Rating: 'M' for strong implication and sexual situations.
Disclaimer: I own this. Poto is Public Domain, and my phantom is always based on Leroux's.
Summary: This time the fop has gone too far. What's a phantom to do when pushed to the absolute breaking point? ExC. Snap-shot. Rated Strict 'M'.
A/N: The road to smut is paved with good intentions. That being stated, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and show you, dear reader, a bit of Erik and Christine's kinky side as well as use the suggestion given me by O.G. My thanks go to Emmanuelle and O.G for their reviews and support, and I do hope I've done justice to your ideas and your praise!
As an aside, I do think I need to stop referring to these little smutlettes as one-shots… another reviewer referred to them as portraits, and I was quite taken with that charming image. And so, I will now refer to them as snap-shots. For that is, indeed, what they are.
Now, enough of my drivel, bring on the smut!
The Fop, The Crop, and The Woman on Top
"Not my daughter. Not my beautiful Ari, Christine. This time, the fop has gone too far!" Erik growled as he began to pace.
Christine tried to calm her irate husband. "Erik, since they've begun to court, and Raoul made public his intentions, we knew this would be inevitable. And you know Ari was such a comfort to him after the death of Elise."
"But She's. My. Daughter." He ground out, and with a flick of his wrist, Erik had the length of catgut that he always kept up his sleeve in his hand as he began to pace once more. "It will have to be done very carefully of that Erik must be certain. Yes." Christine knew he was talking to himself; through the years, she found she quite disappeared from the room altogether when he was in one of these black moods. "No one would know what Erik had done. The Viscount would just go to sleep; a peaceful sleep that few who cross the Angel of Death are granted."
Gulping, Christine went up to her pacing husband and stood in front of him barring his way. Feeling very foolish rushing in where this particular Angel trod, she persuaded, "Erik, you are not going to kill him. Arianna loves him. And she's going to marry him."
The sound of anguish he made pierced her heart. "I forbid it Christine. We will take her away. She's always wanted to go to Calais. We will take her there, and entertain her, and she will forget all about the fop and his damned proposal!"
Seeing as how she valued her life, Christine saw no point in mentioning that Calais was actually where the couple was planning to honeymoon.
"No, Erik. You are going to this garden party. You are going to be civil to Raoul and gracious and kind to your loving daughter, and while there, you will do nothing that will endanger his life, Ange. Do I have your word?" Christine clutched his masked face and brought his eyes so that they reluctantly met her own. "Your word, Erik?" Her tone brooked no refusal.
Reluctantly, he acquiesced. "You have my word." The last was said on an acidic hiss. Christine's lips twitched slightly as she took the wire away from him and disposed of it.
"Now come on. We don't want to be late." Grabbing her silken gloves, Christine put them on and made for the carriage entrance where Caesar's progeny was kept. She failed to see Erik secrete another wire of coiled catgut up his sleeve.
oOo
They had been there only twenty minutes, and the small gathering of guests—all of whom had met and accepted Erik's masked visage many years ago—were gathered there to wish their beautiful daughter and Christine's oldest friend well in their betrothal. Christine watched as her masked husband disappeared from the room.
Quite literally he was there one moment and gone the next. And she knew exactly where he was going.
Making her excuses, she made her way up the stairs to the Viscount's bedchambers.
Silently, she peeked around the slightly ajar door, and sure enough, there was Erik wresting one of Raoul's ornate cravats around the coiled wire of catgut. She paled as she realized what he intended. If Raoul were to put that on, and pull it tight, he would be dead in a matter of seconds.
Stealthily, Christine opened the door just enough for her to pass through, and closed and locked it just as quietly. It seemed that when one's husband was the elusive Phantom of the Opera, one learned a thing or two about stealth and sneakery. With silent footfalls, she made her way over to where her husband stood absorbed in his task.
Holding her breath, she waited until her masked husband's hands were right where she wanted them, then she pounced, simultaneously kicking his legs out from under him and pulling taut the wire so that the silk cravat bound his hands tightly together. "Don't move, Ange." Christine hissed in her most menacing tone; he was bound on his knees before her. Her husband's taut frame relaxed marginally when he heard her voice, but then Christine felt him gather to rise. Pulling the wired cravat tighter on, she hissed in his ear, "I said not to move!"
"Christine. Dearest, you must understand—" he stated in his most persuasive Voice.
"Quiet!" Placing his trapped hands around the foreshortened ivory bedpost, she reached and fumbled with his belt buckle and unbuttoned the placket of his trousers. Sliding them off and baring his bottom for her to see. "Not only did you break your word, you are behaving as a child, Erik; a willfully disobedient child." Christine opened the nearest drawer and smiled cruelly. Raoul's riding crop stood there in pride of place beside his spurs and hat. She wrapped her gloved hand around the crop and pulled it free. "And what do we do with children when they've misbehaved Erik my love?" (phwack) She smacked him once with the crop leaving a red stripe on his lily white bottom.
"Christine!" (phwack, phwack, phwack).
