Wendy
by Simon (Simon@jazzandjava.com)
The storybook has much of it wrong: like the bloody,
vengeful fairy tales cleaned up with glass slippers and
charming kisses, this has been cloaked with fairy
dust, blunted with thimbles, for popular consumption.
I am not certain even Peter remembers the truth of it:
he was never a strong boy, not inside, and too willing
to believe others' images of him. But I can't forget:
however the light shifts, however the afternoon's
dripping sunbeams might malform me, a shadow can never
drift far from what casts it.
Both the fable and the history begin with Wendy: a
girl, a London girl, asleep in her bed and awoken by
the sight of Peter at the window. She'd called him
with her dreams, spurred on by her mother's bedtime
stories of a childhood half-remembered, and I watched
from the floor as Pan considered her.
He did not plan to return the next night: but I did.
She was a morsel of a mortal, a precious in
her early teens, with ginger hair, eyes the color of
the Atlantic, and a sweet mocking mouth she'd inherited
from her mother. She slept alone, an only child: the
brothers, John and Michael, are chaperones invented for
fiction. The were cordial but distant, formal
Victorians who vaguely wished they'd had a son, or
perhaps a well-behaved terrier they could show off at
the park. The only real person in the house at 14
Whitebridge, the only one who ever mattered, was Wendy.
Winsome, wistful, whimsical Wendy.
She might have been 15 when I came to her, or 13, or 17
-- seasons matter little to shadows, which makes it
difficult to keep track of years, and I am too long
accustomed to the immortal to gauge age by sight. She
was enough to dream of sex: enough to feel
guilty for it. For London at the time, that might well
have described the majority of its females. But what
drew us to Wendy was her intensity, the thickness of
her dreams, the vivid impasto layers of imagination.
The night I came to her, I felt her dreams pulsating
along the corridors of moonlight dappled across
Whitebridge Road, felt her knuckles twisting her
bedsheets and her legs sweat-dampening the folds of
cloth surrounding her, before the house was even in
sight. I could taste her on the wind, on the London
damp.
I had to have her.
I coaxed my way through the window, which she'd left
unlocked and open a crack -- little enough to pass
motherly inspection, but wide enough to be noticed and
taken as invitation. I slid across the floor, into the
shadow of her murmuring tosses and turns, and took
substance.
I'm always more than mere shadow, but I can't become
fully human without a host like Peter Pan. He would
have her soon enough, in his always-boy ways, but I
wanted her first. He might be a forever, but I had
aged ... aged centuries, and grown long-since weary and
bored with games of piracy and Indians. When I was
without a host, I could take form of a sort --
retaining most of my twilight properties, but able to
touch the world, to make myself felt.
I slid intangibly through Wendy's bedsheets and
nightgown, letting her feel the cool press of my
fingertips against her breasts. She didn't wake yet:
her ginger hair was dark with sweat, her eyes clenched
tight as if to keep from waking, and the way her head
was tossed back against the pillows displayed an artful
parabola of alabaster neck. I bent my neck in
reflection of hers, sliding the rough tip of my tongue
over that curve, across her lips, and then back down
slowly, over the shivers of her neck and the folds of
her nightgown, feeling her nipples stiffen as my cool
breath struck them through cottons and linens and
wools.
I glimpsed her dreams and the way my presence changed
them: a cool blue panic interlacing through her bodice-
ripping fantasies of pirates' conquest, heroes'
rewards, and bondage. Her control over the balance of
passion to guilt shifted -- the security of jeopardy
she had only imagined began to crackle under the weight
of new thoughts entering her head, things she didn't
know she could imagine: the pirate with the hook became
her father, the rapt audience became participants, the
roses in her hands became thorny tendrils holding her
to the ground.
She twisted in the bedcovers, throwing most of them
off, and my fingertips slid around her wrists, pinning
them between pillows. I pressed my thighs to hers, as
solid as I could become outside of Neverland, feeding
off the strength of her dreams. My nails became like
rosethorns pricking her wrists, my tongue like a hook
caressing the lines of her throat, and she rocked
beneath me like a ship at sea. She awoke, pushing her
hips up at me, her breath coming over in hitching
little staccato whimpers as her throat convulsed as if
trying to down a cry.
Her dreams were too quickly fading, and I stole a kiss
from the throes of her first orgasm as I slid through
her, my substance depleted.
* * *
I lingered in the area of 14 Whitebridge the rest of
the week, gathering power from Mr Darling's dreams of
schoolgirls bent to his will and governesses forcing
him to take his medicine from a dog's dish, and Mrs
Darling's penny-dreadful meanderings. Wendy seemed
upset by her "dream" -- she only picked at her meals,
spoke only when spoken to, and seemed constantly
preoccupied.
The fourth night, Mr and Mrs Darling went to the
neighbors', 27 Whitebridge, for dinner and parlor games
and port, leaving Wendy alone until late. She went to
bed early and lay there, staring at the dark as I
stared back at her, unseen in the shadows of her
ceiling. Periodically she sighed, began to straighten
her nightgown, and pointedly shook her head, placing
her hands above the covers. I could taste her again,
the want and need coming off her in shimmying waves,
the seed I'd helped to plant germinating inside her.
