Work Text:
Last Night in Paradise
A/N: Very Explicit; folks who are triggered by consent issues, please be warned regarding a moment that feels like something worse than it is. Feel free to PM me if you need to know beforehand.
Comments and reviews are greatly appreciated! :)
They walked the black path from the Rue Scribe gate in frosted silence.
"Erik?" she breathed. So far he had said nothing to her and Christine found it unlike him; in his lantern's half-light he pressed soundlessly on, as she hurried to keep up with his long strides, tripping over her cloak as it fell about her ankles in the dark.
"Later, Christine," he muttered, without a backwards glance.
When they were again in the living-room beyond the lake, she excused herself knowing she need not bother; Erik was at the piano before she had off her cloak, and once he began to play nothing else could move him. Satan himself could have risen from Hell beneath him––surely he was close enough below––and gathered his devils about to watch the performance, and still Erik would have made no note of his audience. How could he be expected to see Christine? She often wondered why he held her here these two weeks at all, ignoring her as he did.
She considered starting a pot of tea but thought better of it. After all, Erik would never drink it, and though it seemed as good a means to fill the time as any, she knew it would only go to waste. He had a cabinet full of the finest and most exotic teas she had ever seen: English black and Asian green, and blends of herbs and flowers that smelled like the finest perfumes, with crepe-sugar petals that crumbled to lambent dusts between her fingertips. And though he reminded her often enough that everything in his home was free for her use, still she could not bear to waste one remarkable leaf. How many times had she placed a cup, unnoticed on the frame of that piano, and come back hours later to take the cold thing away untouched? For all she could tell it was not as if the man ate or drank anything at all.
If he were a man at all. It had become so difficult to tell, really, in his orpheum six stories beneath the Opera.
Instead she went to her bedroom and shut the door, to remove her hat and wash the dust of the underground passage from her face, and nurse the sting of knowing Raoul had seen her like that, in Erik's carriage, unchaperoned, at night––!
And to listen.
She knew Erik was upset about what had happened in the Bois. What had Raoul been doing there? As soon as they had come upon him Erik turned to ice; his manner, just previously so cordial, evaporated into frigid civility. Christine had shivered under his black stare the entire way back to the Rue Scribe gate.
"How fine," he had said suddenly, disrupting the ominous silence of the carriage such that Christine gave a strangled gasp and pressed her fingers to her lips, "that we should run across that dear fellow the Vicomte tonight! I admit it was a surprise, my dear! I do so like to prepare for company, you know, and yet you were so very glad to see him!"
Despite her silence, Christine's excitable heart had begun to pound feverishly in her chest, to reach an unbearable threshold; now it burst from her lungs in a breathless, trembling exhale. She brought a gloved palm to her lips to sputter between her fingers, "oh, Erik, do not be cruel. I am sorry. I was only surprised to see him––"
His frown deepened at her nervous gesture. "Dear Mademoiselle, why should you apologize to me? Forgive me for thinking I could expect the attentions of my companion, when she is interested only in acquiring one better!" Frustrated tears stung at the corners of her eyes and distorted her vision; in shame she blinked the water away, only to taste salt on her lip. Erik ignored her. In a growling undertone intended to wound, he added, "he may have a title, my dear, and a nose––"
"Please," Christine interrupted in a whine, wringing her wrists upon her lap.
But he pressed on. "Ah, but I am worth two-hundred and forty francs a year, Christine! A sum that could put all the measly trappings of your Vicomtesse's closet to shame!"
"That is not fair!"
"Is it not, Christine?" he returned bitterly, "you are a foolish girl; you know nothing of fair." With a hurried movement he raised his cane to rap a short rhythm upon the wall behind him; presently the carriage shuddered to a halt as Christine rocked forward and clutched the seat beneath her. Before the chauffeur could have hoped to get to the door, Erik had it open, flinging the thing wide with a thrust of his cane.
"Stop crying," he hissed, as the door rocked dangerously on its hinges. "Get out of the carriage . "
Any who might have heard him now, as he sat before the grand piano in the little living-room beyond the lake, could never have imagined he was capable of behaving such. He did not play like it. His music surged in waves of canorous abandon, as every emotion known to God and the Devil burst forth under his command, to rise to excruciating tension only to fall again in exhausted bliss, as Erik pounded the keys to ecstasies with remarkable composure.
That he should be so unaffected by his own creation bothered Christine most of all.
What the man she had once called her Angel played now was not the same terrible, soul-consuming music that rang in discordant rages the night Christine had removed his mask. That music crackled like a whip, in bruising refrains like a thousand tortures; every beat of its percussive rhythm a blow to her unguarded flesh, each wailing lamentation as sharp as a knife to her throat until she cried out from the pain of it, cowering like a child beneath her blankets. Even now, she felt the scars of its assault .
But Erik must have seen its marks upon her. He had not played like it since.
No, what he played now was not that music, but still it devoured. This music was more dangerous than any physical violence; this music was insidious, it was inside her. Christine felt the implication of its every note, without necessity of lyrics.
With what mad passion the man played! What divine torture it was to hear! Just beyond her bedroom door he pounded the ivory notes with crazed fingers, flying fingers, such long, elegant fingers! All around, the music rose to a thunderous crescendo, until the walls of the little bedroom shuddered and the ground beneath Christine's feet vibrated with its rhythm. Tremulous frisson burst from her fingers, her toes; it climbed the length of her spine to explode in senseless passions from her scalp––and then it was slow, impossibly slow, impossibly delicate––mournful, almost; each note teasing and whispering beneath her skin to grasp at the beating muscle of her heart, her stomach, lower, lower, until, oh, Devil take her, she could scarcely breathe!
She did not know herself when she heard it!
It was best to keep to her room when he played. Safest.
The first time it had surprised her; she had been passing through the Louis-Philippe room on perhaps the third, fourth day of her captivity, listening absently as he played. Erik played often, every day in truth; on the piano, usually, or the violin, and sometimes even that strange three-stringed instrument that he only brought out in the evenings, as Christine sat across from him in the little rocking-chair before the hearth. He had said the odd little thing came from Russia, though Christine thought it something like her grandfather's talharpa with a long neck; but of course, he likely had one of those too. The man was as full of instruments as he was of surprises.
That first time it was simply the piano.
For all she had already believed him a musical genius, Christine had never truly heard Erik play until that moment; she realized that so long as she had known him, he must have been holding back. Because something about the music just then was different––it felt different––did he know?
No, he was far too immured in it to have known. And yet it shamed her instantly, where the music registered in the pit of her, like a flood, arresting and consuming her. Christine tried to ignore it, to clench her thighs against it and grasp white-fingered at the back of the reading-chair to will it away; but it was inescapable––presently she cried out, sweating and shuddering, and collapsed to the floor in mortified shock.
She wouldn't look up, even as the music clanged to a ringing halt and Erik appeared, the Devil himself kneeling before her lowered gaze.
"Christine?" he breathed, his manner urgent. He frowned at the shining ruddiness of her cheeks and nose, at the labored breaths that hissed from between her parted lips. He was not helping! Did he not know that the music still thrashed and vibrated from every part of him, regardless of whether it made any sound?
He put a careful hand out to direct her chin towards him and force her eye. "Christine, are you quite well?"
"Yes," she lied, her disgrace spilling from within her in a secret mess between her thighs.
Erik raised a narrow eyebrow behind the mask, or at least the muscles worked as if to do such, had he a proper brow to raise at all. But Christine could see it all the same. Was it not strange, how a man who hid his face behind a mask still managed to be so damned expressive!
"You are on the floor, Christine," he said dryly.
"Oh. Yes. I think I have turned my ankle, that is all," she lied. "Please, it is nothing." She forced a laugh; it rang out tinny and overloud, and she quieted.
