Neverland Unbound
Copyright© 2025 by Petrichor
Chapter 2: The Shadow
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 2: The Shadow - You think you know Peter Pan? Forget pixie dust and thimbles. It's time to experience the raw truth of Neverland, a place far more dangerous and seductive than you could imagine. This is not the whimsical world of your childhood. This is the forbidden journey of Peter, Wendy and the lost girls. Innocence will be lost, boundaries shattered, and you'll be entangled in desires as wild and free as Neverland itself.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Teenagers Fairy Tale Masturbation Small Breasts
Mrs. Darling screamed, and, as if in answer to a bell, the door opened, and Nana entered, naked and sweating from her lessons with Mr. Darling. She growled like a wild thing and sprang at the boy, who leapt lightly through the window. Again Mrs. Darling screamed, this time in distress for him, for she thought he was killed, and she ran down into the street to look for his little body, but it was not there; and she looked up, and in the black night she could see nothing but what she thought was a shooting star.
She returned to the nursery, and quickly wrapped her skirt around her to conceal her wetness, her throbbing kiss, and the sticky twinkling stains of the boy’s ejaculate on her thighs. She found Nana crouching by the window with something clutched in her hands, which proved to be the boy’s shadow. As he leapt at the window Nana had closed it quickly, too late to catch him, but his shadow had not had time to get out; slam went the window and snapped it off.
You may be sure Mrs. Darling examined the shadow carefully, but it was quite the ordinary kind, with the exception of the swollen protuberance between its legs (which, it must be stated, even Nana found impressive).
Nana had no doubt of what was the best thing to do with this shadow. She hung it out at the window, meaning “He is sure to come back for it; let us put it where he can get it easily without disturbing the children.” But unfortunately Mrs. Darling could not leave it hanging out at the window, it looked so like the washing and lowered the whole tone of the house. She thought of showing it to Mr. Darling, but he was laid out upon the bed and, not having adequately completed his tuition of Nana before she had rushed to her mistress’s aid, was girding his loins somewhat irritably; Mrs. Darling felt that it seemed a shame to trouble him, and besides, she knew that the shadow’s manhood would only make him feel inadequate.
She decided to roll the shadow up and put it away carefully in a drawer, until a fitting opportunity came for telling her husband. Ah me!
The opportunity came exactly one week later, on that never-to-be-forgotten Friday. Of course it was a Friday.
“I ought to have been specially careful on a Friday,” she used to say afterwards to her husband, while perhaps Nana was on the other side of her, fondling her breasts.
“No, no,” Mr. Darling always said, “I am responsible for it all. I, George Darling, did it. Mea culpa, mea culpa.” He had had a classical education.
They sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till every detail of it was stamped on their brains and came through on the other side like the faces on a bad coinage.
“If only I had not offered to dance for the men at number 27,” Mrs. Darling said.
“If only I had not forced Nana to take my medicine,” said Mr. Darling.
“If only I had kept my thighs shaven and attended to my tuition,” was what Nana’s wet eyes said (though of course she could not speak this aloud as she did not know the Queen’s English and could only grunt or whine like the wild negress slave she was).
“My liking for orgies, George.”
“My fatal fancy for fellatio, dearest.”
“My ungainly bush, dear master and mistress.”
Then one or more of them would break down altogether.
“That fiend!” Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana’s squeals were the echo of it, but Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was a fire between her thighs that wanted her not to call Peter names.
They would sit there in the empty nursery, recalling fondly every smallest detail of that dreadful evening. It had begun so uneventfully, so precisely like a hundred other evenings, with Nana putting on the water for Michael’s bath and pushing him towards the tub with her hand on his rump.
“I won’t go to bed,” he had shouted, like one who still believed that he had the last word on the subject, “I won’t, I won’t. Nana, it isn’t six o’clock yet. Oh dear, oh dear, I shan’t love you any more, Nana. I tell you I won’t be bathed, I won’t, I won’t!”
Then Mrs. Darling had come in, wearing a thin white nightdress through which her large bosom and closely trimmed pubic hair could be observed. She had dressed early for the party because her children so loved to see her body; John and Michael, because it made them feel tingly in a way that Nana’s nudity did not; and Wendy, because her breasts were still developing and her purse had only the lightest, thinnest blonde down upon it, and she craved to see how one day her body might look.
She had found Wendy and John playing at being mother and father; that is to say, they were in a state of undress and were kissing one another, and Little John was standing more proud and more to attention than Mrs. Darling had ever seen it, and Wendy’s lavishments were likely to bring about the little death in her brother; and so Mrs. Darling took John quickly to one side and quietly explained that he had a duty to bring satisfaction to his sister before taking his own pleasure.
At that point, Michael had nearly cried. “Nobody wants me,” he said, and of course Mrs. Darling could not stand that. “I do,” she said, and as John and Wendy resumed their games, Mrs. Darling played her own game with Michael (which I will not detail here, as it would be indelicate, though it did involve Mrs. Darling showing Michael her kiss). Such a little thing for Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana to recall now, but not so little if that was to be Michael’s last night in the nursery.
They go on with their recollections.
“It was then that I rushed in like a tornado, wasn’t it?” Mr. Darling would say, scorning himself; and indeed he had been like a tornado.
Perhaps there was some excuse for him. He, too, had been preparing for the party, and all had gone well with him until he came to his tie. It is an astounding thing to have to tell, but this man, though he knew about stocks and shares, had no real mastery of his tie. Sometimes the thing yielded to him without a contest, but there were occasions when it would have been better for the house if he had swallowed his pride and used a made-up tie.
This was such an occasion. He came rushing into the nursery in only his socks, with the crumpled little brute of a tie in his hand.
“Why, what is the matter, father dear?”
“Matter!” he yelled; he really yelled. “This tie, it will not tie.” He became dangerously sarcastic. “Not round my neck! Round the bed-post? Yes! And even round my knob! Oh yes, twenty times have I made it up round my knob, but round my neck, no! Oh dear no! begs to be excused!”
He thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently impressed, and he went on sternly, “I warn you of this, mother, that unless this tie is round my neck I won’t be offering you to our neighbours to-night, and if our neighbours don’t get their way with you to-night, I shall never be allowed to the office again, and if I don’t go to the office again, you and I starve, and our children will be flung naked into the streets.”
Even then Mrs. Darling was placid. “Let me try, dear,” she said, and indeed that was what he had come to ask her to do, and with her nice cool hands she tied his tie for him, while the children stood around to see their fate decided. Some men would have resented her being able to do it so easily, but Mr. Darling had far too fine a nature for that; he thanked her carelessly, at once forgot his rage, and in another moment was dancing round the room with Michael on his back.
“How wildly we romped!” says Mrs. Darling now, recalling it.
“Our last romp!” Mr. Darling groaned.
“O George, do you remember Michael suddenly said to me, ‘How did you get to know me, mother?’”
“I remember!”
“They were rather sweet, don’t you think, George?”
“And they were ours, ours! and now they are gone.”
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