by Colette Gale
She was breathing heavily through her nose, choking on every other stroke of Firmin’s cock, her quim so wet that Armand slid all the way out for one glorious moment…and then slammed back inside of her, pushing the phallus in ever deeper with his belly. Pain! Her pip throbbed so hard it must be bright red, burning with the need for release.
Firmin groaned, and shot himself deep into her throat, filling it with warm, salty ejaculate, choking her.
Maude gulped it back, tears stinging her eyes, and sagged, face to the floor, as Firmin pulled out, Armand still working sleekly from behind. And then, he reached around and touched her shiny, hard sex and she screamed into the rug…screamed as the violent burst of relief swept over her. She shook and quaked beneath him, and felt his long, huffing groan of orgasm pulsing inside her as he slumped over her.
When she staggered to her feet moments later, Armand and Firmin were both still lumps of male flesh on the rug. Maude stood above them, in all of her naked glory, her pip and quim still humming…her asshole still twitching.
She snapped her whip, and it cracked in the air over them.
Firmin jerked and opened his eye. “Surely…Maude…you are not…”
Armand merely groaned.
“Come, come gentlemen…or is it that you already have?” Maude chuckled at her own joke, and cracked the whip again. “The night is still young! The masquerade ball may be winding down, but we do not have to!”
But, to the managers’ infinite relief, Maude’s plans were suddenly interrupted by a scream in the distance. And then shouts and more screams. “The Phantom!”
~*~
A woman, one of the costumiers, had been found near the dressing rooms, deserted due to the masquerade ball…and discovered only when one of the stagehands had been sent to locate a specific item for La Carlotta's costume. She had been describing it to the Opera House’s patrons, the Chagny brothers, and the elder one had requested to actually see the intricate fan of which she had spoken.
The dead woman, Régine, was only in her late twenties…not a particularly pretty girl, but not an unfavorable one either. Her neck was broken; her head sagged awkwardly against her shoulder.
She had been costumed as a shepherdess, and her mask still remained in place over the upper half of her face. Her skirts were jostled up, but it was not clear whether that was because of the way she’d fallen, or because the Opera Ghost had helped himself to her charms either before or after he’d broken her neck.
For it had, indeed, been the Opera Ghost. The one who’d remained silent and unobtrusive for well over a month…since Joseph Buquet’s death. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was the perpetrator.
Christine stared in horror at the lifeless body as it was carried away, draped in a white sheet. Could Erik have done such a thing?
How?
She could not comprehend it.
Pressing her hand to her mouth, Christine staggered down the corridor to the room where she slept. Such violence. Yes, he was capable. She had seen it in his eyes, seen it even tonight when he’d contemplated killing the comte.
Had he taken out his rage on Régine instead? Rage directed at Philippe de Chagny…and also at herself, Christine Daaé.
A strong hand seized her arm, and Christine whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. Madame Giry stood there, her face settled and foreboding. Her hair hung, not in its neatly scraped-back chignon, but loosely bundled at the back of her head and falling in swaths.
“It is long past time for us to talk, Christine,” she said firmly, pulling her into a nearby room. “You have put me off long enough, and now this has happened. If you had spoken with me before now, we could possibly have prevented it. Now there will be no hope for Erik. Do you understand that?”
She thrust Christine away so that she stumbled to a chair, and sank gratefully into it. “But Madame Giry, Erik…”
Her words faltered when the ballet mistress turned on her, her dark eyes sharp. “You do not believe Erik has done this, do you, Christine? After all you have known of him?”
Christine sobbed. “I do not know! I do not think he would…a woman…but, Madame Giry, he has killed before…”
“You fool. You foolish girl,” Madame spat, whirling about the room. “Of course he has not. Of course he has never intentionally killed. You do not deserve the love he has given you if you believe otherwise. Foolish, foolish…both of you. I warned him that you were not…” Her voice trailed off, but the fury in her eyesdid not wane. “Christine, the legend of the Opera Ghost is just that. A legend. One that he, with my assistance, has cultivated in order to provide him protection. If it appears that every mishap, every accident or injury, is attributed to the ghost, then he is safer. He is more the fool for not telling you this himself!”
