Wendy and no Peter Pan

When Wendy came to, the world was a blurry, aching fog. She was lying on a hard table in a small cabin that smelled of tar, alcohol, and sickness. The gentle rocking of the ship felt like hammer blows on her battered body. A man was leaning over her, with glasses balanced on the tip of his nose and a grey, sparse beard. The ship's surgeon.

"Cut her down," a distant voice had commanded. It must have been Hook. Then she had felt herself being carried, before darkness swallowed her again.

"Well, well, what have we here?" the surgeon muttered, more to himself than to her. His hands, surprisingly deft but cold and rough, began to probe her body. Every press on the bloody welts was a new agony. "Quite a mess."

He cleaned the wounds with a cloth dipped in alcohol. The stinging pain tore Wendy from her daze and she cried out, trying to squirm away, but she was too weak. "Easy, girl, easy," the surgeon said, unmoved. "This has to be done, or the whole lot will get infected."

The procedure was one long humiliation. He turned and twisted her on the table as if she were a lifeless piece of meat, commenting matter-of-factly on the state of her skin. He was used to treating the bodies of pirates torn apart by sabres and splinters. He hadn't had a female patient in decades.

When he was finished with the cleaning, he hesitated for a moment. "The captain had another... special request," he said, avoiding her gaze. "An inspection, to make sure everything is in order ... down there."

Wendy's heart froze. She understood immediately. The chill that went through her was worse than the pain of the whip. "No," she whispered, but her voice was just a hoarse croak.

"Don't worry, this will be quick," he said, still in the same clinical tone. "The captain wishes for confirmation that your condition... is unchanged. That you are still untouched."

He didn't wait for an answer. Resistance was futile, and they both knew it. The examination that followed was the worst violation of all. It wasn't brutal, not violent, but the cold, clinical way he invaded her most intimate spaces robbed her of the last shred of dignity. She closed her eyes, bit her lips until she tasted blood, and fled in her mind to a faraway place while his fingers defiled her body.

"Well then," he said finally, straightening up again. "As expected. The captain will be pleased."

After that, he applied a thick, cooling salve to her wounds. The smell was sharp, but the effect was almost instantaneous. The burning fire on her skin gave way to a dull, bearable throbbing. The salve actually helped.

She spent the next two weeks alone in a small, locked chamber. Every day, the surgeon came to examine her again and apply the salve. He spoke no more than necessary. Slowly, the wounds began to heal. The deep cuts closed, the blue and purple bruises faded to a sickly yellow. She was able to lie on her stomach again, then on her side, and finally even sit up for a few minutes.

Hook didn't show himself the entire time. He sent no message, made no inquiries. The door remained locked; food was pushed through a hatch. This silence was louder and more threatening than any of his words could have been. He was letting her heal. He was making her whole again.

Wendy suspected the worst. He hadn't spared her out of mercy. He had repaired her. Like one repairs a valuable tool one still intends to use. And the fear of what he would use her for was a wound that no salve in the world could heal.

Exactly two weeks after her punishment, the door to Wendy's chamber was unlocked. Smee stood in the frame, his face an unreadable mask. "The captain summons you," he said quietly.

Wendy got up. Her skin was still a mosaic of fading scars, sensitive to every movement, but the sharp pain was gone. She had been given a simple shift that hung loosely over her body. Silently, she followed Smee through the ship's passageways, each step an echo in the tense silence.

Hook's cabin was warm. The light of an oil lamp danced across the charts on the wall. Hook sat at his large desk, polishing his steel hook with a soft cloth. He didn't look up when she entered. He made her wait, the silence stretching and filling with her fear.

"The scars are healing well, I hear," he said finally, without interrupting his task. "The surgeon is a master of his craft."

Wendy did not answer. She pressed her lips together.

"My offer of marriage..." he continued, now setting the hook aside to look at her with his cold, dark eyes, "...is off the table. You have abused my trust. You have involved yourself with the scum of my crew and brought shame upon my ship and my name. You have proven that you cannot be given a choice."

He stood up and walked slowly toward her, like a predator circling its prey. He stopped directly in front of her and gently ran the knuckle of his human hand over a faded welt on her cheek. Wendy flinched involuntarily.

"But I do not hold a grudge," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I am prepared to give you a new chance. A new arrangement." He walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. "You will be my mistress, Wendy. You will share my bed, my nights, my secrets. You will belong to me, body and soul."

Wendy felt the blood drain from her face.

"But," he said, turning back to her, "I will not force you. That would be... uncultured. I do not want a reluctant doll in my bed. I want passion. I want enthusiasm. I want you to enjoy it. I want you to want it."

