Peter Peter pumpkin eater,

Had a wife but couldn't keep her.

He put her in a pumpkin shell,

And there he kept her very well.

"Pumpkin? You're late..." Peter gazed over his shoulder at his wife as she returned to him.

"Pumpkin? Where are you going?" His beauty only smiled her pretty little smile in silence, batting her long, black lashes. Her warm, brown eyes innocently meeting his in the mirror as she ran a brush slowly through her wavy locks of orange hair.

"Pumpkin?"

Walking over to her husband, his pretty little wife sat in his lap, stroking his cheek and gazing into his dark eyes. She wore a short, low-cut, lacey dress of an orange hue and a velvety black corset. His gaze roamed over her lithe form, and his eyes fell upon the cord that laced up her corset. It was made of spun gold. Peter could never afford spun gold. His eyes narrowed, anger flashing across the rough features of his stress-worn face one second, and hiding the next. With a false smile, Peter lifted his eyes from her bodice to her face. Stroking her hair, he tilted her chin in and stole a kiss. His Pumpkin could barely hide her disgust, but she did. She always did. She thought him ignorant, but he knew. He knew she didn't love him, but she belonged to him and he was hers. It seemed his heart would always be hers, no matter how often she trampled upon it.

Running a sharp nailed index finger along the sweet swelling curve of her breast, warm beneath his cold touch, Peter found her eyes. No matter how much she seemed to be looking back into his own gaze, he knew that look upon her face - that beautiful, blissful look - was not for him. She was not thinking about him. His hand twitched, as did his eye, but she didn't notice. She never noticed how much she hurt him.

She probably would never care, but she was his and he would not let her go.

His finger twisted around the end of the cool, golden cord and he untied her bow. He began to unlace her corset, and her mind returned from wherever it had been traversing.

"Peter," she said, "Peter, stop. Not now!" She didn't want his touch now. She never wanted his touch. "I am going out, Peter, and I need to look nice. I put a lot of time into this outfit. I'm going to go see my family, you know..."

"Can I come?"

"Peter...You know you don't get along with my family," she responded, fixing her laces, rising from his lap and kissing his forehead. "I shall return before long, don't worry. You seem tired, Peter. You should rest. Rest and I shall be back before you awaken, and lay at your side. Rest, Peter."

"I'm tired of resting..."

She had walked across the room and was on her way toward the door. She was leaving again.

"Goodnight, Peter. I will return," she whispered, quick to exit and close the door behind her.

Peter wondered if her heart would ever return. Crawling up in his seat, his eyes drifted toward the mirror before which she had combed her hair. His gaze drifted over his hard features and he couldn't help but wonder: Am I really so bad? Peter crawled up in his chair. Peter cried. Peter obeyed his pretty little wife and slept, exhausted from his tears. Only this time...This time he dreamt up schemes to have his wife remain his, to keep his wife forever. He swore to himself: She will never stray from me again.

Peter lay in bed alone awaiting his wife's return each and every night. He came to realize her habits. She would return to him just before the sun would rise early morning. Every morning. Peter barely slept. He stared at the ceiling, the wall, the floor, his pillows, his feet. He stared unblinking at a given spot a night. Every night. Until at last, Peter found that he just could not take it any longer.

October came. The whole month Peter put his lonely nights to work. The entire month while she was away he was hacking up his pumpkin patch. She was his to own. She would learn that. He would teach her that. She was his!

The final day of the month arrived with a full moon, and fog, and black skies. Peter's eyes were affixed upon the window in his hollow room, staring out at his fog-laden pumpkin patch, void of pumpkins. It would be two hours before sunrise. His Pumpkin, his wife, his love, she would return to him soon enough. For now, all he could do was wait. Wait and contemplate and scheme, and anticipate the moment she returned.

Peter lay in bed awake and for the first time in months he truly smiled. He grinned and laughed wholly, mischievously. Mm. Just thinking about his pretty little wife, who would eternally be his and his alone from tonight into forever. Just thinking about her pretty little body belonging to him, obeying to him, loving him alone. The swell of her breasts his alone to caress. Her hips his alone to pull into his, over and over again. She was HIS beautiful Pumpkin, and she was his alone.

Peter was very turned on. Tonight. Tonight he'd make her his, and she'd never be allowed to ever stray again. For now Peter lay awaiting his wife's return. He lay in the darkness listening to the silence, awaiting the creak of a door sliding slowly open, pushed ever so gently shut. He was waiting for his wife's quiet footsteps approaching his bed, her body settling down to lay beside him. He was waiting.

Click.

The door unhinged. It slowly crept open. His wife walked in.

Click.

The door closed. She was home. He was waiting on the stairs in the dark, staring at her sneaky little form as she crept closer to him, unknowing of his presence there at the top of the stair. Her eyes lifted. They caught his. She screamed.

He scooped her up into his arms, gentle in his roughest moments. A hardened romantic, heart blackened by her false love, but still loyal. He tore open her corset. He ripped off her dress, and his hands became gentle as they caressed her pale, delicate warm flesh. She was near crying, afraid of being raped. Afraid of the one man she should not fear. She kicked and she struggled and she screamed until she felt those slightly calloused hands' tender touch. Until she met his eyes and saw the man she offered her hand so long ago. For a moment, all fell silent and still.

Then she was thrown over his shoulder, naked. Again she was kicking and screaming. Again she was fighting to get away from the man who's heart was hers and hers alone. With his Pumpkin held tightly, dangling over his shoulder, Peter exited the house. He slammed the door shut behind them. He carried her away. Away into his barren pumpkin patch. A pumpkin patch reeking with death and despair. A pumpkin patch that had at one time been his life's work to perfect.

Peter walked his wife into the woods, never looking back. She fought until she had exhausted all her strength, and lay limp over his shoulder, nearly passed out.

Peter carried his wife to a new house, a dark orange house. Each day, the whole month of October, Peter spent his nights hacking away at his pumpkins, forming pumpkin bricks. He built a pumpkin house. A hidden home where he could put his wife. A place where he could watch her day and night, remind her of his love. He could remind her that she was his.

Opening the orange door, he walked into their pumpkin cottage. He laid his wife down on the floor. Her eyes wearily gazed up to him. She exhaustedly watched his every move. Peter was sealing up the door from the inside. His Pumpkin began to cry, murmuring sadly, "Peter...Why?"

And Peter finished his house with its final touches. He made this shelter both a home for his Pumpkin love, and a pumpkin prison. Walking back over to her, he drew her small body back up into his arms. He lay little kisses along her shoulders. He carried her to a bed of black and orange silken sheets. He laid her down beneath him, caressing her sides. He truly could be ever so sweet, if only she had allowed him to be. If only she had allowed him to show her how much he truly cared.

Pressing his body into her body, Peter held his wife in the most complete embrace he could possibly offer. With each stroke he made into her, he whispered in her ear again and again, "You are mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. You are mine," over and over again until he planted his hot, pumpkin seed deep within her womb. He made her his. She cried.

Tears streaked down her cheeks. Tears of regret and fear. Tears of sorrow. Tears of love.

Holding her in his arms, Peter stroked his wife's hair and repeatedly kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. Holding her in his arms in an eternal embrace, Peter drew the cord of spun gold from his pocket and tied their left wrists together. She would never leave his side. They would never leave their pumpkin home. This is how it was supposed to be.

In his wife's ear Peter whispered, "Why, you ask? Why, Pumpkin, I do this because I love you. I do this because I feel you should know where it is you will forever belong. I do this because you are my eternity. And, overall, I do this because you are mine, and mine alone to keep."