Finally, she crept from her bed, as if afraid the house
itself would hear her, although she must have known her
parents wouldn't be home for hours yet. She walked to
her bathroom, lit a lamp and dimmed it until it shone
just enough to see by, and drew a bath.
The hot water filled the room with steam as she
undressed, doing so slowly, pausing to run a hand along
her arm or leg, shivering, pretending to be cold. When
the water stopped and she stepped into the tub, she
gasped at the heat, and lowered herself slowly, letting
the water lap at her legs, her ass, her stomach,
finally slipping down until she was submerged from the
shoulders down, fractions of her rising up like
curved islands.
She lay there for a long while, eyes closed, and I
hovered on the surface of the water, my body rippling
with her movements as she traced her neck with her
fingertips, maybe feeling for the cold spots my mouth
had touched four nights earlier. Gradually her hands
moved down over the curves of her breasts, as she
leaned her head back into the water, her ginger hair
floating in front of me. As her fingers clasped around
her and squeezed, lifting them, she whimpered
and rubbed her thighs together, lowering her head until
water sloshed into her parted lips.
I moved against her, on all the power I could
muster, and descended through the water, causing it to
rise up higher, covering her mouth as her hands
clutched at her breasts. I bent my head down against
her cleavage, as if she was offering me those small
islands: I brushed cool lips against them, cooler still
when surrounded by the still-steaming water, and
dragged my mouth through the valley between her hands.
She spread them apart, moving away from the suddenly-
cool water, leaving me free to nuzzle my face between
her breasts, pressing my lips to the thin skin of her
chest.
Wendy swallowed the mouthful of water with a muffled
moan, eyes still clenched tightly shut but legs
spreading as her hands moved down to her stomach, her
nails dragging down across the last few inches of her
breasts on their way. I straddled her, my legs fitting
into the space between her and the sides of the tub, my
hands clutching the sides of her and digging
cold crescents into them, my mouth fitting perfectly
against her neck beneath the water, hungrily on
her skin. God, how I wished for teeth, for sharpness,
teeth to bite her, to rend her, to bleed her.
She felt me, though, teeth or no: her arms moved as if
to wrap around me, but only passed through chill dark
waters, coming back to touch her own skin, to run along
it raising goosebumps beneath the surface of the bath,
freeing airbubbles from the small hairs on her body.
My tongue lapped against her neck, against that small
concave parallelogram above her collarbone, in time
with the shifting waves of water. Her hands moved
lower, her knees scuffling up to spread her thighs
apart as her hands drifted, curiouser and curiouser
between them, uncertain what to do. She stretched her
fingers out along the darker-ginger hair between her
thighs, dragging them upwards and moaning.
My hands followed Wendy's, guiding them by cooling the
water around her, directing her back towards heat, her
heat, as her ass began to rock back and forth against
the slick tub bottom, moving herself instinctively
towards our fingers: hers curious and tentative, mine
eager and wanting. I kissed her, sliding my cool
ephemeral tongue between her parted lips to hear her
small gasp and feel her chest press up against mine.
Her tongue flicked against my lips and I pushed down on
her thighs, my cock entering her as her wetslick
fingers discovered that rubbing her clit gave her
exactly what she sought.
The water ebbed and flowed around us, hot and urgent as
we pushed together, her eyes fluttering open but
finding nothing to account for what she felt inside her
and on top of her, and she moaned a deep moan which
made her seem than she was as I took her tongue
between my lips, suckling it. I took hold of the edge
of the tub, pulling myself forward, deeper into her, as
her fingers worked harder, playing with rhythms and
texture, desperately reaching for release.
I wanted her, and I wanted her to suffer for it: I
pushed her beneath the small waves, pushing down with
my mouth until her face was submerged, her gasps cut
off as water rushed around me and filled her mouth. I
kept on her tongue, feeling her chest hitch and
her breath stop as she struggled against that spot of
dark cold in the midst of the hot bathwater, the line
of throbbing cool thrusting in and out of her beneath
the steam. She pushed against me, fighting what she
couldn't see, kicking her legs -- and her fingers never
stopped moving. I could feel her clenching around me,
feel her thighs shoving roughly against me and her
tongue move wantonly in my mouth even as she fought for
breath.
I held her down, breathless and suffocating, until she
came, her fingers flying away in surprise, her back
arching as she moaned again and flung her head back
until her rose out of the water again, steam
rising off of them. I released her tongue and let her
breathe, grabbing her hips and pounding against her,
splashing water out of the tub as she inhaled through
trembling whimpers, feeling her liquid smoothness grip
me until I came inside her, a flood of cold darkness
that made her shiver, raised goosebumps along her body
and hair at the back of her neck, and for a moment she
saw me in the lamplight: her eyes widened and her feet
scrabbled against the tub bottom, pushing herself up
into a sitting position as she covered her quivering
breasts with her hands.
"Wh--" she started to breathe, but stopped as I laid
across the rippling surface of the water again. I
could almost hear her thoughts, hear her convincing
herself she'd imagined a lover where none could be
found, and I felt that delicious wave of guilt rise up
in her again, in the subsiding of her orgasm.
It was the next night that Pan returned for us both.
He would have her, in his little ways, but she was
mine first.
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