He stepped closer again, his voice sinking to a conspiratorial whisper. "You will learn to desire me. You will learn to find pleasure in my arms. You will not just act it out, you will feel it. Because your acting talent, my love, leaves much to be desired. Your enthusiasm for me decides the fate of the children."

An ice-cold shiver ran down Wendy's back.

"You don't understand?" he asked disingenuously. "Let me explain. Every time you are with me, I will be watching you. If I see even the slightest hint of reluctance in your eyes, if your kisses are not convincing, if your body does not respond to mine with genuine lust... then there will be consequences. Not for you. For them."

He paused to let the words sink in. "Perhaps I see a shadow in your eyes while we are making love. The next morning, one of the children will be summoned. Maybe just a few strokes with the cane on their bare bottom in my cabin. A small correction. A motivation for you to try harder next time." His smile widened, crueler. "But if you have a bad day... if perhaps you shed a tear or dare to refuse me... then, my dear, we will pick one of the children and bring them on deck. And then you will tie a new whip. And they will pay for your lack of affection with their skin, just as you did."

He had her. He saw it in her eyes. He had built the perfect cage, its bars made not of iron, but of her own love for the children. She was not just his prisoner. She was their warden, their protector, and their potential executioner, all in one.

"Your effort, your devotion, your feigned—or perhaps one day, real—lust determines the severity of the punishment," he concluded. "Whether a child gets just a few welts or is beaten half to death is entirely up to you. It is your responsibility."

He held out his hand. "So, Wendy. Are you ready to accept your role? Are you ready to protect the children?"

She couldn't speak. She could only nod, as silent tears ran down her cheeks. Every fiber of her being screamed, but she knew she had no choice.

"Excellent," Hook said gently. "Then we had best begin with your first lesson right away." He went to his armchair by the fireplace and sank into it, a wine glass once again in his hand. He studied her over the rim of the glass. "Come here, Wendy." It wasn't a command that was shouted, but a quiet, almost casual request that she feared more than any scream.

Every muscle in her body rebelled. She wanted to run, scream, fight. But the image of the crying children, tied to the mast, flashed before her eyes. Her legs moved as if they didn't belong to her. Slowly, step by step, she crossed the rug and stopped in front of him.

"Closer," he said. She took another step, now standing directly between his knees. He smelled of wine and expensive tobacco.

"Look at me," he commanded gently. She raised her head. The disgust burned in her throat, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. She tried to banish the fear from her gaze, to replace it with something else. Submission. Acceptance.

"Good," he said. His gaze wandered over her. "Take off your shift."

The air froze in her lungs. This was it. The beginning. She thought of Michael, of John, of the faces of the other children. She thought of the knots she had tied into the whip. Of the sound it made when the tails met skin.

Her hands trembled as she grasped the hem of the simple shift. Slowly, endlessly slowly, she pulled it over her head. The cool air of the cabin met her skin, the healing scars on her back and shoulders. She stood before him, naked and defenceless, the shift falling from her hands to the floor.

She forced herself to hold his gaze. She tried to hide the shame that was eating her up inside. She had to show him something else. Something he would believe.

Hook leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow slightly raised. He studied her, every inch of her body, every flicker of emotion in her face. He was the critic; she was the actress on the stage of her life.

"A start," he said after a long, agonizing silence. "But your eyes are still lying, Wendy. We will have to work on that. For the children."

He lifted the crumpled shift from the floor with the tip of his hook and tossed it to her. "Get dressed and go. I don't want to see you again. For today."

Wendy grabbed the piece of cloth like a drowning person clutching a straw. Trembling, she pulled it on, the rough linen a pathetic armour against his gaze. She didn't dare turn around, but retreated, step by step, backward out of the cabin.

When her hand was already on the cold brass handle of the door, he spoke again, his voice as casual as steel. "I expect you for dinner again tomorrow night. Wear the Spanish dress. We will have a... rendezvous. One that will end in my bed this time, not on a settee." He paused, and she felt his gaze on her, even without seeing him. "I will instruct Smee to have fresh, white sheets put on. Blank, untouched sheets. I'm sure you understand the significance."

A shudder ran through her, so violent that she had to hold onto the door. It wasn't a question. It was an announcement. He wanted the proof of her virginity, the proof of his conquest, on snow-white linen. It was not just a sexual act; it was a taking of possession, a ritual.

"Go now," he said.

Wendy tore the door open and fled. She didn't run; she glided through the corridors, a ghost haunted by a new, even more terrible horror. In her small, dark chamber, she locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, her head in her hands. She did not cry. The tears had dried up, replaced by a cold, clear realisation.

Tomorrow night, she would lose the last remnant of herself. And she wouldn't just have to endure it. She would have to pretend she liked it.