Peter and Wendy

Dressed only in a feather in his hair and shaggy green moss shirt, the scruffy blond forever-12-year-old lad tilted the window slats to peer into the darkened room.

There she slept, beautiful under her bedcovers, 15, she was, and Wendy her name, that he knew.

No latch was a match for Peter, in a wink he was in.

Bold yet shy, and needing a mother, Peter inhaled wondrous dimly remembered grown up odors of oil soap, furniture and toy stuffings, vanilla, lavender, wax and kerosene. He knelt in wonderment over the sleeping girl, but she stirred under the covers, and not wishing yet to wake her, he backed up slowly in retreat only to stumble back into a water vase which fell off its floor stand and fell to the oriental carpet with a thud while Peter himself, usually so nimble, landed on his calloused naked bottom.

Wendy sat up from her covers, her long brown locks shining forward and loose, awakening to open wide round hazel eyes set in creamy pearl soft as duvet skin.

She saw first the open windows, and the moonlight obliged some sleepy glow of visibility. Incredibly, she seemed to make out a figure seated before her across the room.

Quickly she lit a candle, and there in the moonlight, in the candlelight, sprawled spread legged before her was…oh most definitely, no mistaking that, a boy.

Used only to seeing museum statues or little brothers in the baths, Wendy gasped at the de-pantsed gamin so unselfconsciously displaying his boyness before her. She could not take her eyes off his small jutting boy shaft, his pendulous sack with its obvious globes, his open wondering feral face.

“Boy…who are you?”

Peter sprang up to her. “I’m Peter, Wendy, and I can fly.”

And with that he glided up to the ceiling and then back down to her bedside, giving the girl two visual astonishments, his flight and his wobbling boy parts yet unfurred.

“But…but…how did you do that?” asked the astonished girl.

“With fairy dust, watch, Wendy!” Without touching himself, Peter stood before her, erected and sprayed gobs of white fluid into his hands, his balls dangling back and forth as they spewed their magic into his cupped hands, and with literal sparks, his droplets popping and sparkling, he rubbed the fluid onto his arms, face, legs.

Wendy felt a jolt go way up into her female parts, the yeasty scent of boy strong everywhere in the room.

“Watch this, Wendy!” bragged Peter. He stood with hands on hips and began to urinate, the shocking yellow fluid hissing out in cocky acridity, on her, the bedclothes, and then turning to his side, he sprayed the rest of his torrent clear out the window with his sturdy little organ.

But it was magic, the wetness disappeared from the bedclothes, the sour odor gone and transforming into wild natural deliciousness in her nostrils.

The act was done not to shock, but done by a lad used to displaying and playing with other lads, what boy has not done that? Or changed moods so suddenly at the delight of each moment cascading through him?

Now another was upon him, pleading, imploring he was

“Wendy, please be my Mother.”

“Peter… I can’t be your Mother! How could I be your…”

Peter was upon her on the bed before she could finish, impetuous impudent pirate and imploring pleader now one, his hands peeling down her nightgown to expose her virgin breasts to his mouth, quickly as though by some Right.

He went for the left teat while he squirted more gamin white milk into his palms and then rubbed his magic juice onto her breasts.

Three orgasms – although she Wendy had no word for this --shocked through the mortal girl’s body and she rocked with spasms and creamed wildly up her girl opening, and in each tit, and was suddenly, uncontrollably lactating, out of one teat which Peter squeezed and the other which he nursed, greedily drinking down her milk, the feel of this, the thought of this, and with wild thoughts of suddenly being a milk cow, helplessly producing milk, yet sweetly nursing a child, her world exploded, and Peter was in her in a flash, her nightgown pushed up and his quick little peter inside, in/out, in/out, in/out while he pumped in more pirate boy cream, and she gave up her own milky fluids, yet some more, from her finally opened sheath, her now maternal udders, all from his needy impetuous pounce.

Boy girl milk was everywhere exchanged

He calmed down finally, but still nursing, said, “You see, Wendy, you can be by Mother, I told you!”

Later, fed for the moment, and happy, Peter told Wendy about yet another need.

He would take her back to Everland, but his flying powers were dwindling, he was being weighted down, he might grow up.

“Wendy…cut these off me,” he implored, and he guided her hand down to his warm lolling sack.

She cupped the warm heavy hairless globes in her hand, through their silk purse…oh yes.

Is that what he was saying, he was going to be grounded here, poor boy, unless she cut these fascinating orbs off?

“Nut me, Wendy, you’ve got to nut me.”

The word galvanized her. “Nuts...” Yes, that’s what they were, they were nuts she was cupping, and she oozed at the frank boy description, at the thought.

Maternalism is not just nursing, it’s sometimes…punishing, making behave.

A magic need, a magic request, and a devilish response in her now.

She let go of Peter’s nuts and ran her hand down to his bad boy tight little bottom, leathery it was, from rocks and grass, it’s natural de-pantsed state.

“My boy needs to be punished, doesn’t he?”

Peter only murmured in assent, while her hand began little spanking movements, a Wendy finger occasionally grazing a shy puckery hole. Hew own movements brought out a fire.

“Peter you get off me, out of this bed right now, I want you on your hands and knees on the floor, immediately!”

He complied, she felt the lust and smack! hit his buttocks hard, and smack again.