She paced the room, the black and red strips of her skirt flying around her ankles, showing Christine a glimpse of well-shaped legs. And, she noticed faintly, a bodice that bared a healthy expanse of bosom.
“Why did he send you away? What happened that he sent you back to us?” Madame Giry demanded. “I thought you would go off together and be happy.”
“I…I…” Christine’s voice dried up. “I removed his mask.”
Instead of the wrath, the spew of fury, that Christine expected, Madame Giry stopped. She looked down at her with an expression much more horrifying than what had been revealed under Erik’s mask. “You dared.”
The sobs came anew, wrenching from deep inside her. “I meant only to show him that I loved him, regardless! I did not know…I did not know. I was startled…It was so frightening. His face. I didn’t know what to expect, and it shocked me. I screamed, and he became so angry. He hated me. I could see it in his face. He didn’t want me anymore.” It was such a relief to speak of it, of the horror and the pain she’d experienced.
“You no longer love him,” Madame said flatly. “You cannot bear to be with a man so deformed, so you have found yourself a new, wealthy love.”
“No, madame. No! I—at first I was frightened. And he became so angry. And he brought me back here. He cannot love me any longer, it is clear. He hasn’t come to me since then.” She couldn’t tell even Madame how Erik had seen her and Raoul through the mirror. “But I love him still, madame. I do. His face…it is only a small part of him. It is horrible, but…he is more than that.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered how bereft she’d felt when Erik left her, claiming that he, like Menelaus, would not fight for a lost cause.
He did not believe she could love him.
Perhaps Madame’s countenance softened a bit…Perhaps it was just that she moved and the shadows over her face changed. “He will not forgive such a betrayal. It is no wonder he sent you away. And then…and then you take up with the vicomte of all people. And his brother! How much more could you design to hurt him, Christine?”
She stalked away, red and black fluttering. “Part of it must be my fault, for not telling you. And his too, for not…but Christine!
How could you throw away the gift of such deep love, passion—a truth, so easily? So ignorantly? I thought you of all the girls here would understand the rarity of such a connection.”
Christine stopped crying. “Madame, please, I do not know what you are talking about. What must he be kept safe from? How does he know the Chagny brothers? Please…tell me. I did not mean to hurt him. I truly did not.”
“Philippe de Chagny will do anything and everything to destroy Erik. They have known each other since they were boys, young men. Always garbed in his mask, Erik would join up in the dark of night with the comte, his brother, and others as they roamed the streets of Paris doing what young men do. It was an odd, unsteady alliance, the masked Erik with the titled, spoilt nobility…How they came to be friends, I do not know. Erik held his own, with his…athletic grace and sharp intelligence…They respected him and perhaps were a bit afraid of him…” Madame’s voice trailed off, and Christine fancied for a moment that perhaps the ballet mistress might have a
much more…intimate…knowledge of Erik than she’d realized.
The thought did not sit well in her churning belly.
As if reading her thoughts, Madame looked sharply at her. “No, Erik and I were never lovers. His mother's name was Amelie, and I was her closest friend. We grew up in the south together near Batéguier, on the sea, where my mother had a ballet school. Amelie's father was a sailor and her mother a beautiful Persian woman he met during his travels and brought to live with him in the south of France. Amelie and I learned to dance together, and we came here to Paris when we were eighteen. She, with her exotic beauty, caught the attention of the old Comte de Chagny, and they had a liaison for a time. She died when Erik was twelve. Because of his relationship with Amelie, the old comte found work for Erik, and later, when it became necessary for Erik to go into hiding, he came to me.” She hesitated, then added, “There is more to the story, much more. But Erik must tell you, for I have promised him never to reveal it. And, even for you, I cannot.”