"I see." He was looking at her foot in the graceless tangle of her skirts––oh! She burned with sudden shame––he was staring at the whole of her leg in only its white stocking, exposed above the knee and bent in a weird angle upon the floor.
With a fitful gesture Christine tossed her skirts about to cover herself. Red heat rose to her ears; he was looking at her face again. Why must he always stare so? It was very nearly obscene!
"Please, Erik, it is not injured––I am fine, truly––I did not mean to interrupt you––"
He sniffed the air, pensively, and pushed a gentle humming sound between closed lips; Christine exhaled heavily through her nose. "May I?" he asked, and opened a palm meaningfully in the direction of her foot.
"Really, I am sure it is fine, Erik. It is nothing! Look!" She wiggled her toes such that Erik could see her foot's movement beneath the tent of her skirts, and added, much too shrilly, "it is fine! "
"Still," he said quietly, "it is best to know for sure, is it not?"
She choked on a gasp as his cold fingers slid beneath her skirts to take up her foot in a hand. Christine shifted on the floor to assist him, leaning back as if to hold herself apart from him, as he held the thing in the crux of his lap. He poked carefully at her joint and rotated her ankle, mutterring clipped comments about a lack of swelling–– ah, not broken––no bruising––very promising ––as Christine held her skirts bunched in two white fists against her shins.
Carefully he slipped her shoe from her curling toes and dragged a slow finger along the sensitive arch; Christine gasped and hastily drew her foot under her skirts. “Please,” she murmured, eyes downcast, “please, don’t––no more––”
He gave her a queer look. "It does appear to be in order, but you really must be more careful, Christine," he said seriously. "Do you want to fall off the stage?" Then, without preamble, he stood, bent low, and gathered her surprised form in his arms. He deposited her on the couch and went back to the damned piano, and she had to listen all over again.
At least this time she was beneath a blanket.
For two days Christine was careful to limp about from room to room and give soft little sighs every time she rose to stand, as Erik regarded her movements with interest, usually from the piano bench or with his violin balanced in the hollow of his shoulder. She couldn't recall if it was her left or right foot she had given him, and switched between the two in the hopes that he would not notice––though it wasn't much likely, considering the attention he gave that piano.
And he had never played that particular song again.
But Erik had others; he had an endless, eternal catalog of music, with each song more powerful, more sensual, more all-consuming than the last. With the piano, or the violin, cello or his own unbelievable instrument––by God, that miraculous throat! It was her downfall: when he sang it took her every time, no matter how fiercely she resisted. She could not escape that voice.
When he played Christine could hardly just stand there and listen. Because if she were discovered––
No, no! It was too wicked!
Tonight she did not risk it; she had felt it coming the instant she turned back from the window and met Erik's black stare in the carriage on the Bois. Like the north wind that rolled in on the Seine with madness in its wake, a violent storm was building in him, and none in its path would pass the night uncorrupted. He had not even bothered to remove his coat before he sat down to play. Only the Devil knew what sins that box could commit tonight!
It was best to hide and wait.
Now, as Erik's house rang and echoed in the throes of sublime music, Christine writhed against the closed door of her bedroom and bit her bottom lip to bleeding, with her skirts bundled in her fist and her hot fingers working between her thighs.
It was utter madness, shameful; a crime against––well, everything––and yet, the music caressed her, enchanted her, tempted her to taste its fruits. She could not hope to resist it! Heaven help her, she must resist it! What would Erik say if he knew?
Oh, but he could never, ever know!
And yet the crescendo was building, pounding and tearing in an obscene frenzy, out there in the Louis-Philippe room and inside of her–– yes, inside of her –– what would it be like to take those long fingers inside of her?
No! Never that, God, not that. Just the music, only the music!
Still she leaned against the bedroom door as she stroked her wanting sex to his maddening score; she was his silent orchestra, hidden and playing from the pit, and how she needed her conductor!
How he made her sing!
Then she was whimpering, her legs trembling violently where she stood, as the door shuddered in its frame under her weight. Her hand climbed her bodice to grip cravenly at her breast, squeezing hard, too hard atop the fabric, as she opened her mouth in a silent scream, and wet heat burst between her fingers––
Christine slid down the door to her knees as her skirts ballooned around her. For a moment, with her open palms pressed flat on the floor, she caught her breath and settled her pounding heart. Then on a long exhale she stood, arranged her skirts about her ankles, straightened her bodice, and smoothed the disordered curls that stuck up at the back of her head.
She would have to stop this.
Because the music alone was not the spring of it, she knew, though the truth of that was far more difficult to accept. As much as the man created the music, the music was the man. Every movement, every sound––the thrilling curl of those white fingers upon the ivory keys, the hypnotic back-and-forth sawing, sawing, sawing of his arm as he worked the bow––oh––the sweat that peppered his finely-wrought back, even through his shirt and waistcoat––no, no, no! She must not think on it!
That was the thing that turned bliss into sin.
That was unforgivable.
But how often, right in front of him, had she clenched her thighs beneath her skirts and bit her lip to keep from crying out, as he stroked that dead black box to euphonious rapture, knowing nothing of the wet shame borne of it between her legs?
Right in front of him! Oh, it was shameful, terrible––God in Heaven, what if the man knew?
He was just so ugly!
And so it had followed, those two weeks of forbidden Paradise, in unwanted, secret touches to relieve herself. Each time claimed her with more urgency; sometimes, Erik played with such frenzy, she had mere moments before her ecstatic release and all she needed to do was stand there beside the instrument and let it control her. Sometimes the music built slowly and torturously to its promised climax, and her wet flesh called for her, begging her for relief until she rushed to her bedroom to slam the door and pantingly appease it.
At the end of nearly a fortnight she could hardly wait until he seated himself upon that intoxicating bench with that promissory flourish of his evening-tails. She nearly soaked her skirts in anticipation.
But she despised herself for it. Her body was learning; like a wanton whore she needed him. She was dripping and clutching the furniture even before the first note!
How was it that the music which poured from beneath those fingers blazed with such unspeakable fire? Were these not the damning flames of Hell?
Lucifer had been an Angel too, before he fell.
And how he tempted her!
"May I speak with you a moment?" she asked later, once the music had gentled to barely more than a caress, and her throbbing sex had temporarily sated its secret need behind her bedroom door. Christine watched unseen from over his shoulder as the muscles of his back worked beneath his waistcoat in the same shuddering, pulsating rhythm of his too-long fingers. At some point he must have removed his coat; now it lay half-forgotten with his jacket on the floor at his side, as if he had simply flung the garments from him as he played.
Was it Chopin he coaxed from those fingers, so delicately, so tenderly? Christine had learned it was safer to hear music that he himself had not composed: his music, Erik's own music, burned.
Still, there were no guarantees. Even now, as she listened in the shadow of her own shameful release, her sex tingled with warning electricity.
"I wanted to apologize." As soon as she had spoken the music stopped. Erik hesitated upon the bench and turned, slowly swinging his legs around to face her. He met her eye and dropped his gaze to his hands as the white fingers twisted about each other in his lap; his broad shoulders fell. Christine thought him like a little boy who knows he is to be scolded, and tilted her chin in the barest smile, then stifled the unintentional softness with an expression of tense neutrality. Erik must have seen the change; he sighed.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Christine," he said, softly. "I fear my passions have gotten the better of me once again. I should never have behaved as I did when we came upon your young man. It was unfair of me to act so."
"He is not my young man!" Christine protested, blushing at her own girlishness and lowering her eyes. "It is just that––well, you have said I must not distract myself with men. I have tried to spurn him as you say––but, Erik, he is persistent."
"Ah, a very good reason to love him, then," he muttered, and picked at his trouser leg with a thumbnail.
