Neverland Unbound
Copyright© 2025 by Petrichor
Chapter 3: Come Away, Come Away!
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 3: Come Away, Come Away! - 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
For a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left the house the night-lights by the beds of the three children continued to burn clearly. They were awfully nice little night-lights, and one cannot help wishing that they could have kept awake to see Peter; but Wendy’s light blinked and gave such a yawn that the other two yawned also, and before they could close their mouths all the three went out.
There was another light in the room now, a thousand times brighter than the night-lights, and in the time we have taken to say this, it had been in all the drawers in the nursery, looking for Peter’s shadow, rummaged the wardrobe and turned every pocket inside out. It was not really a light; it made this light by flashing about so quickly, but when it came to rest for a second you saw it was a fairy, no longer than your hand, but still growing. It was a girl called Tinker Bell, and she wore not a stitch of clothing.
She had the palest skin with the reddest cheeks you’ve ever seen; her wings were delicate and they glowed exquisitely; her breasts were rather larger than you might expect on her small frame, but pert nonetheless, and she had wide hips; the hair between her legs was as blonde as the hair on her head, but cropped sufficiently close so as not to conceal her opening; her nipples and the jumbled folds of her labia were slightly darker than the rest of her skin, though one would have to look very closely indeed since she was so small.
A moment after the fairy’s entrance the window was blown open by the breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in. He had been masturbating, as was his way, and his hand was messy with his fairy dust.
“Tinker Bell,” he called softly, after making sure that the children were asleep, “Tink, where are you?” She was in a jug for the moment, and liking it extremely; she had never been in a jug before.
“Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do you know where they put my shadow?”
The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the fairy language. You ordinary children can rarely hear it, but if you were to hear it you would know that you had heard it once before, as you experienced your little death for the first time.
Tink said that the shadow was in the big box. She meant the chest of drawers, and Peter jumped at the drawers, scattering their contents to the floor with both hands, as kings toss ha’pence to the crowd. In a moment he had recovered his shadow, and in his delight he forgot that he had shut Tinker Bell up in the drawer.
If he thought at all, but I don’t believe he ever thought, it was that he and his shadow, when brought near each other, would join like drops of water, and when they did not he was appalled. He tried to stick it on using his own glittering ejaculate, but that also failed. A shudder passed through Peter, and he sat on the floor and cried.
His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to see a stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly interested. This is what she saw.
It was a boy, the same age as her or perhaps a little younger. He had tanned skin and messy dark red hair which had clearly never seen a comb. His eyes were the colour of deep oceans, or the sky on the cusp of sunset. He wore a leather belt upon which was fastened a knife and several oddments such as leaves and seashells and bits of string, but he was otherwise naked. Wendy couldn’t help but notice the boy’s penis: it hung flaccid between his legs, small and slim like the boy himself, with no suggestion of how it would grow when aroused. At its tip, crusted about the foreskin, was a little glitter and it caught the light just so.
“Boy,” Wendy said courteously, “why are you crying?”
Peter could be exceedingly polite also, having learned the grand manner at fairy ceremonies, and he rose and bowed to her beautifully. She was much pleased at the way his little prick swung between his legs, and she bowed beautifully to him from the bed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she replied with some satisfaction. “What is your name?”
“Peter Pan.”
She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a comparatively short name.
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a shortish name. He ran one hand through his unruly hair, and idly stroked his penis with the other.
“I’m so sorry,” said Wendy Moira Angela, and she slitted her eyes against the shine of the fairy dust on Peter’s prick, so bright it was.
“It doesn’t matter,” Peter gulped. He looked at her for a long moment with a quizzical look upon his face, still stroking himself slowly though I’m sure he didn’t realise he was doing it. “Are you a girl?” he asked. She had long blonde hair, like Tink, so he reckoned she might be, but she was wearing a long nightdress and he couldn’t see the swell of her breasts or what she had between her legs, so he thought it sensible to ask.
Wendy laughed, and blushed. “Of course I’m a girl,” she said.
