Elizabeta Brooke: Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan

Insatiability. There's no cure, she told herself as she skirted the houses where Sark and his men were posted, started along the road out of town.

Sexual obsession was a terminal disease. She knew that. But the thought gave her no grief. It wasn't a debilitating illness, nor was it obvious. And the length-of-life allotted to her was entirely within her control.

She could be a reckless wastrel or a thrifty whore. It was her life's energy to squander as she saw fit. And what a life she would have. Free from societies conventions. No expectations to fulfil. No fears to inhibit her. Even death was her friend now — a lover waiting in the wings for his chance to embrace her.

Smiling dreamily to herself, she lifted her attention from the loose road surface where she'd been picking a path for her bare feet by the moonlight. Something caught her eye.

Headlights, coming towards her.

Not moving from the centre of the road, she waited as the car drew closer, slowed, then stopped directly in front of her. The driver cut the engine, leaving the headlights on. As Wendee stood illuminated in their glare, a shiver ran over her skin. The night-time noises that had come from the thick vegetation on either side of the road had ceased. It was unnaturally quiet.

The passenger door opened, but no interior light came on. Still blinded by the headlights, she couldn't see who was emerging — whose shoes were crunching on the uneven road surface.

She waited, straining her eyes.

Finally, the figure spoke. "Will you come with me, Wendee?" he asked.

Dee felt her skin crawl.

"I need you," he said. "Come with me."

Still unable to see, she nodded, took a step towards the car.

"Yes," she said. "I will come."