Elizabeta Brooke: Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan

Her legs were wrapped around him as he took her against the wall, their mouths locked in desperation as he jack-hammered into her just the way he'd dreamt. He didn't want to hurt her or humiliate her now. He just wanted to wear himself out on her, over and over again. And they did. On the wall. On the dirty mattress on the floor. At DeMartande's feet. Everywhere she took him he made love to her. He couldn't stop. It was like the burning sensation in his penis. The more she touched him, the more he ached for her. Hard, soft, with his penis, his tongue, his fingers. She wanted it all and he gave it to her, whatever she asked for, however she preferred.

But a man's strength isn't limitless. It wears itself down from a frenzy into an exhausted lull. His heart thundering, he struggled to keep her in his arms but his grip was lax. He knew sleep would claim him but he fought it — sure she would be gone when he awoke.

"Please," he whispered in her ear, panting, hardly able to hear himself over the pounding of his heart. "It wasn't Skye. I was just… protecting her. It was you that I — "

Her fingers pressed over his lips. "Shhh. Don't perjure yourself. Sleep."

"Don't leave me," he said.

She smiled blandly into his eyes, tucking a long strand of hair behind one ear the way he remembered having tucked hers so long ago. "I was never here, my love," she said softly and turned to rise.

Long Shadow snapped his eyes shut but an impulsive tear sprang out before the lashes clenched together. He breathed deeply.

I will not cry. I will not cry.

He opened his eyes, saw them both standing at the door, DeMartande's hand possessively on Wendee's waist.

"Sleep well, lover. Regain your strength," she said blithely, turning a secret smile on DeMartande. "I think we enjoyed this so much, we might do it again."

"And again," DeMartande echoed, a deep satisfaction ringing in his voice.

Long Shadow looked away to the wall.

The door opened and closed. He didn't move. An hour later he was still staring at the wall when the door opened again.

"Visitors, Chief," the oily voice said and Long Shadow felt the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck. "Told you I'd be back."

"You must leave us now," Wendee said over her shoulder to Pietre as she took Christophe's hand, drew him into the room. "You will give us four hours alone. You will not watch us. I want you to wonder. To suffer."

"As you wish."

Dee knew he would prefer to watch, but he was accepting her command as yet another punishment, another form of foreplay. He would do as she ordered and suffer the jealousy, made worse by his own imagination. And when she was finished with Christophe, he would expect her to punish him for that jealousy. To hurt him.

He would also be hoping that the extremity of his suffering would enable him to mate with her again, as he had three days ago in Long Shadow's cell.

Nothing they had done subsequently had produced that favourable result and Dee knew it would only be a matter of time before he suggested another visit.

She wanted to avoid that at all costs.

Long Shadow's eyes already haunted her, fed her mind with doubts. His anger, his passion — both had been unexpected, incongruent with her perception of him as a conscienceless liar.

Yet his degradation of Skye — she's seen that.

Dee shook her head. Shut the door behind Pietre. Her ability to make moral judgements was gone. Who was good and who was evil? Who should she give her allegiance to? Her world was grey and she wanted it black and white. Good and bad. Love and hate.

Part of her feared what the torturing of Pietre was doing to her humanity, while another part revelled in the release of this dark side of her nature.

The witch and the queen.

"Wendee?"

She turned to Christophe — Christophe who was so achingly sweet she wanted to bury herself in his arms and forget everything but the smell of his skin and the beat of his eager young heart.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

She shook her head, pressed a finger to his lips. She didn't want to talk. She just wanted… comfort.

Taking his hand, she led him to the bed and undressed him. Then they lay on the cool sheets. Dee on top. She brushed the fringe out of his eyes and looked down at him. Smiled to reassure him.

"Are we doing it this time, Wendee," he breathed. "I've never — "

Still? "Not even with Skye when — "

"I hated what they did!" he said, and Dee felt his body trembling. "I wanted them to stop but they just went on and on and…"

"Shhh," Dee covered his lips with her own, kissing away the bad memory. But even as she did, she thought of how she could use that memory to enhance his arousal, how she could build him up to the point of penetration and then pretend he was raping her. By manipulating his emotions she could sustain the power of his erection and -

She rolled off him and flopped onto the bed at his side.

"What's wrong?" He came up on one elbow. Gazed down at her in concern. "What did I do?"

"Nothing. It's me." She closed her eyes. "I've forgotten how to make love." Creeping fingers of ennui were stealing over her. She couldn't even muster up anger at herself for spoiling their precious time together. "I only know sex, and I don't want to do that with you, Christophe." Raising a hand, she touched his cheek, feeling the softness of it, the tremor along his jaw. "I care about you. I don't want to hurt you."

He looked deep into her eyes. "You can remember love, Wendee." He hesitated, then leant down and kissed her so sweetly that in its aftermath she lost herself in his dark eyes, wondering if he could reawaken the innocence in her.

"Do we really have four hours?" he said and she nodded.

"Pietre will obey me. He'll enjoy his suffering."

Christophe kissed her again and she felt the sweetness dissolve into heat. "I don't care about his suffering," he breathed against her lips. "I only care about you." His hand ran down her body, over her breasts and between her legs to tentatively cup the mound of her sex. "I want to make love to you, Wendee," he said and she knew he was an infatuated boy no longer. His voice might tremble, but this was a man who wanted her.

"Make love to me, Christophe," she said. "Make me forget."

"I will," he promised, and she sighed as he moved over her and his lips covered hers again, his tongue gliding unerringly into her mouth with a confidence that relaxed her body. She didn't need to do anything. Christophe would love her. He would be a man for her. She needed that now — that strength.

"You're the only one I can trust, Christophe," she whispered as his lips came off her mouth to resettle on her breast. "The only one."

He suckled for a moment and she felt a sharp flow of pleasure, untinged by guilt or pain, sweep through her body. Then he raised his head, looked at her with an expression older than his years. "Do you trust me, Wendee?"

"With my life."

He moved back up to her lips, kissed her again, said, "I have to tell you — "

She shook her head. "Not now," and reached between their bodies to stroke his erection.

Christophe closed his eyes, an expression of rapture on his face. Then she steered the rigid flesh inside herself and he sighed, only to catch his lip between his teeth as she moved her hips upwards to engulf the length of him.

He opened his eyes again and under his gaze Dee felt humbled. The culmination of all his hopes and desires had come to fruition in this one moment. It was too powerful for words. She cupped his face and brought his lips down to hers for a kiss he quickly took over as his own.

Then, when she felt his first tentative thrust, she knew he had saved her. With the loss of his innocence, she had found her own. She could be tender. She could love. It wasn't forgotten.