"No! Well, yes," she sputtered; with her eyes downcast she took a deep breath. "Erik, I do admit that he is my friend, and it is difficult to refuse him when there is a great deal of tenderness in my heart for him. But I have not lied to you. I do not encourage him, I swear it. I was only surprised to see his––his anguish . He just, he looked so wounded, I cannot imagine why he would be so––not for me, surely––you mustn't think that––well. You saw him. I admit it pained me, but what you think you saw was only my affection for my friend and nothing more, truly––"
He gave a long exhale and met her eye, yellow eyes bright and unnerving behind that black shroud. "The boy loves you very much, Christine. I am quite certain he would marry you if you desired it of him."
Mindlessly, Christine lowered to gather his discarded coat and evening-jacket in her arms as he watched, his expression unreadable. Then she stood, crushed the fabrics to her stomach in an inelegant mass, and protested, as her voice took on the barest tremble, "I hardly think that is so, really now––in any case, I do not! Want it, that is. Raoul. I do not love him."
Erik made the same gentle humming sound between his lips that he had used just before he had examined her foot; she choked on an exhale and gave a short cough. Her gaze danced about the room, fluttering over everything but him, until it came to rest at her feet.
"You need not lie to me, Christine. I have no right to demand your celibacy," ––she blushed hotly–– "now that you know the truth of our arrangement. There is no Angel, truly––or if there is, you are it. Not I––by God, it is not I. It is for selfish reasons I demand your singular attention. But––well, I will not say it again. I have promised not to and I must not––you know my feelings for you, dear girl. They have not changed."
Christine stared at the pile of clothes in her arms. For a damned underground prison, it was certainly very hot!
"Whatever you might think of me, I know you value your tutelage," Erik continued after a pause, "I do not pretend you will ever love me, Christine,"––he caught her eye on a breath, regarded her silence and lowered his gaze again––"ah, but even so, I am afraid that I cannot share you. Not with him. If you wish to continue your lessons you must give him up. Or you will give me up. I cannot teach you while you love him."
He took up her hand in both of his own, as a violent shiver built in her belly and crept up her spine. She stared at their joined hands as Erik added, gravely, "I hope you will not, Christine. To waste such a beautiful instrument would be a greater shame than anything I can imagine. But I cannot decide that for you. The choice is yours alone."
"Erik," she began, without knowing what she meant to say. “Erik, I––”
With a sigh he released her hand; Christine curled a soft fist in the space between them before returning it to the pile upon her waist. She tucked it inside the folds of crumpled wool as Erik watched.
"Please, Christine. Do not tell me now. I am sure you have already made your choice, but humor me, sweet child. Tell me tomorrow."
Then he dismissed her in his usual manner of turning on the piano bench and beginning to play. His eyes were closed; again he was lost to the music. Nothing beside it could interest him now.
Punching at the bundle of wool in her arms, Christine seethed inwardly. How could he ask her to devote herself to him when his own mistress was his music? And he brought her to such ecstasies!
Well, he brought her too. But that, she could not tell him.
No, surely there could be no choice but Raoul, if he should still want her when she returned above. If she returned above. That terrible look on his boyish face, cast with the yellow glow of the sputtering streetlights as her carriage turned a corner in the Bois and vanished into the shadowed path, stabbed at her like a dull knife. She could never forget it. What must he have thought, to find her there, of all places, at that unholy hour? In a curtained carriage with a strange man, no less––no, no, Raoul would never think so poorly of her!
He had to know she would never!
It would have to be Raoul, or no man at all. To consider anything else was absurd, regardless of what Erik had done for her. No matter what he had promised her.
No matter how sweet the fruit.
She could not give herself to the Devil! She was a Lutheran!
Her bedroom was outfitted with an adjoining bath of silken marble, the likes of which Christine had never seen before, much less had to herself to use as she pleased. When she turned its little brass knobs, the cast-iron tub would fill with hot water––she could not fathom how it was done, but imagined it had something to do with the hundred boilers above their heads––and emptied again at only the pull of a rubber stopper. In just two weeks she had come to depend on the thing quite devotedly. When Erik had tired of her and returned her to the world above, she would sorely miss its seductive heat.
Tonight, the bath had done wonders to calm her still-tremulous heart––for in his Hell, it never ceased its hammering––and to assuage this persistent, unforgiving guilt! Why should she feel so ashamed that Raoul had seen her in the Bois? When she did see him again, she could explain exactly––oh, but surely, she could not!
How could she lie, and tell him she was doing nothing wrong by him? When even now the music called to her from the outer room, having already claimed her once tonight!
It was not only for Raoul's sake that she felt such shame. How strange, that she should feel such pity for her captor. Her jailer! She had pretended not to see how it had injured Erik so visibly when she had turned from him in the carriage, to press her palm to the smoke-darkened window, atop Raoul's kneeling silhouette as he vanished among the shadows of the park––
Again tonight, Erik had asked her to choose him.
To choose him.
What did that mean?
Those eyes had met hers with more than simple fire in their depths. That stare, like kindle on a blaze that already raged too hot––like the Devil himself he attempted to claim her!
She would resist! She would not be cast down!
It was likely Erik knew she was in the bath. He must have known: she had kept the same routine much of these past two weeks. Because what else should she have done with her time, locked up beneath the opera house! Still, it was its own sort of Paradise, this languid way of living. And it was easy, far too easy, to forget she lived in Hell.
In Hell, with Erik.
Christine wondered if he pictured her here in the bath. If he thought of her now, naked and wet, helpless, just behind a door... Her eyelids fluttered as her warm fingers teased her sex beneath the rippling pressure of the hot water.
If he came through that door now, what would she do? Would she stand, rise from the tub like a painted Venus, and watch him stare as the water dripped from her skin? Would she step towards him, and let him put his fingers upon her naked flesh? Would she let him take her in his arms, kiss her parted lips and slip his fingers inside her, to stroke her as she stroked herself now––no––!
She did not know herself, down here.
And who was she, truly? To Erik, she was an instrument. He had said as much himself.
His instrument, which he alone could play.
It was not Christine who sang for him. It was not her own voice she heard. It terrified her to hear so much of him in her. And yet, it gave her power, it made her beautiful––without him, would she ever sing like that again?
But when he sang for her–– oh, perhaps tonight he would sing for her ––the traitorous way her heart fluttered at the thought disgusted her. It was indecent, obscene––it frightened her!
And yet with one hand Christine gripped the curled edges of the cast-iron tub as the other slid and pushed between her thighs. Because out there, he was still playing, and even the bathwater vibrated with the prurience of it. She bit her lip to silence her eager cry––
No–– surrender––in here, alone, he would never hear her––
She threw her head back upon the smooth enamel and gave a little moan, another, stronger, louder–– oh, yes, let him hear her––
She did not know herself down here!
Later, again sated and dry, she considered her reflection before the tall mirror in the secret privacy of her bedroom.
Hers was the only mirror in the whole of the house. It was not surprising, really, knowing what lay beneath Erik's mask––in truth she was grateful he wore it. Still that ruin of a face seemed almost natural in this underworld. Fitting, somehow, for the Serpent, to have no nose. And was it not beautiful, really, for being so terrible? She hardly ever even thought of it anymore…
Christine pressed her curls between the layers of the towel in her palms, then draped it across the back of her vanity chair.
As she opened her wardrobe she brushed her palm over the many fabrics––sensuous silks, velvets and brocades, covered in the finest embroideries and trims she had ever seen. She had found these gowns and underthings waiting for her, in her prepared chamber, that first night below: Erik had filled the entire wardrobe with them. Such perfect, beautiful, elegant things; what thought her captor must have put into that collection.
Though most of the garments were scandalous at best. Such cuts, such fabrics! Some she dared not even try on!
