Peter in Neverland

Peter in Neverland

PETER IN NEVERLAND

A fantasy story by Ivor Sukwell, a story that involves a boy being very naughty with other boys and with a man as well. If such fantasies are not your thing, then please do not distress yourself by reading it, and if you are not supposed to read such fantasies, you really ought to stop reading right here!

No boys were seduced in the writing of this story.

Peter did not want to grow up. He liked being thirteen years, two months and four days old and he had no wish to be any older than that.

There were some disadvantages, of course, he mused to himself as he lay on the summer grass at the local park; you had to do what your parents told you to – well, some of the time, anyway, and you had to go to school. The parents bit was a downer, but school wasn't all bad – you had mates at school, other boys you could mess around with, kick a football with and share very bad dirty jokes with.

The advantages outweighed the disadvantages by miles, though (at thirteen, Peter had no problem with mixing metaphors and he didn't actually have a clue what a metaphor was anyway). At thirteen years, two months and four days, you could get away with behaving like a nine year old if you fancied being silly, and you could turn your nose up and sneer at your mum, "I'm not a little kid!" when she wanted to buy you some eminently sensible and very definitely not cool item of clothing.

You could leave clothes spread all over your bedroom floor, clean and dirty all mixed up, as though it made any difference which was which, and though the rents always moaned about your untidiness, it was never more than a moan. You wouldn't be able to get away with that when you grew up a bit!

Being as old as thirteen years, two months and four days had brought one problem with it, and that, he knew, was a problem that would only get worse if, when, he got older. He needed to take something to bed with him now, handkerchief or sock or something, to use when he played what had now become his favourite game. He hadn't had to do that a few months ago, but he did now. True, the game was much more fun now, but you had to get rid of the evidence you'd been playing, and, for some reason, if he used a sock it went all crusty when it dried, and handkerchiefs got both crusty and stained.

His mother's nose would twitch and she'd give him funny looks when she did the washing; Peter didn't know why her nose twitched, he never smelt anything odd about his crusty socks or stained handkerchiefs, but he had a definite feeling that the funny looks were because she knew why they were crusty and stained. And that was another bad thing about having parents, mothers always seemed to know everything, especially things they weren't supposed to know.

She'd never actually said anything, but Peter knew she wouldn't approve of him playing that game, even though he knew for a fact that it was a game all boys of his age played, even though almost all of them pretended that they didn't.

It wasn't just boys that played it either, men did as well, though Peter didn't know if they played it on their own like he did, because he'd only seen them in porn, playing it with others, sometimes another man, but mostly they seemed to like to play it with boys. Peter could understand that; he'd only ever played it by himself, but if a man did want to play it with him, he supposed he might go along with it. He'd much prefer to play it with another boy, though; in the porn he watched boys always seemed to really enjoy playing it with each other.

And that was another thing: porn. He wasn't supposed to look at porn, he knew that, but if he wasn't supposed to see it, why was it so easy to find and look at? His father had put a child lock on both his phone and his tablet, but adults are so stupid when it comes to things like computers. It was a nuisance, but it only took a moment or two to take the child lock off and all he had to do was to remember to put it back on again when he'd finished looking at things he wasn't supposed to look at.

And, anyway, if he wasn't supposed to see it because it was bad, why was it there to be seen in the first place? Adults said it was bad, but adults put it up on the net, didn't they? And if it was so bad that men got sent to prison for looking at it, surely it didn't make any sense to have it there where they could see it. Adults were completely mad in some ways.

"Lost in thought?" a voice behind him asked, and, taken by surprise, Peter turned his head to look up at the park bench behind him where the voice had come from.

"Sort of," Peter mumbled, and that was another thing he was doing wrong. He shouldn't be speaking to a man he didn't know, even though the man had asked a perfectly ordinary question. `Stranger danger' had been well drummed into him, and into all other boys as well, by not just parents, but by teachers and occasional school visiting policemen when they came to give talks about `keeping safe'.

Any one of those would have looked at him in horror now, lying on the grass in front of a bench where a man he didn't know was sitting; that alone would have caused exclamations of horror, but Peter was only wearing his trainers and a pair of shorts. He did have a tee shirt, but he'd taken that off to bask in the summer sun, and if they'd known that his shorts were all he had on, nothing underneath them, he was sure there'd have been blue lights flashing all round the park, sirens wailing in two seconds flat.

The man was a stranger, but he didn't look strange, he looked just like a man sitting on a park bench. Peter had no idea of his age, to a boy of thirteen, two months and four days, anyone not at school was old.

"Boy type thoughts?" the man asked and Peter shrugged a boy shrug, "Well, spose," he said.

Of course, he should have grabbed his shirt and done one on his toes as fast as he could, that would have been the safe, sensible, adult approved of thing to do, but Peter made no move for his shirt, no move to run for safety.

"Feel like sharing them? Those sort of thoughts make more sense sometimes, if you share them."