Peter said that yes, obviously, she was, and that he had known it from the start. He could be stubborn like that. His manhood (erect, it could not reasonably be described a boyhood) had swollen in size and become as flushed in colour as Wendy’s cheeks. He had stopped stroking himself a few moments earlier, but he now seemed to notice his protuberance. He gently fondled the crown and drew back his foreskin to expose the head (light so bright) before asking Wendy quite brazenly to remove her nightdress.
Wendy was rather taken aback by this, but she acquiesced; she pulled the nightdress up over her head and dropped it on the floor.
Peter stared at Wendy without any sort of shame. Her face was heart-shaped with a delicate chin. Her breasts were small, taught mounds topped with the tiniest pink nipples. Peter’s eyes quickly darted to his favourite part of a girl: Wendy’s had the lightest dusting of fine blonde curls. At first, it appeared that she merely had a narrow cleft, but then Wendy adjusted her stance and he caught the smallest glimpse of her secret, inner lips, peeking shyly from her crease.
She asked where he lived.
“Second to the right,” said Peter proudly, “and then straight on till morning.”
“What a funny address!”
Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a funny address.
“No, it isn’t,” he said, and his cock throbbed once, twice, three times, though he wasn’t touching it any more.
“I mean,” Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, “is that what they put on the letters?”
He wished she had not mentioned letters.
“Don’t get any letters,” he said contemptuously.
“But your mother gets letters?”
“Don’t have a mother,” he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated persons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a tragedy.
“O Peter, no wonder you were crying,” she said, and ran to him and gathered him in a tight hug. She blushed again as she felt his hardness pressing against her mound, but she didn’t say anything more than “hush, hush.”
“I wasn’t crying about mothers,” Peter said rather indignantly, pulling away from the naked girl, despite the stirring in his loins. “I was crying because I can’t get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn’t crying.” He tugged his prick again, almost violently, and his hand became quite smeared with his fairy dust.
“It has come off?” Wendy asked. Some of the boy’s dust had come on her hip, and she ran her finger through it. It tingled on her skin, hot and sticky.
“Yes.”
Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so bedraggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. “How awful!” she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with his own semen. How exactly like a boy!
Fortunately she knew at once what to do. “It must be sewn on,” she said, just a little patronisingly.
“What’s sewn?” he asked. “Like a man sows his seed?” Then Peter promptly shut his mouth, for he did not like to talk of grown-ups.
“You’re dreadfully ignorant.”
“No, I’m not.”
But Wendy was exulting in his ignorance. “I shall sew it on for you, my little man,” she said, though he bristled at this and tugged his wilting prick again as if to prove her wrong, and she got out her housewife, ready to sew the shadow on to Peter’s cock. “I daresay it will hurt a little,” she warned him.
“Oh, I shan’t cry,” said Peter, who was already of the opinion that he had never cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not cry; and he bid Wendy sit cross-legged on the floor before him as she worked so her legs were parted and he could gaze upon her secret lips; and soon his shadow was behaving properly, if not rather cockily, though still a little creased.
“Perhaps I should have ironed it,” Wendy said thoughtfully, but Peter, boylike, was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping about in the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed his bliss to Wendy. It was as though he had attached the shadow himself. “How clever I am!” he crowed rapturously, his engorged tool waving at full mast before him, “oh, the cleverness of me!”
It is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter was the second of his most fascinating qualities (I’m sure you’ve already guessed the first). To put it with brutal frankness, there never was a cockier boy.
But for the moment Wendy was shocked. “You conceit,” she exclaimed, with frightful sarcasm; “of course I did nothing!”
“You did a little,” Peter said carelessly, and continued to dance in rapture, and his fairy dust burst like fireworks around him, staining the wall and rug.
“A little!” she replied with hauteur; “if I am no use I can at least withdraw,” and she sprang in the most dignified way into bed and covered her nudity with the blankets.
To induce her to look up he pretended to be going away, and when this failed he sat on the end of the bed and tapped her gently with his foot. “Wendy,” he said, “don’t withdraw. I can’t help crowing, Wendy, when I’m pleased with myself.” Still she would not look up, though she was listening eagerly. “Wendy,” he continued, in a voice that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, “Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys.”
Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many inches, and she felt a wetness down below, and peeped out of the bed-clothes.
“Do you really think so, Peter?” she asked, watching as the glistening head of his cockiness, crowing no more, gradually slipped back beneath its sheath, then shrunk into a little pale comma between his legs.