And this dressing gown alone…a sin in sheer voile and ivory lace…
If she wore it, what would he say? If he opened the door to her bedroom, and it was all she had on? Would he come to her, and reach beneath its skirts, gliding his cool fingers between her thighs, up, up, tantalizing the wet heat at the core of her? Would he gather the fabric in his fists and pull, exposing her bare breasts to his gaze––and, oh, then, would he meet her eye, and tear the thing clear from her?
No. She would never allow him to see her in it. But what could be the harm in putting it on, just this once?
As she stepped towards the long mirror the robe's lace slipped over her form, outlining and caressing the skin beneath, clinging to her every curve as if it had been made to her measurements. Beneath the fine cotton voile rose the firm, plump curve of her breasts with their pink nipples, every inch of her visible beneath the sheer fabric. So too the shadow of her ribs and the graceful angle of her collarbone shown as clear upon her ivory skin as if she wore nothing at all; lower, between the obvious silhouette of her thighs, peeked the dark triangle of her sex. She shivered at the strange excitement of seeing herself so bare, and yet entirely concealed.
Even this was only another of the Devil's temptations, was it not?
Still she let her fingers wander her curves atop the scandalous fabric, turning and writhing before the mirror. This was a new Christine, a fae Christine, a doppelgänger borne of shadow. This Christine could only live here in the dark.
And surely her Master wanted to see her.
She let a palm slip between the fabric of the robe and into the warm gap between her naked thighs. A welcome slickness met her finger as she slid it across the soft folds of her sex, watching her actions reflected before her like they belonged to someone else––like these fingers were someone else's––long, curling fingers, playing her from inside, drawing out this breathless music from within her like a talented Maestro, like an Angel, her Angel, her Angel––
" Erik," she breathed, but as soon as her senseless mouth had uttered the word, she tore her slick fingers from between her thighs, and gripping the bedpost to steady herself, regarded her own reflection in the mirror with horror.
It was an appalling thought! Disgusting, blasphemous, absurd!
She could feel the heavy tease of moisture as the evidence of her desire pooled in the hot crease beneath her rear and slid, as thick and sugared as molasses, down the inside of her thigh. In the mirror she could see the wet stain of her shame blooming upon the sheer cotton of the robe. Beneath the fabric, her aroused nipples showed like sharp, dark, secrets; she sighed and chewed at her bottom lip.
She needed a glass of water. Cold water, to wash this heat away. Glancing at the glass on her dressing table, she saw that it was empty and frowned. Erik kept a fresh pitcher of potable water in the kitchen for her use; she had only to brave the dark span of the Louis-Philippe living-room.
She could hear no sound from beyond her door; the damning piano had ceased its torment, and likely, Erik had finally gone to bed.
It was only a glass of water...
Why shouldn't she wear the gown beyond the room? Surely Erik had expected her to, or why else would she have it? Perhaps he did not realize the indecency of its cut. Even if she met him on her way, it was doubtful he would even note that she had the thing on. And just as oblivious he had been before, he would never note the sensual mess she had made between her thighs.
She could go out there in nothing at all and he would probably just keep playing!
That was a mistake.
"Christine," he said, only a voice, hidden among the flickering shadows on the hearth.
She had made it to the kitchen without incident; she filled a clean glass from the pitcher, drank, and filled it again. In trembling excitement she had peeked about the entrance to the living-room, her sex still-slick and thrumming between her thighs, preparing to dart back to the safety of her bedroom when she heard him. She gasped and clutched the robe together at the throat, then pressed herself to the opposite wall, facing the kitchen, all the while cursing herself for behaving like a child, and painfully aware of the quickly building tension below her belly.
What on Earth had she been thinking?
"Christine?" Erik repeated, and she could imagine the exact arching of his brow with which he spoke the words. She had not seen him––and yet he must have been there, seated by the dying fire, the entire time. Why must the thought send such a shiver through her now?
"Christine, I know you are over there," he added sardonically, "what on Earth are you doing?"
That voice of his was a sin. Why must it fill every empty corner as it did?
"I wanted a glass of water," she breathed from behind the wall.
"A crime, indeed," came his answering drawl. Hidden in the kitchen, Christine ran her fingers senselessly atop the soft fabric of the indecent robe, over her hips, rolling sensuously into her own touch. Realizing what she did with a start, she balled her traitorous hands in two fists and folded her arms across her chest, painfully aware of the feeling of her own pointed nipples as they pressed through the fabric and into her forearms.
"Erik, really, I am sorry," she called, breathlessly, attempting to gather herself. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was only looking for a drink. I will leave you alone."
"No, it is all right, my dear. It can get rather lonely down here, at night. A little disruption is welcome from time to time.” That voice crept beneath her skin, it heated her knees, her chest, her ears; Christine shuddered as he continued, “you wanted a drink of water? Would you like me to get one for you?"
"Oh––no––but thank you," she started. She took a loud, clumsy gulp of her cup; Erik sighed a soft laugh as Christine coughed. Recovering, she added, hating herself for her own inane skills of conversation, “I have one!”
“And so you do,” said Erik, gently.
The sonorous voice whispered in her ear despite the distance, creeping about the empty kitchen even as he spoke from the couch. Still, this trick disquieted her, perhaps more so than any of his others. Knowing the owner of the voice to be a man as he was––and not an Angel, certainly not an Angel––made the shapeless sound all the more unnerving. It made her feel foolish, for ever having believed otherwise.
And it did not help that it sounded as it did.
"Come here, Christine," said the voice, silkily. "Please."
It was a mad thing to do, to have left the room as she had! What had she been thinking, really!
"I was just going to bed, Erik. Do not let me bother you," she protested.
But the voice persisted. "Come. "
She could never resist that voice.
Now she saw him. He sat with his back to her, facing the fire, casting his shadow upon the hearth like a shade. His arm extended easily overtop the back of the couch; without turning to face her, he curled a summoning finger in her direction. A breath caught in her throat; again Christine cursed herself for her foolishness and tightened the sash of her robe, trying to ignore the shameful heat which still burned like hellfire between her trembling thighs.
On bare feet she moved towards the voice. Reaching him, she grasped the back of one of the tall leather wing chairs––the top of it nearly to her chin––to place it between her and the man gazing intently at her from the couch.
"Good evening," she said, cursing her nervous throat and the foolish thing she had done, as Erik raised that damn eyebrow behind the mask.
"Why are you hiding behind that chair, Christine?" he asked. "You may as well sit in it."
"I prefer to stand," she said, too quickly.
"Yes," he said, and Christine thought he sounded almost sad to say it, "yes… I expect so."
Only the fire burning low in the hearth and the single flickering oil lamp at his side lit the living room. In the half-light, the mask joined with the leaden dark such that Erik appeared only partially there at all––like a vision from a long-forgotten dream, a nightmare, the kind so easily explained away in the honest light of day––
Nothing was real in Hell.
Christine shivered and stared at her hands.
"Are you well?" she asked, stupidly.
"I am well, Christine," Erik sighed, and gestured lightly at the open book in his hands; he dog-eared a page and placed it soundlessly on the table to his side. "I have just been reading, as you see." He inhaled deeply, as his eyes swept what of her he could. "You are usually in for the night by this hour."
"I wanted a glass of water." Behind the leather shield of the armchair Christine spun the half-drunk glass in her fingertips.
"As you have said, my dear." A laugh like an exhale crept into his voice. He folded his long fingers in his lap atop his crossed leg; Christine marveled at the thinness of him, how the sharp angle of his knee pressed into the fabric, how she could make out every bone in the white fingers of his hands as if he were hardly more than a skeleton––
Why was the agonizing heat building still between her thighs, why did her breath come so shallow through her parted lips? He was nowhere near the damned piano!
"Well, my dear. And so you found it." Erik mused, a curious eye following her gaze as it took in the parts of him.
