index


Message-ID: <38452asstr$1032865804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Simon" <Simon@jazzandjava.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Wendy (Mf, reluc, mild bd, f-solo, magic, Peter Pan)
Date: Tue, 24 Sep 2002 07:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

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 tale 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 young girl 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 parents 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 old enough to dream of sex: young 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 boy 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 swallow 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 breasts 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 young breasts, as she 
leaned her head back into the water, her ginger hair 
floating in front of me.  As her fingers clasped around 
her breasts 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, drawing 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 breasts and digging 
cold crescents into them, my mouth fitting perfectly 
against her neck beneath the water, sucking 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 older 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 sucking 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 breasts 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 boy ways, but she was 
mine first.


* * * * *

(I plan to continue this, in further self-contained stories,
when I finish other projects.)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Simon/www/

_____________________________________________
Free email with personality! Over 200 domains!
http://www.MyOwnEmail.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+