A phantom adult from the `boy protection vigilantes' pressed an alarm button, but Peter never heard a sound. Instead of going to Def Con Four Boy Defence, he said he didn't think anyone would be interested in his thoughts, cos they were silly thoughts.

"Not to you, not if you were thinking them," the man smiled and Peter looked at him, amazed.

His mother would have sighed, shaken her head and wondered, deliberately out loud why he couldn't do something sensible with his time, like a jig-saw puzzle or something? His father would have told him to snap out of it, stop daydreaming; he wasn't a little kid anymore. The man said his thoughts were important, even if they were only important to him. Had he, by chance, by luck or whatever, discovered a being unknown to science? A man who seemed to understand boys?

"Just wishing I didn't have to grow up," Peter said, and there were some strange things about that: it didn't sound silly and he didn't feel silly or at all embarrassed saying it, and he felt compelled to say more. "I like being thirteen, two months and four days old," he stated, "It suits me."

The man could not disagree with that. Peter's slender naked top half looked delightful in a very young teen way, slowly bronzing in the sun, and perhaps his shorts were showing more long, slender boy thigh than would be normally considered appropriate, but Peter didn't seem to mind that and the man wasn't objecting either.

"You're right there," the man gave another smile, "It does rather suit you."

"It does, doesn't it," Peter grinned, delighted that someone adult appreciated him a bit. He squared his shoulders and flexed his just developing thigh muscles to show off how much his body suited him.

"Fine body for a boy of thirteen years, two months and four days," the nice man confirmed, "You sure you want to keep it just as it is? No changes? None at all?"

That did make Peter blush, there was one change he'd like to make, but he couldn't mention that, not even to a man who seemed to understand boys.

"One perhaps," he heard himself saying.

"Want to tell me? Or you want to give me three guesses?"

Now Peter really should have run away as fast as he could, but he was enjoying playing this new game, a game of words and secret thoughts.

"Guess," he grinned naughtily.

The man pretended to think, think long and hard, before he said, as though it were a perfectly normal thing to say, "You want one more inch."

How could the man have guessed that? and guessed it straight off, just like that?

"Perhaps not a whole inch," Peter clarified, "I think half an inch might be enough."

He had to play his game with three fingers and a thumb; that was better than it had been when he was twelve and could only manage two fingers, but he longed for it to be long enough for him to be able to use his whole hand, grip it in his fist. It was bound to be more fun playing his game like that.

"Be best to go for a whole inch, just to be on the safe side," the man said, thoughtfully.

"Don't want any thicker, though," Peter added additional information. The really thick boy ones he'd seen in porn looked silly, he thought, far too big and thick to be proper boy ones.

"And," a sudden horrible thought struck him, "I wouldn't want it so long the skin didn't fit properly anymore. It only just fits now."

Ones without skin did not, in Peter's opinion, look at all nice. He used to think some just came that way until he found out about circumcision, but he was still worried his might outgrow its skin and pop out of the end, never to go back.

"Nothing to worry about there," the man smiled kindly, "Even if it grew to a foot long, the skin would grow with it."

"Really?" a relieved Peter asked.

"Really."

"Don't want it a foot long, though," Peter said emphatically, "Just another inch will be plenty."

"Just enough so you can ии." The nice man made a hollow fist and Peter blushed a lovely crimson.

"Yeah. Sorta," he mumbled, and then his face burst into a wild grin, "You're cool," he gave the man the greatest compliment a boy can give an adult.

"Why, thank you, kind young sir," he gave Peter a mock bow of his head and then returned to business. "What about hairs?" he asked.

Peter had to think. He only had a dozen or so, silky things but so wispy they looked out of place on his otherwise silky smooth pubis. He'd seen porn boys with great big bushes and he definitely didn't want one of those, he did not want his favourite toy engulfed by a hairy forest!

"Dunno," he confessed, thinking out loud, "Perhaps a bit more or none at all. I'm not sure which would look best." He brought his artistic mind to bear on the problem, and suggested a solution. "Like a straight edge at the top, and at the bottom following the shape of it in a sorta semi-circle like, but not going down the sides at all. No more than about this high," he held up finger and thumb, about a quarter of an inch apart, "And," he said slowly, thinking of those porn boys, "Nothing at all on my balls or in my bum."

The man nodded, and sought further details in the matter of hairs. "Under arms, thighs?" he asked.

Peter inspected his legs. There were faint, barely visible, hints of a sort of peach fuzz that threatened to grow into leg hair, but he knew his underarms were completely smooth.

"Nothing on either," he declared, making a decision.

"Fine," the man agreed, and asked one more intimate thing. "What about your cum?" he enquired. "You all happy with that as it is?"

Shockingly, Peter gave serious thought to the question. "Not completely," he said slowly, "It's a bit watery, sorta like skimmed milk. I would like something a bit thicker, I suppose, more creamy in a way." He thought some more, and hastened to add, "Not great thick blobs of clotted cream stuff, more like sorta double cream, if you know what I mean."