"Find what?" she echoed, surprised.
"The water," he said dryly. His narrow lips twisted; and surely Christine did not imagine it––the Devil's fire burned still in those yellow eyes!
"Oh. Yes." Red shame rushed to her cheeks, her throat, her ears. She was wearing nothing, almost nothing; her arousal still pooled shamefully between her thighs, with only a scant few feet between her and him, to block him from her––if he started to sing, oh he mustn't, but if he did it would all be over––and oh, forgive her, because as the moisture teased her thigh she wanted nothing more than to hear the Devil's voice, forgive her, protect her, oh, God in Heaven, what had she been thinking!
All this as Erik regarded her carefully from his seat upon the couch.
"Erik," she managed, in something of a whimper; before her, he stiffened at the sound, and shot his gaze to his lap. Then he raised his eye to hers again, to fix upon her that same, unbearable stare.
"Come here," he repeated, his tone gentle but calculated. Measured, as if he were fighting something inside himself just as fiercely as she. He indicated her chair with a short tilt of his chin. "Sit with me, Christine. Please. Just for a little while."
A pause, heavy with possibilities, as Christine's heart beat so feverishly in her chest, she was sure the robe had to vibrate with it against her skin.
"Right. Yes, all right," she breathed. She was weak.
Devil take her.
Christine stepped from behind the chair and into the firelight. As she moved, she trailed an arm protectively over its high back. Erik choked on an inhale and coughed; his nostrils flaring beneath the shroud of his leather mask. His yellow eyes darted over her form, hovering over the sticking stain before her sex, the sheer fabric shining in the dim firelight, then flickered wildly over the gown's low neck, the curves of her breast, waist and hips, down to her exposed ankles and bare feet, again to the dark shadow between her thighs and finally to her open mouth as she wet her lips with her tongue, watching him look.
" Ah, " he muttered, and squeezed his eyes shut tight.
On his lap his long fingers made vices around each other; opening his eyes, he stared down at them as they coiled into a rigid fist.
Christine let her arm drape about the chair, feigning confidence in her state of undress, exciting at the forbidden sensuousness his eyes upon her affected in her. "Shall you read to me, then?" she offered, masking the tremor in her voice with some effort. This, itself, was a sin, a delicious, prurient sin--
Again Erik was watching her, devouring the sight of her as the barest tip of his tongue darted out between his parted lips; God, he wasn't even blinking! A shudder crept over her belly and down her chest, sharpening her pink nipples to tender points. She was sure he could see them through the robe.
"If you like," he breathed. Without taking his eyes from her, he groped for the book at his side, blind fingers searching for a way to grasp it. He slipped it inelegantly from the table to his lap. He looked bitterly upon the large volume, that exciting, sinful hum singing again between his closed lips. "It is not a very good one," he muttered, and read the title aloud with some distaste. " The Geographical Dictionary of the Kingdom of Poland …I am sorry."
"Oh," Christine said, standing just before him.
"It is new," he continued apologetically, as if either of them cared for the details of it. A mindless thumb traced circles upon its leather front.
"Oh," she repeated.
"I had not expected to see you again tonight," Erik said, briefly chewing his lip. One hand covered the other in a convulsive gesture, smothering its hypnotic motion atop the book. He coughed. "If you like, you could choose another…"
Christine dismissed him with the barest shake of her head and took another step forward, such that the cotton of her gown brushed about his parted legs. As she moved, the robe had shifted with her; now the barest tease of her naked thigh showed between its sheer curtains. Could he see her wetness there, shimmering on her goose-fleshed skin? Her half-drunk glass hung from a limp hand at her side, gently bumping the inside of his knee.
He made a weak, strangled sound through clenched teeth and shifted back on the couch, pressing his spine into the velvet cushion. The easy posture he wore earlier had tightened and straightened into something that more resembled one of his frightful automata than a man; Christine could see every muscle working in his jaw below the mask, and the tendons jumping under the skin of his white throat, even as his narrow lips disappeared on his face for their tightness. His shoes slid on the floorboards as his legs parted insensibly beneath the heavy volume forgotten in his lap.
"Perhaps you should return to your room," he stammered, as a ragged exhale slid between his parted lips, "Christine, this is--I am not sure if you realize--forgive me, I should never have bought you that thing--"
It should alarm her, the way those indecent eyes behind the mask traced every curve of her beneath the robe. How shamelessly he was staring! Her breasts shuddered beneath the sheer fabric as she inhaled deeply; her exhale came ragged and long. The Devil would take her now, her soul would be lost in the pit forever––oh, she should run, shouldn't she ––and still she took another step, as his legs parted to receive her.
Now she shivered, squared her jaw, and met his burning stare. "I do not want to go to bed yet, Erik," she said softly. Who was this woman who spoke these words?
"Christine," he breathed, "have you made your choice?"
She did not step away. She did not shake her head or nod; she said nothing, only stood frozen between his parted knees. The book bit into the tender fronts of her legs as the soft surrounding wool of his trousers warmed her skin; like lowered wings, the gauzy cotton of the dressing-gown fanned down to the floor behind them.
Still Erik stared. His palms slid heavily over his thighs and made bloodless fists atop his pointed knees. He made no attempt to conceal his hunger as his gaze found the dark shadow between her legs; he stared shamelessly, and Christine writhed her hips before his gaze. Her nipples pulsed, excited, behind the sheer fabric as velvet heat crept and slid between her thighs, wetting her further, and she opened her legs, just enough for him to see––
She should never have said it.
"Perhaps you could sing for me?"
Now the yellow eyes found hers. A moment, as Erik took one long, slow breath; he tilted his head, just barely, and when he spoke again the words came soft and measured.
"I know how well you like it when I sing, Christine," he said meaningfully, his expression unreadable. What did that mean? She exhaled, and her hot breath came in a whine.
"Close your eyes," he added, "and I will sing for you."
They stared, unblinking, a second, an eternity. Then, with a ragged sigh, Christine shut her eyes.
And Erik began to sing.
Oh God, and did he sing––it started softly enough, barely a vibration from his closed lips, that sinful hum, again! Christine gave a little moan as soon as it had begun.
Because the music summoned her, it knew her––and, oh, how she needed it––yes––she moved her hips toward it––
With one hand Erik must have grasped the sash of her robe; Christine could not see it but felt its silken caress as it rounded her waist and whispered to the floor at her feet, flooding her exposed skin with a sudden coolness. She felt her rising goose-flesh and gasped.
Now on a breath of rapturous music his lips brushed the bare flesh of her abdomen––or was it the music itself that caressed her––no, no, she should not open her eyes to see––one mustn't look back in Hell, or risk being trapped forever––
His palms found her back and followed the curve of her, down her spine and over her rear, as she moved like water into his touch. His breath burned hot upon her skin where he pressed his lips against her, as he sang––now, somehow, his tongue followed the curve of her belly, and still there was music––blissful music, music that caressed her and filled her and made her writhe beneath his hands with its rhythm, made her clutch at the pointed bones of his shoulder, as her glass splashed lamely against her thigh.
Blind, Christine threw her head back, licked her dry lips, and gave a quiet moan; with a grunt, Erik slid a cool finger over the slick mouth of her sex. She gasped, bucking her naked hips toward him in surprise as the glass fell from her nerveless fingers to shatter forgotten upon the floor.
"God, you're so wet," Erik breathed, surprised, as something ragged flavored his words, "fuck, Christine, you're soaking wet..."
But she could not make sense of the sounds. There was only music, and still it filled her; she was immured in it and her body recognized its caress. It knew what it wanted––she was helpless against it––and so she moaned and drew him closer, drew the source of the music closer, by her fingers tangled in his hair.
