It was always hard when Peter woke up in the mornings; he wished he could remember what he'd been dreaming about that made it hard, but he never could, but whatever it was, it did always make him hard.

When a boy is thirteen years, two months and five days old there is only one thing he can do when he wakes up and finds it hard, and Peter was a perfectly normal boy of that age. Still two thirds asleep he reached down for his ready and waiting toy and took it, as he always did, between the tips of three fingers and his thumb and had even started on slow, bleary up and down movements before his mind registered that all was not as it usually was.

He stopped his movements and carefully ran his fingers up and down his joystick, his eyes opening wider as what he felt brought him all the rest of the way awake.

"It can't be," he thought, but when he wrapped his hand around it he knew that it was.

"Bloody buggers," he whispered, pushed the covers back with his other hand and inspected with his eyes what his hand had told him, and his eyes agreed with his hand.

It was longer. It really was longer! Last night wasn't a dream! He checked to see if the hairs were still there, and they were, just as they'd been last night. Peter always slept naked, so there was no doubt about what he saw.

"Will it still shoot the same?" he wondered, and set about finding out if it would.

Four or five panting minutes later he knew the answer.

It did!

One thin spurt almost as high as his throat and four double cream shots on his chest and tummy.

"Bloody buggers," he whispered again, in awe of what he'd achieved. It was daylight outside, it was morning so it couldn't be a dream, and when he reached for that toilet paper to clean up with, he knew for certain that it wasn't a dream. All he could find were glued together crumpled sheets of toilet paper – he'd used the ones intended for this morning for last night's second one, and now he had nothing to wipe it all up with.

A flashing moment of panic; he couldn't wipe it up with his bedsheet, that would be a washtime disaster, his mother would see the stains and probably do more than give him one of her looks. Sock and handkerchief were out of the question for the same reason; what the и.., he almost uttered a very bad word, was he going to do?

The answer was contained in the porn he watched, but he wasn't at all sure he wanted to do that answer, but he had to clean up those four double cream shots somehow or other. Tentatively, his nose twitching, his eyes almost screwed closed so he could only partly see what he was doing as though that would make it better, he scooped up one shot with his finger and took it to his mouth.

Whatever they said and did in the porn, he knew it was going to taste awful, but what choice did he have? Prepared for the worst, he sucked his finger clean. A second or two of expecting to feel instantly sick, and then his eyes fluttered open, a look of sheer surprise on his face. He didn't feel instantly sick; he hadn't just licked his finger clean of something utterly disgusting; it wasn't disgusting at all!

Strange, certainly, but not disgusting. Carefully he did the same with another blob, and then another and then the last one, sucking his finger as clean as he could suck it. The blobs were vaguely salty, vaguely like the taste of water in a swimming pool, but sweet at the same time, with a not at all unpleasant after tang.

There was none left to scoop up and he used the glued and crumpled toilet paper to get the watery stuff from round by his throat, it didn't do it very well but well enough for him to head for the bathroom and wash it properly off and flush away the incriminating toilet paper at the same time and then check again in the mirror to confirm what he already knew.

"Wow!" Peter said `Wow' quite a lot; he used different expressions at school with his mates around, but he thought `Wow' was much more expressive than any of the swear words, though `bloody buggers'  was used when `Wow' wasn't quite strong enough. This was a crisis point in his life – they'd done `crisis points' in English just before the summer holiday started (Peter was in the top set) the bit in a story where the plot reached a point where it changed direction or when you could start to guess the ending – and having a longer cock, well neat hairs and shooting double cream instead of skimmed milk was definitely a crisis point. A more sophisticated critic may have pointed to the consumption of that double cream as being the real crisis point, but Peter was only thirteen, two months and five days old, and the significance of double cream eating escaped him.

He was tempted to text Ron, his best mate, and boast that he could now do a full fist grip, but Ron would only text back that there wouldn't be anything sticking out the end of his fist if he held it that way, and, of course, he couldn't simply prove to Ron that there was something sticking out the end by showing him, because however dirty they talked, however many sneaky glances they took in the toilets, it just wasn't the done thing for boys to give demonstrations of their toys.