Peter beamed, quite unabashed. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”
“I think it’s perfectly sweet of you,” she declared, “and so I’ll get up again,” and she sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at him sitting cross-legged on the floor before her. She found it difficult to look away from his little curved member, and even more difficult to believe how big it could become. (Remember, a little over six inches could be considered huge for a girl whose only experience with male genitals was that of her younger brothers who were still growing, and of course her father’s which was widely accepted as significantly smaller than average in those days.) Wendy told Peter she would give him a kiss if he liked, but he did not know what she meant, and he held out one glitter-crusted hand expectantly.
“Surely you know what a kiss is?” she asked, aghast.
“I shall know when you give it to me,” he replied stiffly, and not to hurt his feelings she handed him a thimble. Of course, Wendy had intended to show Peter her special, most innermost kiss, that tiny pink pearl hidden beneath its hood where her lips came together, but she hadn’t wanted to embarrass the boy.
“Now,” said he, “shall I give you a kiss?” and she replied with a slight primness, “If you please.” She made herself rather cheap by spreading her legs and reaching down with one hand to part the lips of her quim, but he merely caressed his foreskin with his forefinger, coating it with fairy dust, and then reached up and swiftly rubbed her left nipple. Wendy gasped and her nipple hardened, and glittered, and she said nicely that she would wear his kiss above her heart for the rest of her days. (It was lucky that she did, for it was afterwards to save her maidenhood.)
When people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to ask each other’s age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct thing, asked Peter how old he was. It was not really a happy question to ask him; it was like an examination paper that asks grammar, when what you want to be asked is Kings of England.
“I don’t know,” he replied uneasily, “but I am quite young.” He really knew nothing about it, he had merely suspicions, but he said at a venture, “Wendy, I ran away the day I was born.”
Wendy was quite surprised, but interested. She indicated in the charming drawing-room manner, by a touch on her naked thigh, that he could sit nearer her; he shuffled closer along the floor on his bottom. Wendy, still sitting on the edge of her bed, was suddenly very conscious that his head was level with her slightly parted thighs; she crossed her legs.
Peter looked a little put out. “It was because I heard father and mother,” he explained in a low voice, “talking about what I was to be when I became a man.” He was extraordinarily agitated now, and he glared at Wendy, then at her breasts and then at her legs, crossed before him. “I don’t want ever to be a man,” he said with passion. “I want always to be a little boy and to have fun and play with myself. So I ran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time among the fairies.”
She gave him a look of the most intense admiration, and he thought it was because he had run away, but it was really because he knew fairies. Wendy had lived such a home life that to know fairies struck her as quite delightful. She poured out questions about them, to his surprise, for they were rather a nuisance to him, getting in his way and so on, and indeed he sometimes had to give them a hiding. Still, he liked them on the whole, and he told her about the beginning of fairies.
“You see, Wendy, when a boy or girl experiences their little death for the very first time, the pleasure spills from them into a little ball of light, and that is how a fairy is born.”
Tedious talk this, but being a stay-at-home she liked it. She remembered her mother telling her about her own little death, in the bath, when she was eleven years old.
“And so,” he went on good-naturedly, “there ought to be one fairy for every boy and girl.”
“Ought to be? Isn’t there?”
“No. You see children know such a lot now, they are so prim and proper and they soon don’t believe in fairies, and when a child refuses to play with himself, there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.” When Peter said about a child refusing to play with himself, he was of course referring to the boyhood act of masturbation; the same goes for girls who pleasure themselves too, but Peter was quite selfish and didn’t know much about how girls pleased themselves.
Peter thought they had now talked enough about fairies, and it struck him that Tinker Bell was keeping very quiet. “I can’t think where she has gone to,” he said, rising, and he called Tink by name. Wendy’s heart went flutter with a sudden thrill.
“Peter,” she cried, clutching him, “you don’t mean to tell me that there is a fairy in this room!”
“She was here just now,” he said a little impatiently. “You don’t hear her, do you?” and they both listened.
“The only sound I hear,” said Wendy, “is like a tinkle of bells.”
“Well, that’s Tink, that’s the fairy language. I think I hear her too.”