"Had you been––fuck, Christine, you cannot possibly desire this of me––"
She could feel his hesitation; his song, slowing, weakening, as she writhed between his still-rigid thighs. "Sing," she whined, and when he hummed her name in answer so close against her skin that she felt the moisture of the words, she thought it sounded like a prayer.
“I am so afraid,” he breathed against her shivering flesh, “I do not want to hurt you. I do not want to make you hate me––”
“Please,” Christine whispered, though the words that spilled from her panting lips were those of another woman, a stronger, braver woman. He met her gaze, yellow eyes reverent as they stared up at her from her naked abdomen, questioning, unsure. She had sworn herself to the Angel once, how was this any different? He already owned her mind, her soul. What more is a body, to gift the man who gave her everything?
The burning eyes closed, as he pressed his leather forehead against her naked flesh, and kissed her gently just beneath her belly button.
"You must close your eyes," he breathed. She did.
Then with a growl he was upon her. One finger, two, working, working, suddenly thrust within her; "fuck, " Erik growled, " fuck, Christine, oh, fuck, fuck–– " He moved his long fingers inside, gentle, at first, slow, then too hard, too fast, and, oh, just as the Devil might, he buried them to the hilt such that it forced her cry, such that the relentless bones of his knuckles slapped at her sticking skin and dug at her asshole, her clit, as the juice of her slid and dripped around them, and still he was singing, " fuck, my God, fuck––you soaked little thing, you little––" as she groaned into his heated thrusts, desperate, sinful, wanting, "oh, yes, you do, you really do, you like that, don't you––"
The music was rough tonight, hard; it burned, it stung, pounding relentlessly inside her, thrust after rising thrust, as her hips beat against its consuming rhythm, oh, almost, almost, she could hardly stand it, almost, oh, God, it was too much!
"Fuck, Christine, I never thought you wanted––my Angel, my Christine––oh, my God, forgive me––"
As he sang his lips traced her lower belly and brushed the coarse hair that darkened her cunt, as in a synchronous gesture his long fingers opened within her, spreading wide within her––God forgive her, now he was stretching her, why was he stretching her?––as his other hand parted her pink lips with two fingers and he bent low, snorting and groaning, to drag his hot tongue over the exposed nub of her clit.
And then the song was on her clit and she forgot about his fingers even as they moved inside to its same beat; he was sucking, tasting, pulling the pink nub between his lips, as Christine cried out, senselessly pounding her hips against his face, feeling the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, as her nails, like so many needles, clawed about his shoulders, and her eyes rolled back behind her squeezed-shut lids.
It was enough. Her body understood; down here in Hell, it needed so little to sin.
She moaned his name and buckled over; limply, she fell onto Erik beneath her as her thighs trembled and her sex shuddered and wept around his fingers.
A moment passed in empty rapture as she caught her breath and settled her heartbeat––and still Erik was working beneath her, between her thighs––he was doing something with his hands, yes, he was wiping his wet fingers on the inside of her thigh––and now something, something at his groin, he was working the buttons atop his groin––why was he working the buttons? but panting above him Christine could not process his motions, his actions; she was hardly conscious of him at all, hardly conscious of anything––
And then it was fading; the illusion shifting––his breath came jarring and overloud as he shifted her inelegantly above him–– oh, no––what had she done? What was she doing? What was she allowing him to do? The sweet, sour stink of her own sweat, her sex, filled her nostrils.
The smell of sin!
Christine opened her eyes. Somehow she had climbed on top of him; now she straddled him on the couch with her fingers clutched to the carved rosettes of the frame. Her dressing-gown hung from a shoulder, entirely open down the front, her breasts bare and close to his skin. She could feel the book crushed against the inside of one leg as a clumsy hand gripped her rear and parted her thighs with such eager roughness that she toppled awkwardly into the cushion.
Something wet and sticking slid between her thighs and teased the hot mouth of her sex, a finger–– no, no, not a finger!
“I never thought,” he was groaning beneath her, “oh, fuck, Christine––I did not dare to hope––”
Erik was staring up at her, panting, his dark eyes wide and ravenous behind the mask as they sought hers above him. With one hand he anchored her against his body, her thighs spread overtop his own as he pressed her forward, and the other held his rigid cock–– his enormous, dangerous cock! ––hard, ready, in the bare space between them. Christine could neither break that desirous stare or speak to halt his actions; instead she watched in horror as the man beneath her gripped her at the inside of her thigh to slide the tip of his shaft against her, teasing at the very places his fingers had just released her. Now with stilted, over-eager movements he eased her into place, shifting her about on her knees, settling her against him–– oh, no, no, no ––she had sinned, she had tried to fool the Devil and this was her punishment!
He was too close––he was going to kiss her, and more–– he mustn't kiss her!
Christine choked on an exhale and fumbled forward, digging her nails into the velvet upholstery. She climbed the couch to break free from him as he grunted beneath her in surprise, then, with a convulsive movement, she threw herself to the floor. She landed on her side to Erik's astonished stare, and gave a grunting gasp as their eyes met; then, with both palms spread wide beneath her, she scrambled to her feet again, turned, and ran.
She fled to the little bedroom. Jumping to his feet such that the forgotten book crashed to the floor before him, Erik followed.
She did not close the door or make any attempt to. In the center of the bedroom Christine waited, frozen, panting and staring, as the robe hung from her. Now with long, even strides through the doorway––with his rigid cock stuffed carelessly in his open trousers, such that Christine could see the moisture dripping from its purple tip––Erik advanced toward her, capturing her wrist and wrenching her to him without a word.
He curled his long fingers around her arm to crowd her forward; with his body guiding hers from behind Christine stumbled toward the bed. When he released her, she gave a whimper but said nothing, tumbling onto the high mattress, bending forward across the feather blankets, as her feet slid frantically on the floorboards, disordering the rug at the bedside.
"I cannot tell you how I have wanted this," Erik breathed behind her, raggedly, as Christine scrambled, face down, against the mattress, feeling her tender, pointed nipples scrape over the bedspread. “I cannot begin to describe to you my desire––”
Then with his knee he forced her thighs apart to press himself against her. Gathering the fabric of the damned robe with clumsy, invasive palms, clawing at her legs, her hips, her rear, he threw the gauzy mass over her head to reveal her bare ass before him.
"Fuck, Christine––" he muttered, as his fingertips skirted the curve of her naked rear.
But no, no–– for now the too-familiar heat was stirring again between her legs–– no, please no, not so soon, not again ––as Christine writhed on the bed and stretched her arms out over the mattress, clutching in desperation at the piles of blankets and pulling them towards her.
With apparent hesitation, Erik stroked stiltedly at her exposed flesh. The heat of his caress burned like fire against her skin; Christine wriggled away from his touch, pressing her hips hard into the blankets. Despite her movements, he captured the fleshy underside of her rear in a hand, slapping, squeezing, spreading the skin––and as he did so he slid two fingers along the wet cleft of her sex, to pinch the sensitive nub of her clit, still soaked with his spit, then slip them both inside as Christine whined beneath him. She could hear the slick swallowing of her own moisture as his fingers again drove inside.
"Good girl," Erik breathed, pushing his fingers into her wet heat, running his thumb between her spread cheeks and teasing her asshole with his nail. Christine whined as he tipped the finger inside.
And God, she liked it! Heaven forgive her! Had she sold her soul?
With his fingers inside her, still working, drawing steadily in and out and in again as Christine bent helplessly over the mattress, Erik bent suddenly and thrust his tongue against the soaked valley of her sex, dragging it along the tender flesh; he groaned into the mouth of it and it was almost again music––
She moaned his name, her lips spread wide in a breathless o, as her thighs parted and splayed against the mattress, opening herself to his touch, his Devil's kiss––unable to resist, Christine arched her bottom high on the bed to crush her wet lips to his ruined ones, as he responded to her eagerness with a groan, a strangled fuck, fuck, and dove deeper against her, snorting and slobberring between her thighs as if he were only a beast and Christine were his prey––
A beast, and no Angel.