“Erik came upon Philippe and me this evening,” Christine ventured to say.
“He did? So that is what precipitated this evening’s events!” Madame’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
Christine told her, leaving out the fact that her body seemed to respond to the comte's assault, and the fact that Erik made love to her before leaving her in a whiff of anger. “Why does Philippe hate Erik?”
“I am not certain how it began, only that it was long ago, and there is some rivalry between them related to events that happened in their youth. Philippe has threatened to destroy Erik for some secret he knows about him, so Erik remains hidden in the Opera House underground. This is why the legend of the ghost has been created. I do not believe Philippe realized that Erik had become the Opera Ghost until recent events.” Her stare pinpointed Christine, and she realized that Madame was speaking of her own interaction with the Angel of Music. “Erik has become careless since he has fallen in love with you, and now that Philippe knows who and where he is…it will not be long before he seeks to destroy him.”
Madame looked at Christine, waiting until she looked back. “Make no mistake…Philippe is the one who killed Régine tonight, and he did it to make certain the public outcry toward the Opera Ghost is raised. Erik will not be safe for long. And neither are you.”
FOURTEEN
* * *
"Think of it as having your cake and eating it too. There is no need to wed the girl in order to have her as your own,” Philippe told his brother over a glass of claret the next evening. He still burned with hatred and fury for the mangled-faced bastard who’d interrupted his pleasure with Christine, but he was pleased that he had confirmed that Erik was indeed the Opera Ghost.
Now it was only a matter of time before he had his vengeance…and that sweet little quim. He sipped and smiled and hardened.
“A wife and a plaything,” Raoul was musing, as though the thought had never occurred to him before. Perhaps it hadn’t, the fool.
“Your marriage into the Le Rochet family will bring nothing but more power and money to our family, Raoul. And Celeste is most enamored with you…Certainly, she is not as beautiful as Miss Daaé, but she is rich and she will stay out of your way. You will be able to keep Miss Daaé in your bed, and Celeste in your parlor. In fact…” Philippe picked up the phallic-handled ivory whip he’d just acquired, and snapped it experimentally. “I think we could find quite comfortable accommodations for Miss Daaé here at Château de Chagny, don’t you think? The estate is certainly large enough.”
He cracked the whip again languidly, delighting in the clean, crisp sound it made. From his chair, he shifted so that he faced the spread-eagled, ass-side-up lovely little upstairs maid who was arranged over a chaise. Just as Christine Daaé had been last night. Or would have been, had Erik not interrupted them.
Anger tightened his mouth and he snapped the whip expertly, watching in delight as it scored a thin red mark down the maid’s buttock. She jerked, shrieked, and jerked again when he laid another line across her other buttock. Not enough to break the skin…no, he had more finesse than that.
“My dear friend…Rose? Is that your name?” The whip cracked, and she shuddered, sobbing that he could call her Rose if that was what he wished. “Rose and the others will make certain Christine is well cared for. And you could visit her whenever you wish.”
Raoul smiled, nodding slowly, as though he had just worked out the details in his mind. “Perhaps that could work. I could be her protector. She needs a protector, and if it is I, then no one else will dare to touch her. If Christine stayed here, Celeste would have no knowledge of her existence. I could visit when I wish. And I know that Rose and the rest of the staff are discreet.”
“Indeed.” Philippe nodded. He paid the staff very, very well in order to ensure their discretion…and their participation in all of the duties he required of them. Rose was a bit new to his private chambers, although she’d been at the château for well over a year, and therefore was still being trained. But he was certain she too would soon fit in rather nicely. And if she didn’t…well…he had several options at his disposal.
And, for the moment, with her long, black curls and creamy white skin, she looked just as he’d imagined Christine would have looked…bare to him. Helpless. And, if he was not mistaken, more than a bit moist there between the legs.
He drained his claret and stood, the cock-handled whip in one hand, the other fingering the fringed edges of the braided end. His own cock filled his trousers and his breathing quickened.
