Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (56 page)

She lay blindfolded on a long table in what appeared to be a large dining room.  A raw-food pungency filled the air.  That, and the scent of sex.  Vaguely, Pietre heard Mr Black enter the room behind him and the sound of the door closing, but as his brother had intended, his attention was riveted by the centrepiece of the banquet.  Wendee herself.  

Spread-eagled on her back, she was surrounded by naked men.  Pietre counted them.  There were ten.  Two stood at the head of the table masturbating themselves in her fists.  Papaya pulp oozed from her fingers.

Another knelt over her upper-body rutting her honey smeared breasts, while in front of him, and just taking his place at her mouth, crouched an eager sailor about to insert his avocado smeared penis between her lips - lips that Pietre thought had grown lusher in her absence from him. 

In the middle of the table, blond dreadlocks tangled in dark curls as a sailor drew out her own juices with his quick tongue, at the same time penetrating her with a smooth green cucumber and occasionally moaning as he was buggered in turn.

Her feet, covered in crushed strawberries, were sucked and tongued by two kneeling sailors who alternated between masturbating themselves and each other, while one or two roamed about buggering whomever showed a likely ass.  It was a moving, fluid montage that Pietre found erotic, and yet deeply disturbing.

He could appreciate the symmetry of it, the unashamed greed of the participants.  But it was too close, too intrusively real.

The smells that drifted across were overpowering and the grunt and moan of need and fulfilment, not flattened by a camera pickup, were rich and frighteningly intense.

But even as he acknowledged his fears, he knew they must be overcome.  He forced himself to look, to put himself in the participants place for the first time in his life, imagining himself making those sounds as he lay over Wendee with his penis inside that writhing, shuddering body.  Would she moan and cry out her fulfilment as she did now.  Would she...

He glanced away, pretended to be absorbed by the conga-line of three who had broken away from the table and were enacting their own private dance, the middle sailor pivoting back and forth between the ass in front and the penis behind.  Their movements were mesmeric and allowed him time to think.  About Wendee.

He could visualise her blissful orgasm as many times as he liked, but the immediate question wasn't even
would he be able to penetrate her
, but
would he be able to touch her at all
.  That must be established first.

The conga-copulators finished their routine with a resounding
smack
of buttocks, then promptly withdrew their depleted organs to return to the table.  Pietre glanced back at Wendee as the cucumber was removed and the sailor who had given her such pleasure lifted her hips and guided his penis inside. 

The thick column of flesh was swallowed up by the place Pietre knew he must also enter.  Not only enter, but conquer.  The thought made him sick with fear.

The sailor began his short ride to glory but Pietre could watch no more.  To Mr Black, he gestured that they would be leaving and Armande obediently opened the door.

Outside in the passage with the door closed behind them, Pietre said  "I will wait on the launch.  Bring her to me."

"The entertainment upsets you, brother?" Armande asked casually.

"I am not jealous, if that is your inference," Pietre replied.  "But you know I prefer my pleasures buffered.  I found that," he indicated the closed door with a tilt of his head, "too intense to be savoured."

Armande raised a questioning eyebrow.  "More intense than your conception of a child?"

Pietre felt himself go still inside.  He must be careful with Armande.  He did not yet have Wendee in his possession. 

"That was not a pleasure, brother," he said, letting the tremor of real fear enter his voice.  "It was a duty.  I know you understand the difference."

"Yes.  I do understand."  For the first time in Pietre’s memory, Armande looked on him with respect.  "I know I couldn't..."

Pietre nodded.  He wasn't sure he could himself.  But he had to get Wendee before he could try.

"I will bring her to you," Armande said and Pietre felt the tension flow out of him.  He would not need to kill his brother after all. 

"Thank you."  He nodded stiffly.  "I trust the replacement will be suitable."

Armande paused, frowned.  "The blonde.  Yes, a generous gift, but I fear the chest will be too distracting."

Pietre dismissed this with a wave of his hand.  "Your men will appreciate her abundance and I'm sure you will find her well trained."

"Perhaps."  Armande wasn't convinced.  "Is she obedient?" 

"My observations tell me so.  Keep her on the drug and she will be docile."

"Very well.  And Xavion stays with us," Armande said, a testing quality to his voice. 

Their gazes locked.  "I will not go back on my word, brother," Pietre said, although he wished he could.  Had he known Xavion was his brother's captive he might have mounted a rescue bid, as Armande well knew.  Unfortunately, there was also no question of his 'gift' - the damaged mermaid - being exchanged for Xavion.

Armande had made it clear that he wanted Pietre to lose something he valued greatly.  Such was the price of Wendee's return.

That something was Xavion.     

"I've made my choice," Pietre said, "Xavion understands the necessity.  The child's life is paramount." 

"Quite," Armande agreed.  "If there's anything I can do..."

"I will tell you."  Pietre was tired of the conversation.  He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.  "Come, Mr Black."  They turned to leave.  "The launch, brother."

"I will bring her," Armande assured him.  "And I will await the birth of my niece with much pleasure."

"You will be informed," Pietre said coldly, then he retreated to the privacy of his launch where he sat huddled in his cabin, wrapped in a heavy cloak. 

Wendee was brought aboard an hour later and again, as he gazed at the limp body wrapped in a thick blanket, he felt the drawing sensation, the need to be near her, to touch her.

Gingerly, he parted the blanket for a closer look and noticed for the first time something colourful around her throat.  The thin strip of beading appeared Native American by design, and old.  Pietre immediately thought of Long Shadow and his suspicions about the Indian's involvement with Wendee. 

Had he given it to her?  And if he had, why was she still wearing it?   Had she simply taken a liking to it or was there an emotional connection involved?  Pietre frowned.  He needed to investigate this at his earliest opportunity.  They would soon be back on his island and he would let nothing distract her from their new relationship.  Nothing - 

Relationship.

Pietre took a shallow breath and reached down experimentally to touch the band, tracing the pattern - nearly but not quite able to touch the tender skin of the throat exposed above it.

"Mother of my child," he mouthed, trying out the phrase.

At that moment Mr Black gunned the engine, and as the launch sped off towards his home, Pietre felt a surge of power within himself.  He would do this thing.

Withdrawing his hand, he looked down on the body he would soon know intimately - the body that would welcome him and give him a return far greater than his puny offering deserved.  No matter the personal sacrifice - he knew the reward would be worthy of it.

Belle's defection had shaken his confidence, but with Wendee, his instincts had served him well.  Consciously, he might have thought she was merely a diversion - a Wendee to mother his 'Lost Boys', but subconsciously, just as the real Peter Pan had realised, Pietre had known he was looking for a mother for himself.  And now he had her.

This time he was determined to prove that 'the boy' had grown up.  This time he would not fail.

                                    
Chapter Thirty-Three

Dee sat in a comfortable arm chair trying out different combinations of letters on the keyboard in front of her.  Pietre had shown her how to call up the file tapes and had encouraged her to view them on her own, 'To alleviate her boredom in the hours he could not be with her'.  Unfortunately, she'd forgotten the code.

A prisoner again, although Pietre preferred the term 'temporarily quarantined guest', she was confined to a private suite of rooms with no visitors save Pietre himself.   

She had no freedom and no lovers, yet surprisingly, felt no desperation - no withdrawal.  Pietre had circumvented that by offering her something more satisfying than the crude huddlings of sex.