by Colette Gale
She was ill. Ill with a broken heart. Ill with the thought of how she’d betrayed Erik. Ill with the knowledge that he’d seen her…seen her with Raoul.
And ill with the truth that she was too much of a coward to find Erik and to be with him.
It was easier, much easier to agree to marry Raoul. To become the Vicomtesse of Chagny. To live a normal life with a man who loved her, and who had nothing to hide. And who did not wear a mask every day.
Only at masquerade balls.
She forced a smile and took his hands, clasping them around the bulky ring. “Only for a bit longer, Raoul. When I…when I am used to the idea that we are to marry, we will tell everyone. I promise.”
They were interrupted in their tête-à-tête alone in a small salon by a costumed young man. “Monsieur le vicomte, some of the other patrons have been searching for you.”
Raoul turned to Christine. “Shall you accompany me, my dear? I must speak with them on a business arrangement.”
“Oh, no, Miss Daaé, I hope you will remain,” came a smooth voice. “I wish to have a word with you, if you permit.”
Christine and Raoul turned to the man behind them…He had somehow appeared in the corner of the small, lushly furnished parlor room in which they stood. Dressed as a pirate, with a heavy black mask that covered more than half his face, he brandished a long, gleaming sword.
“Ah, Philippe, it is you,” Raoul laughed, a bit of a nervous tinge to his voice.
“What? Surely you did not think it was…the Opera Ghost?” his brother responded mockingly.
Raoul straightened. “Of course not. And I am glad that you have arrived. If you would stay with Miss Daaé, I would be most grateful.”
He turned to Christine, who suddenly wished for an excuse to leave with him so that she didn’t have to be alone with the comte. But before she could make one up, the comte had taken her arm quite firmly. Raoul gave a little bow and, taking her free gloved hand, brought it to his lips for a brief kiss. “Au revoir.” And to his brother, “Take care of her, brother. I shall return as soon as possible.”
Christine pulled loose from Philippe’s grasp and moved with studied casualness toward the door. She would not let him know how he unsettled her, with those glittering eyesfrom behind a mask.
Masks, masks everywhere…
“What a lovely costume you have chosen, Miss Daaé,” the comte said. “A close, shimmering Greek-style gown, heavy gold jewelry and headdress, a tiny golden mask. But your identity is not clear to me. Aphrodite, perhaps?”
“What is it you wished to speak with me about?” Christine replied with a steady voice, though her heart was thrumming madly. Why was she so afraid of him, when the fury of a masked man who had the right to be angry merely made her weep?
She imagined he crooked an eyebrow behind his mask. “No conversational niceties, then, mademoiselle? Well, then, let us get right to the point.” Philippe’s voice was so smooth and low, but not like velvet…more like cold, hard silver. It sent unpleasant sensations trickling down her spine. He advanced upon her, tall and hawkish, and her heart pounded madly. She felt the cloth-draped wall behind her, and a chaise to one side. There was nowhere to move, to get away from him.
“First and foremost…although I find my brother’s interest in you quite amusing, I will not condone his foolish scheme to marry someone of your class. I have the opportunity to make a much better match for him, and he will comply. So it is just as well that you have not made the announcement of your engagement.”
Before she could react, he reached out and closed his fingers over the ring Raoul had given her. With a harsh snap, he jerked it from the chain around her neck and thrust it into her face. “You will not be needing this.”
Before she could react, he jammed it into his pocket.
“Secondly…” He moved closer and grasped her chin, his fingertips digging into the soft give of flesh under her skin. Her small mask felt ever more stifling under his nearness, yet acted as a flimsy barrier between them. “I do understand his attraction to your very…titillating…person, and I will do whatever is necessary to promote his goal to place you permanently in his bed…among other locations. I am sure he will be quite pleased with that arrangement. His future wife can produce an heir, entertain guests, and bear the title of vicomtesse…while you can serve…other needs.”