“But I am not certain Christine would agree to come here, to Chagny House,” Raoul said woefully.
“Do you want that Opera Ghost—what does she call him, the Angel of Music?—to have her? For that is, indeed, what he has planned. He will abscond with her and keep her prisoner in his deep, dark lair.”
“No, not again! I could not bear it if he should have Christine. She belongs to me.” This fierce possessiveness was so unlike his brother, but quite welcome, in Philippe’s opinion. At last, Raoul had come to see his point of view.
Pleased, Philippe opened his trousers and his erection sprang free. “Never to worry, brother,” he told him, standing at the edge of the chaise. Still holding the whip, he shoved a small bolster pillow beneath Rose’s hips, pulling her tied arms and legs even tighter as her ass rose. Her plump red lips lifted and opened toward him, glistening in invitation. His cock twitched.
“Never to worry,” he repeated, coming around to her face, flushed and wet with tears. Another pillow then, under her chin, raising her face so that it rested on the edge of the chaise, facing Raoul. Damn, she did look like Christine…enough that another provoking image filled his mind.
Rose and Christine. Rose on Christine. Christine on Rose. Christine twins. That would be a pretty sight.
He plunged the white dildo whip handle into her mouth so far her eyes goggled and she gagged, coughing and choking behind it. Tears streamed from her eyes and she jerked and twitched as he trickled fingers down her spine, between the globes of her ass, and down into the slick wetness of her quim. He took it, smoothed it over and around her nether lips, delighting in her moans and cries behind the ivory cock.
“Christine will be more than pleased to accept your invitation, you shall see, Raoul,” Philippe said, settling himself behind the spread thighs. “I will tell you exactly how to ensure it.”
And he slid inside, already quite satisfied.
~*~
Erik was back in the damp, foggy corridor. It stretched on forever, and he ran, his feet pounding on the stone floor.
The sounds of pursuit came faster and harder, closer. His lungs burned, his legs ached, yet he ran, pushing himself. A little farther…a little farther…
His vision shifted, fogging from those horrors many years ago to a new scene. A room strewn with tapestries, bedding, pillows, ornate furnishings.
Christine. Sprawled on the bed…was it his bed? Her hair spilling over the sides of th
e narrow mattress, dark against the rich gold silk. Her breasts, round and full, their curve echoed in the swell of her hips, nipples jutting and moist. As though someone had been sucking on them.
He stood above her, at the end of the bed, looking down. Her legs wide, not like a whore’s, not crudely…but inviting, beckoning. His cock hardened, lengthened, throbbed.
Then Erik realized he couldn’t move. His arms were spread, his wrists bound to the top of the tall bedposts…his legs spread, ankles bound at the corners, his feet on the mattress. Suspended at the end of the bed, looking down at the feast below him…unable to sample it.
Then Christine was touching herself. She tugged at her nipples, plucking at them with her forefinger and thumb…pluck, flick, tease…They tightened before his eyes and he pulled on his wrists, pulled, but there was no give.
She slipped a finger to her lips, over the plump red curve, inside, then out again, glistening. He watched as she moved it in circles over her nipple, around and around, jiggling and shaking her breast, her eyes burning into his.
Then, down between her legs, her hands moved. One opened her lips, holding them wide and red and wet, and the other slipped in and out, around, one, two, three fingers inside the deep, dark entrance. When she brought them out, they dripped, shone with her juices.
He struggled again, his cock straining as hard as his arms. She lifted her hips, inviting, lifted them, lowered, lifted, lowered, in a parody of the rhythm he needed.
Then it changed again…Somehow he was in her place, on the bed. His arms tied, his legs in a vee. His cock straight and towering, twitching as he watched her above him. Her breasts lifted with her arms outstretched, at each bedpost, just as his had been. Her legs wide, as though they were straddling the mattress itself. A shiny trail lined the inside of her thigh.