“I know what you do to yourself behind your bedroom door,” he whispered against her, as if he knew the secrets of her darkest thoughts, pressing his lips into her wet, as his tongue teased that needy flesh, "I have always known. You are not as quiet as you think.”
But as he pushed himself against her, digging between the sweating flesh of her thighs and her rear with his tongue, his teeth, his fingers, the unyielding leather of his black mask bit at her sensitive flesh and her ragged breath caught in her chest, and crying out in sudden, surprised pain, Christine grasped at the mattress to pull herself forward and away from the sting of his leather flesh. Again Erik groaned, straightening, and seized her hips to drag her back toward him, as his wet fingers left cold stains on her naked skin.
"I always knew you liked it," he growled above her, as Christine flailed beneath him, helpless to resist his hold on her, "I could see it in your pink cheeks when I sang to you. I could smell it on you like perfume. I knew, but I never imagined––not with me–– "
Then he rammed his hips to hers with a groan, for only a moment, forcing his half-clothed erection into the dripping cleft of her naked ass as Christine gave a surprised grunt beneath him. On a strangled, " fuck, Christine," he slapped her her rear with a rigid palm, sending a stinging shockwave through the core of her and a fresh rush of wet heat spilling from between her thighs; when he repeated the gesture, Christine thought she might faint, and opened her mouth wide, drooling into the wet blankets. Before she had a chance to recover, to her answering cry––of bliss or pain Christine knew not which––Erik stuffed his fingers again within her ready sex.
“Christine, my love,” he said raggedly, easing two, now three fingers inside, as she chewed mindlessly at the blanket beneath her, “I am not a small man, fuck , yes, girl, take it. I am not small. A consolation for this ugly face, I suppose. I do not want to hurt you--"
Now, he did not move as she might have expected, he did not pound himself inside in that enthralling mockery of intercourse that Christine had so often done herself, to the inescapable throb of his music; no, he opened his fingers wide inside her, curling and twisting them such that she felt that something was alive in her, forcing them deeper, deeper until she thought she might scream, until she thought he might tear her in two––
"God, you feel so good, Christine––I always knew––you're so fucking tight––"
Again he was stretching her, opening her, preparing her: oh, Heaven forgive her, she knew why he was stretching her!
"I always knew–– fuck ––you really are a virgin, aren't you––"
Christine's heart raced as she clutched at the bedspread beneath her. A violent shudder built in her that had nothing to do with music; it started along her spine and exploded in a trembling, heated violence between her legs. Unable to stop its escape from her open lips, Christine gave a loud moan and writhed on the bed into the urgent assault of his fingers; she heard the sticky sound of wet against wet, and Erik's ragged exhale as urgently, she pressed her body into his.
"Does it always get you this wet, Christine?" he breathed, behind her. "I knew––I could tell––but, fuck––I thought, the music only––I have always felt it too––but surely not, not you too––"
She was dizzy, she couldn't see; everything was white, as her vision distorted and sparkled with blinding light, and a new, stinging ache began at her core, as her whole body cried out in terror, no, no, this wasn't what she wanted, this was a sin!
"I want you so much, Christine," Erik growled, anchoring her to the mattress with a sweating palm to her naked rear. "I've wanted this for so long––I never would have imagined––but fuck, you're soaked for it––" He had his cock again in his fist, dragging it over the hot core of her, tipping it into the little squinting mouth of her sex and groaning at the contact; her grip tightened upon the blankets.
"I cannot believe––Christine––"
The sharp weight of his buckling knees impelled her forward and into the mattress as he breathed, "my God, I love you, Christine––"
And then with a long and obscene groan, he entered her.
And it burned! It stung! Oh, God, it tore her apart, and he was barely inside; she could feel the sticking heat of his palm kneading her flesh as he eased himself within, groaning, still groaning, above her.
"God, you're so fucking wet, fuck , I love you––"
Forgive her, forgive her, because she wanted more! She wanted all of it, all of him, even as she felt his hips pound against her rear, pressing her hard into the mattress and knocking her scrambling feet under her and her knees into the hard wood of the bed frame. She cried out in mortified alarm as he mumbled, growling, " fuck, you're so fucking tight, Christine, I could come already, fuck ––I could fill you up right now––I could put a babe in you––”
Now a resounding crack echoed in the room and water stung at the corners of Christine's eyes as Erik struck at the fat of her naked rear with his taughtened fingers, without the tender reservation he had shown previously; he struck her again as she gasped into the blankets. He was inside her, buried to the sticking flesh of his groin and thighs, scratching her sensitive skin against the rough wool and ivory buttons of his trousers, as he had only loosed the garment enough to drape open over his hips, and left the rest to crush between the heat of their bodies. Christine could feel the revoltingly loose skin of his scrotum sticking against her thighs as he groaned, "easy my love, my love––oh, yes, Christine––easy, girl–– fuck ––"
He held himself inside without moving for several moments, as Christine heard his ragged panting from behind, and she steadied her own frantic breaths against the mattress. When he began again to push within her, digging his fingertips into her hips, she moaned weakly: for as he slid from her, his length caught something inside her that sent a shockwave of unbearable pleasure through her body, despite the burning, straining ache of the thing as it stretched her open with its invasion.
He dragged a palm down over the curve of her thigh, to reach between her body and the bed as she pressed herself into the mattress's edge; now his fingers were working even as he slid himself inside her again, torturously slowly. The sensation was too much for her when his thumb found her clit in the soaked folds of her sex and lighted on it, causing her to buck her hips into him eagerly.
He muttered above her even as he ground his thumb against her, and drove himself in again to the hilt, panting indecently: "fuck, yes, Christine––what a tight little cunt––you like that, don't you, you like it when your Erik fucks you––"
It disgusted her, frightened her, the animal sounds from his glorious instrument, as he bent her over and rutted her! She snatched and tore at the blankets beneath her, opening her mouth wide in ecstatic pain, as again he pushed the thing into the core of her––it was monstrous, it was revolting, oh , God, no, no no no ––how carnally, how obscenely he groaned––
"You're a slut, Christine, on the end of Erik's cock––fuck, fuck, you desperate, dirty whore––you put on that robe like the whore that you are––"
That voice!–– no, no–– she didn't know that voice––
This was no music!
She screamed.
"I don't want to!" her cry came urgent, breathless, as her thrashing knees struggled to climb the mattress despite his oppressive weight behind her. "Oh, stop, Erik––!"
As soon as she had said the words, the pressure behind her was gone, and with it the tearing pain, that numbing bliss in the core of her, as Erik recoiled from her to grasp blindly at the nearest bedpost and stared at her, frozen, rigid, his dark eyes wide behind the mask.
“Christine?” he breathed, “no...”
She scrambled up the mattress and flung the disordered blankets around herself, panting madly, "I'm sorry! I don't want to do it! I hate it, I cannot bear it! Please, do not hurt me, it hurts––!"
His cock hung wet and eager from the rumpled fly of his half-opened trousers as his waistcoat bunched up his waist; he gripped the bedpost with white fingers, and stared without blinking at Christine.
She had twisted around on the bed; now she faced him, her breath raging from her open mouth, clinging to the soft surface as if she could increase the distance between them by sinking into the mattress. She begged, "please, Erik. I do not want to! Don't make me do this anymore!"
Still Erik stared, silently paralyzed, as Christine panted above the disordered blankets. His every muscle seemed in agony, pulsing and trembling just beneath the surface of his transparent flesh, as if he fought his own rigid grip on the bedpost. "Make you?" he managed, finally, choking out a shuddering exhale.
