instinctively had no place in what was to come.

"Are you ready," Pietre asked from behind her, out of range of the mirror.

"Yes, I am," she replied.

The eyes that stared back at her from the mirror blinked slowly, their thick mascara'd lashes brushing the opaque veil. She thought she could discern an expression in them. Her body was calm and accepting, yet her eyes appeared vaguely incredulous, as though still unable to believe she was going to do this thing.

Much more than merely another role-play, this was to be the performance of her life. For her life.

"You know what to do?" he asked, as though she needed the reminder.