His face moved closer; she could smell tobacco and clove on his breath. Their masks nearly touched. His breath was hot, pulsing with desire, and she tried to pull away, but he pressed her back against the wall, his body pinning her there from the waist down, his erection most evident. The sword from his costume pressed into the top of her tender thigh, caught between their bodies. Philippe’s free hand slapped up against the tapestry next to her shoulder, whilst his other hand kept her chin positioned. Surely he would leave a mark on her white flesh!
“You should know, Miss Daaé…my brother and I share everything.” He forced his mouth over hers, stifling any cry she might have made.
Christine struggled, but he was too strong, and he had maneuvered her so that the unyielding wall behind her kept her imprisoned under the onslaught. His tongue jammed into her mouth, his teeth biting at the edges of her lips as though he would take her all in. His jaw worked, moving over her mouth as his fingers held her face still and helpless under his attack.
When she was at last able to wrench her chin away from his grip, he’d already redirected his attention to her bosom. Thrusting fingers down into the scooping gold neckline of her gown, he slipped his cool hand down and under one of her breasts, folding it into his palm. He squeezed and fondled it in a rough, demanding manner, while capturing her wrists in front of her waist with one strong hand. Her breaths were coming faster now, matching with his. She felt warm and close and confused.
“We have quite a lot of fun at Château de Chagny,” Philippe told her, tweaking her nipple viciously. Pain-pleasure whipped down into her belly and Christine gasped in surprise, her eyes flying wide open. She looked up into his and saw dark lust burning there…lust and promise and complacence. “I am quite certain you will find it very…satisfying. And if you should consider declining my brother’s invitation, please remember that we are the patrons of the Opera House, and as such, we hold your livelihood…and that of many others…in this very hand.” Using said hand, he squeezed her breast enough to pull a startled, pained cry from her.
“Do we have an understanding?” he asked, looking down at her with a mocking smile that told Christine he did not care whether she understood or not. He thumbed his finger over her nipple, back and forth, sliding over it, pressing it one way and then the other…
“No,” she moaned, trying to pull away even as her breath heaved, her nipples tightened, and her labia swelled. Mon Dieu, how could that be? Terrified more by her body’s reaction than the man in front of her, Christine tried to twist away. He released her, placing his foot next to hers and causing her to tip off-balance. She tumbled over the side of the chaise next to them and he pushed her, landing on top of her and the slide of golden chains around her neck.
His weight pinned her awkwardly onto the half sofa, and she heard a low, deep chuckle near her ear. “You might be a bit shy at first, Miss Daaé, but I have no doubt you will come around and learn to enjoy our accommodations. Despite your protestations, you appear to be quite…persuadable.” His heavy legs straddled her waist, his cock pressing down through his pirate breeches into her quim, and he brought her arms up over her head, stretching them long. Her breasts lifted under her gown, her nipples brushing up from under her silk chemise and onto the rough brocade of her bodice.
Looking down at her from behind his mask, his dark eyes glittered with lust. He licked his tongue over his lips. “Although this is not the time or place to sample all of the treasures you have to offer, I cannot resist a bit of a peek.”
He yanked her low bodice away, jerking the glittering gold fabric so hard the edges bit into her skin around her shoulders and ov
er the sides of her breasts. Her chemise moved with it, and her left breast was suddenly bare, plumping pink and pointed.
Philippe bent his head, closing his full, moist lips around her nipple. Instead of the harsh suction she expected, he surprised her with a tempting flick of the tongue and the faint nibble of his teeth. Her nipple tightened under his mouth. Christine squirmed beneath him, her breath coming in short pants, her sex brushing up against that strong bulge of erection, sending a spiral of lust curling around her even as she fought to push him away.
Then, suddenly, he froze, his lips opening and freeing her breast. His breath huffed hot on her moist skin, but he pulled away.
Christine opened her eyes and saw a tall, dark shadow looming behind him. Her breathing stopped and her heart plummeted to her belly, and lower. It twittered and flinched and her mouth dried.
“Ah, Philippe, I see that you have not yet learned how to take no for an answer.” Erik’s voice was as cool and impersonal as the glance he scanned over Christine. “Are you still so desperate that you must take a lady by coercion?”