He did have a little fantasy about how it would go if it were in a porn vid, though. He'd be round Ron's, no rents around, and he'd sit beside Ron on the sofa.

"I can hold it in my fist now," he'd say casually, and Ron would look at him in disbelief.

"Can't," Ron would declare.

"Can," Peter would affirm.

"Show me," Ron would demand, and without even giggling, Peter would pull his shorts down, no underwear of course, reveal his upstanding toy and demonstrate his new grip, and Ron would be amazed and envious.

"Let me try," he'd say and Peter would lean back and Ron would get his hand round it, and Peter would sigh, `That's nice," and they'd both giggle then.

The fantasy vid stopped there; it wouldn't if it was a real porn vid, of course, but Peter wasn't sure if he wanted to have fantasies about what would come next. Those things were fun to watch in porn, but he was far from sure they'd be fun to do in real life, so he stopped short of fantasising about them.

He did briefly wonder why it was Ron he showed it to in that little fantasy just then, Ron and not a girl, but girls didn't have toys like boys did, so there wouldn't be any point demonstrating it to a girl, would there?

Of course, getting a girl to play with his toy was the ultimate aim, wasn't it? All the boys talked about was what it would be like to have a girl do it for them and have their hands inside a girl's knickers, and Peter joined in that dirty talk, though really he couldn't see the point of getting inside a girl's knickers because there wasn't anything in there to play with. He didn't have any strong temptations to get his hand inside a boy's pants either, though boy toys were quite good to look at, in porn anyway.

Peter knew all about sex in theory, Sex Ed lessons at school were quite explicit, covering in some detail how babies were made, but Peter wasn't sure if he fancied trying to make a baby, not yet anyway. Maybe later, when he was older, but not yet. Perhaps if you didn't have to do it with a girl it might be okay. He'd seen plenty of baby making efforts in porn, but looking at them never made his toy go anywhere near as hard and wanting to be played with as the boy porn did; he never asked himself why that was, and anyway, it was probably simply because they were playing with each other's toys, and he could understand that, in a way, because playing with his own toy was something he really liked doing.

Fantasies aside, one thing Peter couldn't explain, even to himself, was how these changes had happened. Why was his toy an inch longer? How come he had those neat hairs now? What was it that man in the park called them? Oh yes, `designer hairs', Peter sniggered at the recollection, but no denying they were absolutely designer perfect. Dead straight line at the top and a clean V line down to his toy, and at the bottom, just above his toy, a perfect semi-circle, and not one single strand of hair straying out of line. It looked wicked!

But how had it all happened? It wasn't even overnight, it had happened as he walked back from the park, or had it, perhaps happened in the park while he was talking to that man about things? However it had happened, one thing he did remember, he had to confirm he liked the changes today, he only had the one chance, the man had said, so Peter got himself ready to go down the park again.

He picked out that pale blue Tee with "YOU WISH" printed on the front, he'd take it off if the man was there, of course, but he thought he looked well neat wearing it. He pondered about his bottom half; trainers, of course, and no socks, and it had to be shorts, but which shorts? Definitely not swim shorts, they were far too long and had this mesh ball bag thing inside that he hated. Okay, it was essential for swimming to keep things out of sight, but horrid when dry, all  scratchy and itchy. Footy shorts? He'd worn footy shorts yesterday and footy shorts were quite comfortable, the thin, sorta stretchy stuff they were made of didn't itch at all and there was no ball bag inside them to make him feel sweaty and horrid. They were a bit long, though, reaching down to just above his knees when he was standing up, though they did ride up some when he sat down.

The only other possibility was his rugby shorts. Peter's school played both codes of football, footy in the Autumn term and Rugby after Christmas when the school playing fields got well wet and muddy. Rigby shorts were made of a thicker, more durable material than footy shorts – people often grabbed your shorts when they tackled you and footy shorts would probably rip apart under such treatment, but Rugby shorts were shorter, they only came about two thirds of the way down his slender thighs instead of right down to his knees.

He tried them both on in front of the mirror, trying to decide which looked best on him.