She grabbed hold of his pendulous sack, so designed to be grabbed it was, and yanked down.

He’d been after her milk, now she wanted his.

“Do it for me, Peter, do it for me, do it for me!” He did it for her, but helplessly, after the second yank he sprayed pirate boy gobs onto the carpet. It didn‘t scintillate this time, but came out in strong mortal white spunky spurts, not by his own powers but my her milking.

“Again! Do it again, boy!”

And she smacked and spanked the bare boy some more and grasped his pouch and globes even harder, she was milking them. Milking him from behind

“Aieee!” moaned the lad, and like he had not just previously spilled, even ore jets of boy milk roiled out of his balls through his hopelessly stiff prick and onto the carpet, One, Two, Three, Four, Five jets, Spray, Spray, Spray, Spray, Spray, pause, then Six more.

Overwhelming spunk odor filled the room.

“Again Peter, do it again!” and now she had her hairbrush plucked from her bed stand, and was hitting hard, “You’re going to get those nuts cut off, Peter, I’m going to cut those nuts right off you, now do it again, and do it again, and spread you legs!”

And he did do it again, and again, his nuts were hurting now, from the yanking and the emptying, they were dangling lower and lower, finally losing their spring, the boy cords could no longer retreat up near his body as they gave up their juice, they were loosening, he was hanging down low and loose in her hands, she was getting them, his nuts were coming off, dangling lower for the snipping, and Wendy was in a frenzy.

Peter had tears in his eyes, his backside was lobster red, the carpet beneath him was gooey puddle, his cords hurt so much, they ached so much, they were so long now, and his nuts hurt, they hurts so bad, and he needed them cut off, was frantic to have them cut off.

Wendy sensed the moment, her face contorted into a simian grimace. She took the pair of scissors she’d had on the floor near them, brought their evil blades up to the top of his helpless vulnerable nut bag, yanked his package down with all her might and, with something that at that moment felt to her like hatred, slammed the scissors together and sliced through the helpless bag and cords which surrendered.

Peter yelped in gratitude as Wendy nutted him, she nutted him real good.

She held his nutbag and nuts in her hands, she had his nuts, and he was a boy no more.

Two cavities of emptiness way up inside him like two sore vaginas, deep, deep up where the cords had been and he felt light, light, light way up inside him where he shouldn’t but now did.

De-boyed, he fell forward onto his chin, Wendy on top of him, her hand clutching his severed nuts in her hand in front of his eyes there prone on the rug, she actually humped his rump on top of him in their mutual collapse, and bit his ear, blew hot breath into it.

They lay there for 10 minutes, only breathing.

Gradually recovering, and Wendy still clutching her trophy, they came out of their mutual trance and sat up.

Wendy looked between Peter’s legs, his little cock was now only an inch long. Remarkably, no scar of gash or wound was there between his legs, just pure neutered gap.

Peter was lighter, lighter, lighter, coming back to himself, a feeling of happiness, lightness and then boom, he shot up into the air and over to the corner, and to the other corner, and glided and buzzed like a happy little fly, whizzing and zipping all over the room.

Wendy too was recovering, the sexual heat now gone, and feeling deeply content for having de-bayed the boy

This is why Peter had come, and why he had cum, maturing nuts had weighted him down, down, down to her in a cycle of inevitability.

“Wendy, Wendy, now we can fly back to Everland! Here, you hold onto my nuts, they’re yours now, come on, let’s go! He was all pirate eunuch grins and enthusiasm. Tall as 12, but now back to 10.

Wendy was caught up and ready, but still wondering how.

“But Peter, your fairy dust, I nutted you, how can we… how can you…”

“Watch me, me Wendy, watch me!” and like some magic come-to-life Denmark fountain statue, again urinated into the air, this time the shower was indeed golden and magic sparkles burst down upon her.

Wendy rose up into the air where Peter waited to take her hand.

“Oh, dear, oh dear, what am I going to do with my little spraying pirate with no nuts, whatever am I going to do?” she sighed in mock admonishment, her heart quickening before the open window and night sky.

Wendy couldn’t know then, and Peter, lighter than air and even lighter in memory, couldn’t bother to exactly explain, that this had happened before, and would happen again, that eventually, even in Everland his nuts would grow back and start to slow him down, and heavy with incipient manhood would return for another like her to relieve him of his burden, over and over it had happened, and would happen again.

But boys, and nutted boys, will be boys, nuts gone or not, they have limited attention spans and can’t be expected to remember eternal cycles when caught up in the moment of any current adventure, so dimply perceived memories slipped away from his mind like butterflies gone from a meadow, no match for the attention demanded by the hooting owls of the forest and the bats of night trees and Wendy at his side.

“I’m taking you to the Boys, Wendy! They need a Mother, too.”

“Peter, you mean….”

“Yes, Wendy…you can nut them, there’s lot of boys there, you can nut them and Mother us and there’s Indians…and..”

Out the window they flew, and over the turrets and rooftops, and steeples and fountains, the bridges and statues and parks and wharves, then looking up, and heading up, up into the clouds and past the Moon, they sailed breathlessly toward Everland, nutted boy and milky breasted girl holding her prize to heart, Peter and Wendy sailed home to where he could play and she could pluck off nutbags over and over and over, de-boying them all, and nursing them all, like any good Mother would do.