"Did I give you permission to talk, Monsieur Rein? hmm… I don't think so." (phwack, phwack) Seating herself on the bed before him, she drew him so he was resting bared against her knee. She drew the crop so that it caressed his tender bits. Lightly she flicked them, and he hissed. Her furious eyes met his own behind the mask. "Do you know what you've done wrong, Erik?" (phwack). She saw him wince. "Your mistress asked you a question, and she expects (phwack) an answer." (phwack)
"Yesss." He hissed in pain.
(phwack) "Yes, what?"(phwack) She arched her eyebrows daring him to challenge her.
"Yes, mistress." She caressed his genitals once more with the crop, noticing he was hardening slightly.
She smiled. "And what," her eyes narrowed as she used the handle of the crop to part his cheeks, "did you do?" The heel of her hand came up to cup him tenderly, preparing him. Putting down the crop and making sure he was watching her, she removed one of her silken gloves slowly, finger by finger, and then she licked her thumb and watched in glee as his eyes widened.
"Christine—" (SMACK!) "MISTRESS! Mon Dieu!" She looked down. He was fully extended, and her thumb was embedded inside him. He moaned as she began to move it in and out. With her gloved hand, she tapped his rump teasingly with the crop.
"Your mistress is waiting, Erik!" (Phwack)
"I apologize," he ground out. (PHWACK!) He yelped. "I will not try and kill( PHWACK!) the fop. (phwack) It will not happen again, mistress." (phwack, phwack) Christine extended her silk-clad gloved hand holding the crop to his sac and caressed. She squeezed, and he groaned, thrusting into her silk-clad hand. (phwack)
"Hmm, yes. (phwack) I do believe (phwack) that you've quite learned your lesson." (phwack, phwack) She drove her thumb even deeper and watched in pleased delight as he arched into her palm and moaned. Rare were the times when he was this submissive. Christine would have to remember this for later, if there was a later… if he didn't kill her once ... well, best not to think on it.
She removed her thumb from him and was once more in front of him on the bed.
"Your mistress bids you rise." She watched as he did as commanded, towering over her seated frame in all his black-masked glory. His hands had escaped from the cravat some time ago. "Kneel on the bed and service me satisfactorily. You won't like the consequences if you don't." There was a fire of challenge slowly coming back into his eyes. She tapped his staff gently with the crop, and he growled, wresting it from her gloved hand and throwing it across the room.
"Turnabout is fare play, little Daae." The fires of challenge had grown to an inferno.
With a growl, Erik dove for her and pushed her back until they both were in the center of the massive bed. Christine heard something tear. Looking down, she realized he had torn clean through her petticoats and chemise and was even now—oh, God! He was absolutely furious with her! And he was going to show her exactly how much.
She gasped as he plunged true and deep.
"Do you like to play games, my mistress?" His gentle tone belied his ruthless movements. Christine cinched her legs around him as he rode her fast and rough.
"You know I do, Monsieur Rein." Christine challenged. Even as she said the words, she used her knees to roll them around so that she was the one riding astride him. She slowed their pace, and almost separated from him before she sat, fully impaling herself on him once more. She repeated the motion until she had him cursing under his breath. "Christine." he growled as his knees lifted, and he began pumping into her until she was riding him blindingly fast once more. Absently, she wished for the crop, spurs, and hat.
"Errrik." She ground out with clenched teeth, raising her eyebrow and waiting him out. Her once coiffed hair a tangled, glorious mess behind her, her head snapping back every time he would thrust. She would not be the one to break from this particular contest of wills. His hand went unerringly to her little bundle of nerves and began to stroke.
Christine felt herself begin to build, and she clamped down hard, giving him just as much as he was giving her. She heard him suck in a breath, and then she was flying, tumbling, and he was there! Waiting to catch her as his groaned release lent more sensation to her own.
She collapsed on him in a heap, the both of them flushed, sweaty, and gasping for breath. "I think it's safe to say you've learned your lesson." She heard him snort as he playfully swatted her still-clothed rump. "Besides, Ange we've both been absent from the party long enough. Any longer, and people are going to be asking questions." Groaning, she heaved off of him and put her clothes more or less to rights as she began to tackle her hair. She looked over to find Erik mopping the sweat from under his mask with a handkerchief. They both looked positively crumpled.
Watching him very carefully while he fixed his clothing, Christine narrowed her eyes. "What was that blue vial you just secreted inside your sleeve, Erik? Erik?!" Christine watched as he donned his gloves and straightened the mussed bedclothes so they looked crisp and presentable once more. She went over to the bed and examined it. But before she could touch the bedding with her ungloved hand, Erik took it, kissed it, and spun her away and then out of the room.
"Come my dear. We have a daughter to congratulate."
oOo
Two days later at the Chagny residence…
Wedding plans were being finalized and the Viscount's rooms made ready for the soon-to-be Viscountess.
As for the Viscount himself, he was currently residing in a temperate tub of watered-down oatmeal, trying to get his bobs and bits to stop itching. It had been well over forty-eight hours since he went to sleep and woke up with weals and hives all over his body.
And the irritating sensation did not seem to be abating any time soon.
As much as he hated to admit it, if this kept up, he would have to postpone the wedding…
Behind him, a phantom hand clad in black reached through the small opening made by slightly ajar door for the towel Raoul had been using to dry himself.
And the hand sprinkled it with a powdered substance…
Any reviews, suggestions, and ideas are welcome!
DGM