Erik knew the comte?
Christine tried to read her lover’s expression, tried to see what was in his eyes…but they were flat and black, shadowed by a mask that covered, not just half, but all of the uppermost part of his face tonight. As if he had dressed for the masquerade ball as well.
Philippe muttered something that sounded filthy, but Christine did not understand it. She saw shock and recognition in his eyes metamorphose into bitterness. His mouth curled in disdain as he drew in a deep breath. “And so it is you, then, Erik. I should never have expected you would have remained in Paris.” Christine felt his hand as it moved toward his waist.
“Erik!” she screamed before she realized she was drawing in the breath; but when Philippe spun with his sword, Erik met it…with his own.
Costumed as an English highwayman, Erik whirled with his weapon, and the metal clashed…slid and clashed and clanged, and Christine watched in horror from her sprawled position on the chaise.
It soon became clear even to her untutored eye that although Philippe was well versed in swordplay, Erik was the better of the two. He was barely breathing heavily when Philippe dropped his sword and it clattered to the polished wood floor.
Erik placed the tip of his saber in the exact center of the comte's chest and paused, tilting his head as though considering how to proceed. The set of his jaw told her he was ready and willing to thrust the blade home.
“Erik! Angel! Non!"Christine cried, rushing to his side and grasping his arm. “He is not worth the damage.”
He looked down at her and she nearly stepped away…The look in his eyes was blank and removed, as if he’d never seen her before. “This is not the first time he has laid his hands on an unwilling woman.” Then his expression behind the mask grew even more chill. “Unless you were not unwilling.”
Christine gasped and stepped away. “Erik! No…” But she could not find the words; her mouth stopped moving.
Philippe seized the opportunity. “You will not kill me, Erik. You are no more than a weak fool who must hide underground for fear of being seen in the light of day. The only time you are free to roam about is when the rest of us wear masks as well. Do not,” he warned as Erik’s arm tensed visibly, as if to drive the sword home. “You have too many deaths on your head, and one more would bring the wrath of the city down upon you. Now that I know where you are, you would have no place to be safe.”
He stepped away from Erik’s saber, reaching to pick up his own weapon. “I will tell you this, Erik, Monsieur Opera Ghost…You have stepped in my way one too many times. This has been…what do the peasants say? The last straw in the basket on the mule’s back?” His attention flickered to Christine, then back to Erik. “Now that I have found you, I’ll have my revenge, and it will be my pleasure to take the woman too. As you well know, Erik, the Chagnys will not be naysaid.”
He turned, sheathing his sword with an easy, silvery slide, and turned to walk out of the room.
Christine watched him go, watched as he closed the door with a soft snick behind him, and knew that finality could mean nothing good…Then she turned to Erik.
Oh, mon Dieu, to see him. She itched to touch him, to feel his smooth, warm skin under her fingers…to press her mouth to his, to taste him.
“Erik.”
“Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships.” His voice was wry, and his body language kept distance between them. But his eyes burned.
“You recognized my costume.”
“Of course…the gold, the chains. The Grecian gown.” Disdain colored his words. “And so Helen has chosen the young, handsome Paris, then? What of Menelaus? Does he have no choice but to go to war to regain his bride?”
Raoul had indeed dressed as Paris, the Trojan who had stolen Helen from her husband, Menelaus.
“If Menelaus discarded hiswife, she would have no choice than to go with Paris—”
“Discarded?” Erik whipped toward her, his body tense and tall and powerful, cloaked in a swirl of the black that he favored. “Christine, you—”
But she didn’t allow him to finish. Her arms went around him, pulling his head to hers, and she covered his mouth with hers.
She forgot about what the mask covered, about his rage and loathing toward her. It didn’t matter any longer what one part of his face looked like, that one small part of him. He was there; he’d forgiven her. He’d saved her from the comte.
And mon Dieu, he tasted like Erik…like Erik…warm, slick, sensual. It was a bare moment before he lost his control and wrapped his arms around her. He held her face, kissing her back, moaning into her mouth.