Beneath the chaos of tangled fabrics, Christine's sex throbbed with impossible urgency. "What is this! " she breathed, to herself, damning her own persistent desire, "what have you done to me?"
Now his face crumpled; his shoulders curled forward as he fumbled against the bedpost. He raised a hand as if to ward her from him, his fingers grasping nervelessly about his palm. On the bed, Christine flinched at the gesture, and his hand dropped to clutch absently at his upper thigh. "Forgive my presumption," he tried haltingly, and quieted. He stared at Christine, lost; then after several moments spent gaping at her, his mouth moving stupidly, he muttered, "I thought––oh, God , I thought –– I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I did not realize––I should have known you would never want––"
" You! " growled Christine, turning suddenly to him, her expression wild as he shrunk against the bedpost, "are you an Angel or a Demon? What cruel trick is this?"
“Please, Christine, I should never have said what I did. I was only eager. I lost hold of myself! Christine, I love you very much––” His voice came low and ragged, as if every word uttered caused him unbearable pain. His manner broken, he hung from the post with his waistcoat just slightly out of place, as his cock, still dripping from the tip, bobbed between his rigid thighs: the only evidence, besides the tangle of blankets in Christine's fingers, that anything had transpired at all. "I never meant to hurt you," he continued, softly. "I will not. Please, you must know I would never––truly, I would never force you to do––" then his eyes widened behind the mask as he groaned miserably, "oh, God, Christine, have I? "
He worked his mouth as if to continue, gave a strangled exhale, and closed it again, as Christine glared at him from her place on the bed. Her chest heaved; she chewed her lip, panting. Her hand slid mindlessly over her mouth, a finger playing at her lip.
She tore her hand from her face to seethe at the fingers as if they had wronged her. "What have you done to me?" she repeated. “What have you made me do?” Then she met his eye, seething, "how dare you!"
Erik stared, terrified. "Please, forgive me! I misunderstood," he begged, frozen. "I won't do it again. Never! Don’t leave, please––I would never––unwillingly––forgive me! I misunderstood, Christine––I won't––I promise, I won't––"
She shut her eyes to him, turning her head; she could not look at him out of shame. Her body still burned with something unspeakable––she imagined him upon her, entering her as she bent before him––by the Devil, she wanted it! She could not reason with it! She panted between her open lips, gave a breathless moan––she stared at his purple cock, still rigid between his half-open trousers, bobbing there obscenely as he hung from the bedpost. A sick chill slid down her spine to burst maddeningly between her legs.
"Oh, am I in Hell?" she groaned, "what have you done to me?"
"In Hell?" he echoed. “This is Hell, to you?” His tortured gaze bore into hers, silently pleading with her; Christine was certain he could read her appalling thoughts upon her face. She eyed the rigid angle of his tense jaw, the tendons that showed on the pale flesh of his throat. Oh, to stroke that throat––to kiss it––
To kiss that giant cock!
"No! " she shouted suddenly, and Erik stiffened.
"Christine, please––"
But beneath the blankets, Christine's mindless hand found the inside of her thigh, summoned by the ravenous call of her still-aching sex. As Erik watched without understanding, she slid a finger inside herself, between the too-slick folds of her sex. Senselessly she stroked tight circles about the swollen nub of her clit––her lids fluttered over her eyes; she exhaled raggedly––
Erik's brow furrowed. "Christine?"
With eyes half closed she breathed his name in answer, as her thighs parted unseen. She drew her knees apart and pressed a palm into the mattress, to lean upon as she entered herself with her fingers, again and again as Erik stared.
Still he gripped the bedpost, and watched the muscles working in her bare shoulder as Christine's arm beat a frantic rhythm beneath the tangle of fabric. Her head tilted back as she stared at him, hazy-eyed, and met his gaze down the line of her nose, and chewed her lip to smother a breathless moan––
"Christine," he breathed, his own breath panting from between his parted lips as he watched her, enraptured, "are you?" Then, after a long pause spent staring at her frantic movements, he added, quietly, as if he were afraid of speaking the words, "do you want me to––"
"Don't touch me," she spat, though her fingers never stilled their movements under the blankets.
Again she said his name, as her tongue darted across her open mouth to wet the parched skin. From the bedpost Erik gave a shuddering exhale, as his hand crept absently over his thigh to circle his rigid cock.
Now he took it up in a white fist, to stroke the thing, again, again, in her shared rhythm––watching her, as she whined, writhed, on the mattress before him, her arms frantic beneath the blankets. He clutched the bedpost such that the bed shook violently with his every thrust––
"Christine , " he breathed, growling into the assault of his own mulish fist, “ fuck, Christine–– ”
She threw back her head, then, and gave a moaning cry; his name shivered from her open mouth––her feet, one still in its slipper, slid from beneath the blankets to thrash upon the mattress, as Christine chewed her lip, and rocked her hips steadily into her fingers, faster, harder, more, more––
" Erik," she breathed, again, and as she said it, he stumbled forward to lean bodily against the bedpost. Clutching his cock, shuddering, he groaned as his hot seed stained the mattress and spilled, sticky, between his fingers.
For a moment, in confused disbelief, Erik held his spent cock, his mess still dripping from his fingers, and stared, panting, at Christine––who did much the same, frozen atop the far end of the mattress.
Around them, the disordered room pulsed with warning electricity.
"I am not myself!" Christine shrieked, suddenly, still breathless as she tore her fingers from beneath the blankets, "what trickery is this, Erik?"
"Christine?" he panted, still leaning against the bedpost, panting, recovering from his release. Her frantic stare swept the fallen cushions, the tangle of blankets––Erik's hand, still clutching his flaccid cock––the wet stain upon the mattress–
"What have you done to make me behave so?" she demanded, adding darkly, "have you drugged me?"
"What is this?" he breathed, for lack of something more suitable, as the manic terror began to show again in his expression. "Christine, what is this?"
He released his cock to hang limp and wet between his thighs, staining the wool of his trousers. Then, with stilted movements he began to cover himself, gazing over at Christine as she clutched the blankets about her throat. When his hand met his cock again she balked and whimpered––he froze, held his palms open before him, and left his trousers unfastened.
"Christine––" he tried.
" You have drugged me! " she repeated, in a whispering hiss.
Now a look of unspeakable sadness shadowed his features, as his hands worked the air before him. "Never, Christine--no--" Erik breathed, exhausted, choking out the words. "Is this truly what you think of me?"
She fumed in silence atop the bed.
"Please," he added, eyes wild behind the black mask, "don't leave, Christine––I will not do it again, I swear it––"
"Get out of here!" Christine growled from the bed.
" I don't understand! " he said desperately, his eyes searching her face, for something, anything––"but please, please––Christine––don't go––"
He reached out a trembling hand; Christine glowered at him and he returned it to hang limply at his side. " Leave me! " she screamed suddenly, "you demon, you beast ––get away from me! "
For another moment, another eternity, Erik stayed, frozen at the foot of the bed, as Christine glared from atop the mattress. Again his mouth opened as if to speak––for several moments more he chewed the words––then he passed a hand over his face and gave a ragged exhale between his long fingers, and walked to the door, as Christine's shuddering breath echoed behind him.
Silently, he slipped the lock such that it could only be opened from the inside, as Christine watched, understanding.
With his hand about the handle, he paused in the frame to glance back at Christine, still clutching the bedspread to her throat. He sighed and lowered his gaze to the floor, as if determined to ignore the scattered pillows about his feet, and the terrified girl, hating him from across the room.
"It's late, Christine," he said, "I'll bring you above in the morning." A pause. "The masquerade is tomorrow." Sadly, he added, "I suppose I'll hear your answer after that."
And he shut the door.
A/N Again: Is it out of character for Erik to say "fuck, you're wet" ? Hell yes it is. But I've done it anyway.
Originally published May 2019
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