Wendy and no Peter Pan

The evening arrived like an executioner sharpening his axe. Smee brought Wendy the Spanish dress. It was made of heavy, blood-red velvet that felt cold against her skin. It was cut so tightly that it traced her every curve, leaving her barely enough room to breathe. Wearing it, she didn't feel dressed, but displayed. A trophy. She commanded herself simply to breathe. It was a role she had to play. For this night, she was not Wendy Darling, but someone else – a woman who desired this man. The thought of the children, of the little girl with the blonde plaits, became her mantra. Her body was just a shield protecting them, and she had to make it convincing enough. Smile. Taste the food. Laugh at his jokes. And later, she told herself, you have to want it. You have to moan and writhe as if it’s the most wonderful thing in the world. If you don’t, a child will be screaming tomorrow morning. And that will be your fault.

The dinner was a surreal farce. Candlelight danced on polished silver. Hook was the epitome of a gentleman; he poured her wine, spoke of the stars and the perils of navigation. He was charming, almost seductive, and that only made it worse. Across the table, he watched her, seeing what a miserable actress she was. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and her fingers trembled when she lifted the wine glass. Her gaze was a thousand miles away. She feared him, that was clear. Good. Fear was a start, he thought, but he wanted more. He didn't just want her body; he could have had that at any time. He wanted to break her soul and reassemble it according to his will. The delicious, childish arrogance with which she thought she could fool him was almost amusing. Tonight, he mused, she would learn that he saw every lie, felt every hesitation. And she would learn that her inadequacy had a price. A price that others would pay for her.

After dinner, he led her into his sleeping cabin. The large bed dominated the room. The sheets were so white they hurt her eyes. It wasn't a bed; it was an altar. A sacrificial altar.

He pulled her to him. "You look beautiful, Wendy," he whispered. His kiss was demanding. Wendy forced herself to return it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his, and tried to swallow the rising bile. She attempted a soft moan, but it sounded more like a choke.

He pulled away from her and studied her. "Relax," he said, a hint of impatience in his voice. He began to undo the intricate hooks on her dress. One by one. The velvet fell to the floor, leaving her in only a thin chemise. Then he lifted her up and laid her on the immaculate white sheets.

He rid himself of his own clothes, except for the prosthesis attached to his left stump. The hook gleamed in the candlelight. Wendy stared at it, unable to look away.

He leaned over her. His human hand moved over her stomach, her hips, her thighs. They were cold as ice. "You're trembling," he noted. "With... anticipation," she lied, her voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, but it was the smile of a wolf. He pulled off her last remaining garment and gently but firmly parted her legs. She closed her eyes, preparing for the pain.

It was a sharp, tearing pain that made her flinch. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, tasting the blood in her mouth. And then the performance began. She forced herself to move her hips. She made small, panting sounds that she thought she knew from romantic novels. She dug her fingers into his back.

He moved inside her, methodically, almost mechanically. He watched her face, every twitching expression. He felt the unnatural tension in her body, heard the false notes in her feigned moans. She was trying, he had to give her that. But it was the effort of a schoolgirl reciting a poem she doesn't understand. It was hollow. Empty.

When he was finished, he rolled off her. He looked at the red mark on the white sheet, a sign of his triumph. Wendy lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry. She had survived it. She had done it.

He said nothing more, turned his back to her, and soon fell asleep.

The next morning, the first light slanting through the stern window woke him. He sat up and looked at the sleeping girl beside him. She looked so young, so vulnerable. But his heart remained cold.

He woke her without tenderness, by shaking her shoulder. She started, fear in her eyes, before she remembered where she was and what had happened.

"Good morning, my dear," he said. His voice was businesslike. "Get dressed. We have something to discuss."

After she had forced herself back into her maid's dress, she sat across from him at the table while he ate his breakfast. She couldn't get a single bite down.

"Your... performance... last night," he began, dabbing his lips with a serviette, "was inadequate."

Wendy froze. "I... I tried my best."

"Your best was not good enough," he retorted coldly. "It lacked conviction. Passion. It was an insult to my intelligence. You took me for a fool who would be satisfied with cheap theatrics. That was a mistake." He leaned back. "And as you know, mistakes have consequences."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Please... don't. I'll do better. I promise."

"I don't doubt it," he said. "But a lesson is necessary nonetheless. For you and for the children. So they understand that their well-being depends on your ability to satisfy me." He stood up and went to the door. "Smee will be here shortly. He will bring the cane. And you, Wendy, will now come with me to the hold." His gaze was hard as diamond. "You will choose one of the girls."

Wendy fell from her chair to her knees. She crawled to him and clutched his boots. "No! Please, Captain, I beg you!" she sobbed, her face pressed to the cold wooden floor. "Punish me! Take me! Flog me again, hang me by my hands, do what you will with me, but leave the children alone! It is my fault, so I should bear the punishment!"

Hook looked down at her, his face devoid of any emotion. He pushed her away gently but firmly with his boot. "Get up, Wendy. You are demeaning yourself. And you do not understand the point of a lesson."

He bent down to her, his hook coming threateningly close. "If I punish you, you only learn to endure pain. You can already do that. But when a child is punished for your failure, then you will learn to fear your own incompetence. That is a lesson you will not soon forget."