“Christine…Christine…” His tongue, his lips…they ate of her, drank of her…She tasted him in turn, the warm, mellow tongue, the thick, slick curve of his lips…She felt the broad, square edges of his shoulders…the heavy thrusting cock between them. She reveled in the familiarity, the comfort, the homecoming.
Before she knew it, her gown was up, her gartered thighs bare. Her buttocks rested up against the arm of the chaise, and her arms braced her torso. Her breasts jounced, bare from the bodice pulled down to her waist, gleaming cream in the low light. Erik slid his thick erection inside her, and tears burned the edges of her eyes. It felt…full, and right and familiar.
He lifted her, his hands strong and powerful at her hips, holding her as he drove inside, up and in, up and in, his warm thighs wound beneath hers, his knees pressing into the side of the sofa under her legs. In and out…his eyes were closed…Why would he not open them, look at her?
He pushed in and out, faster…Her breasts jiggled, moving up and down, free and chilled in the open air. Her pip swelled, her labia filled, slick and hot with the friction…building…her sex pounding, wanting it…Erik breathed, the puffs warm and hot, moist, as he worked his hips…in and out…filling her, the curl of lust building…building…
He came. Long, hard…
She knew it, because of the way his eyes flew open, his gaze driving into hers with the same intensity as the saber blade…naked emotion burning there…his jaw tensed and his neck corded, his dragging in of deep, gulping breaths…the pulsing warmth inside her as his hips stopped moving.
And he pulled away. Turned away. Gathered up his saber.
Slid it into its sheath.
“Erik!” she sobbed, her quim crying, her heart breaking.
“Helen chose Paris, causing a war led by her husband.” He looked at her over his shoulder once briefly, then opened a door she had not known existed. “This Menelaus will not fight for a lost cause.”
And then he was out the door.
When Christine reached it, opened it…he was gone.
THIRTEEN
* * *
In the privacy of the white salon, well away from the partygoers of the masquerade ball, Maude had one thick cock slamming her quim from behind, and another long, slender one in her mouth from the front.
> What more could a woman ask for?
Something up her ass, for one. A tongue-lashing on her pip, for another. Perhaps another pair of lips on each nipple…if one were to get specific.
All things considered, however, Maude wasn’t complaining. No, she had no complaints as her body trembled in her third orgasm of the session. Her groans of delight were choked off by Firmin’s cock in her mouth.
The masquerade costumes had long been shed…except for the masks. She’d insisted they keep them on…as part of the excitement.
Her whip lay coiled on the floor, forgotten in the moment of two cocks working her, one from each end. One in, the other out…one out, the other in…as though they were one long rope being pulled in and through her in a smooth, sleek rhythm.
Her heavy breasts dangled, thick, hard nipples brushing over the rough rug as they swayed back and forth with the pulse of their movement, sending little jolts of sensation to her throbbing clit. The slick suction sounds from her pussy matched those from her mouth as Firmin held her face, sliding in and out, long and slow.
“You lovely bitch,” he gasped between breaths. “I’ll choke you…when I come, you’ll be drowning.”
Oh, oui, oui, Maude thought in delight, her lips curving around him.
Behind her, Armand grasped her hips as his thick, round cock filled her quim, settling into its space and holding there, as he began to work the black dildo she’d dropped in Firmin’s pocket.
The unyielding column slid in her anus, and Maude had the lovely sensation of being filled, full, tight…so tight that every little breath brought pleasure-pain coursing through her body. Armand moved behind her, drilling the phallus deeper…and his cock in and out, slowly, full…fuller…so full, she felt her entire insides shifting with each of his strokes. The cavern of her vagina swelled, the sensation deep inside burning with the need for relief.
Exquis!
Tears stung the corners of her eyes, tears as the pleasure grew to an unbearable level…pain-wrapped, the feeling of being trapped, imprisoned by three stiff cocks…She couldn’t move, and then, when she thought it could grow no more, Firmin released her head and grabbed for her breasts, holding them in his hands as they swung beneath his ballocks.