The man did seem to know what he meant and asked how many shots of double cream Peter would wish to fire and Peter really did have no idea how many would be appropriate.

"I'll check up and see the average number for a boy of thirteen, two months and four days," the man said as though he was being totally serious, `That be alright with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Peter giggled, really enjoying this weird word game.

"Let's make sure I've got this right," the man said as though he was ticking off items on a shopping list; "One more inch in length but no extra thickness; designer hairs above it and no hairs at all anywhere else; double cream cum, the quantity to be decided. Does that cover everything? Seem right to you?"

"Sure does," Peter giggled, wondering what he'd look like and feel like if that was really him.

"Now, and you must be very clear about this," the man said almost sternly, "Make really sure you like what you've ordered. You are allowed to make changes tomorrow, but after that you'll be stuck with what you've chosen. Is that clear?"

"Oh, sure," Peter sniggered, "I can change my mind tomorrow but never after that."

And then the man wasn't there anymore.

"Fucking ace daydream," Peter thought to himself, "Well wicked."

He didn't know how long he'd been having that daydream, but his chest and his exposed thighs were a bit red from the sun, so he supposed it must have been for a good half-hour or even more.

Not unnaturally, Peter gave his odd daytime fantasy a touch of thought as he made his way home. Where had it come from? Yeah, true. He'd been feeling a bit down about getting older for some reason, perhaps because he'd watched the latest release of "Peter Pan" on his tablet last night. He was a bit old to be watching "Peter Pan", but so what? It was a cool film and `Peter' was one well cool kid, and, no doubt, because of that, the idea of being thirteen for ever had taken root in his mind for a bit.

Daft, of course, no-one could be thirteen for ever, though it was rather a cool age; no responsibilities, no nasty exams at school that had to be passed, and he could get away with murder at home, so long as he didn't murder too often.

It was odd though, the way his fantasy chat with the nice man had turned to dirty stuff; perhaps not all that odd, because Peter often thought about dirty stuff, that was part of being thirteen, but he'd never talk dirty stuff with a man, especially with a man he'd never seen before. Would he?

Course he wouldn't, wouldn't even say some of the things he'd said to his best mate, things about not wanting any hairs and wanting his cum to be thicker. Silly things he could only say in his head, never out loud and for real.

And just supposing that man had been real. All that stuff would have meant the man had been trying to groom him, wouldn't it? Peter knew all there was to know about grooming, in theory anyway. Of course, no-one had ever tried to groom him for real, not that he knew of anyway, and his rents would go ape if they thought someone was trying to groom him. He'd be grounded for at least a month, and that didn't bear even thinking about.

It had been a well cool fantasy, though, he sniggered to himself, and then forgot about it when he got home.

Until he had his shower before going to bed.

Well, not actually when he had his shower, it was when he'd dried himself off and was brushing his hair and looking in the mirror.

The bathroom mirror was pretty much a full-length one, and with the lights on above it, it never steamed up, and Peter, being thirteen, always inspected himself, congratulating himself on how fit he looked. His eyes travelled downwards, stopped and did a Tom and Jerry act, bulging when he saw what he thought he saw.

His hairs were now exactly like he'd said he wanted them to be in that fantasy! And his cock! Surely that was longer than it had been? Not hugely longer, just a bit, but a boy of thirteen years two months and four days does not make mistakes about the size of his cock.

He gaped at himself. It did, and he had to admit it did, look well cool that little bit longer, and the skin was still all there, covering just as much of it as it always had.

There was only one way to check things out properly, and Peter grabbed a handful of toilet paper and almost ran to his bedroom, more than semi-hard by the time he'd shut the door.

Eagerly he reached for his toy and it responded quickly as it always did, growing longer and harder in his hand.

It was bigger! No thicker, but definitely longer! He could get his whole hand round it!

"Wow!" he thought as he looked at himself holding himself. He had his fist round it and when he rested his fist on his now just that neatly little bit more hairy pubis, his thumb and index finger came to just below his helmet and he'd never been able to do that before. It really was an inch longer!

"Wow." He thought again and went for the final test, rubbing furiously to get himself there as soon as possible, no messing about seeing how long he could make it last this time, he needed to see what spurted out.

The first shot was thin, but, boy, did it shoot out, hitting him on his chin, but the next four shots were all real double cream, much thicker than he'd ever shot before!

He stared at the globules on his stomach, real cum, not the watery stuff he usually shot, and surely there was more of it as well?

He wiped himself clean, got up from his bed and picked up a magnifying glass from his desk. Carefully, doing a Sherlock Holmes, he inspected his thighs. Not one single trace of the faintest of faint bits of peach fuzz! His thighs were as smooth as smooth could be.

"Wow!" he said out loud this time, climbed into bed, got some fresh tissues, and explored if a second spunking would be as thick as the last one.

isukwell@hotmail.co.uk