The footy shorts, being so thin and sorta stretchy, did outline his new length toy rather nicely, and that was definitely a bit wicked, but his Rugby shorts were even more wicked. Being shorter, and fractionally wider cut in the legs, there was a real possibility that something might pop into view when he sat down, because, of course, no matter which shorts he decided on, there'd be nothing on underneath them.

"Don't want it dangling out for everyone to see," he thought to himself, and then had a little evil snigger. "Course, if anyone is trying to get a look up ииии.." he never completed the thought because it was far too naughty a thought to complete.

Naughty or not, it was the deciding thought and Rugby shorts it would be.

"I do look pretty fit," Peter congratulated himself as he viewed the fully dressed article in the mirror; his Tee was just close fitting enough to show of his thirteen year old top very nicely, and the shorts showed just the right amount of thigh, just enough to let people imagine what the rest of his thighs might look like.

"Cool," he decided, and headed off to the park.

Of course, the man wasn't there, but it would have been silly to expect him to be there, wouldn't it? Like, the man wasn't real, it had all been a sunbathing fantasy yesterday, and what had happened to his boy toy was only a `growth spurt'. Boys his age had them in the summer holidays – boys in Year nine were bigger than boys in Year eight and he'd be in Year nine next term, so of course he'd have a `growth spurt' at sometime or other during the summer holidays. It just happened yesterday, that's all.

Peter flopped down on the grass in front of that bench, just like he had done yesterday, but he kept his Tee on for the moment, waiting for the sun to warm up a bit before he did some more tanning.

"Well," said that voice from the bench, "You happy with the changes or do you want some alterations? Now's your only chance if you do."

Peter should have been shocked. He'd not heard or seen anyone arrive. The bench had been empty, no-one in sight. He'd taken his eyes from it for a second, looked out across the park, and now the man was sitting on the bench again. How had that happened?

Peter didn't try to work out how it had happened, he just heard himself saying, "I like the changes, thank you."

"All of them? Happy with the length, the hairs and the double cream?"

"Oh yes," Peter grinned, "Very happy, thank you."

"And the number of shots? They told me that one thin and four thick were the norm for a healthy boy of thirteen, two months and five days."

It never occurred to Peter to ask who `they' were, he simply agreed that the shots were absolutely perfect, thank you.

"And you still don't want to grow up? You want to stay thirteen, two months and five days forever?"

"That would be soooo cool," Peter sighed

"You can't do that here, you do know that, don't you?"

"Yes," Peter sighed again, more miserably this time. He knew he couldn't help growing up even though he was happy being as he was now.

"You have to go to a place called `Neverland', where there are no parents, no school, no teachers to tell you what to do and what not to do. And no girls there either," the man added.

"That's silly," Peter snorted, "Neverland is in `Peter Pan', it's not a real place. And," he added to prove that Neverland was not a real place, "There are pirates there."

"I didn't say there weren't any pirates," the man pointed out, "Only that there were no parents or teachers and no girls."

"There are girls in `Peter Pan'," Peter said decisively.

"That's a different Neverland," the man replied.


No parents and no teachers was an obvious appeal. "I don't care if there's no girls," Peter said without thinking.

"And the pirates?"

"Don't care about any pirates," Peter shrugged them off, "They'd never catch me anyway. And why would they want to? Pirates are after treasure, aren't they? Isn't that what pirates do? Find and bury treasure?"

"For these pirates, boys are treasure," the man said enigmatically, but, as it didn't make any sense to Peter, he ignored it.

"So, do you want to go to Neverland? Stay exactly as you are now, exactly the same age you are now?"

"Yeah, course I do," Peter agreed, "Be so cool."

"Stand up," the man ordered him. "Close your eyes tight shut and turn round three times. Then, when you open your eyes again, you'll be in Neverland."

Peter knew it was all his fantasy again, his own variation on the Peter Pan story, and, to be honest, wasn't he just a shade old to be playing fantasy games like this? But, because the fantasy seemed so real, he did as he was told, stood up, clenched his eyes tight shut and turned round three times.