The Scene: The Underground House

Anticipation

2018, Riene

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"Really, Erik," she said in exasperation, "one would think you'd never seen cleaning supplies before." Christine rolled her eyes as she finished unloading the basket. Erik had been hovering, hoping perhaps for one of her iced walnut cakes. Christine made very good walnut cake, and it was his favorite.

Instead, the covered basket had yielded a variety of inedible objects—a stiff wiry brush, Castille soap—a cake of a very different sort, beeswax, vinegar, turpentine, two lemons, washing soda, and a stack of cloths. He gave it a baleful look. "What is this all about?"

His sweet Swedish Angel could be a fiery sprite at times. "Erik, we need to do some cleaning. If I am to live with you here after our marriage, I will not share my new home with...with...dust and spiders!" She folded her arms and tried to look intimidating.

It is difficult to look intimidating when one is a full foot shorter than the man you are trying to intimidate. Erik's hostile manner evaporated instantly and he gave her an almost—for Erik—sappy smile. Yes. They were going to be married. Properly married, in a church with a priest and friends as witnesses. Living in the underground house was only temporary; he had designed and was having built for them a home on the outskirts of Paris, close enough to easily return to the Opera, far enough for some well-needed privacy.

Erik had not counted on the changes this development would bring into his life. If he were honest with himself, the possibility that his angel would agree to marry him was so remote he'd planned for his own death after facing her rejection. And yet she'd agreed, to his utter shock.

He was quite sure he'd died anyway and ascended into Heaven, though what he was doing at that location had yet to be ascertained. He'd awoken to something soft...his hideous head, pillowed in a lap, a pair arms holding him against her heavenly breasts, inhaling her sweet perfume, those large frightened blue eyes staring down at him...and her long curls tickling his nose. Or rather, his lack of a nose. He'd sneezed. Most undignified, of course, but so was lying on the ground, and yet Erik was loath to get up. When had he ever been held in anyone's arms?

And then she'd kissed him in relief and amusement. Somehow they'd both ended up on the floor after that—the events were a bit hazy in his mind—lying together, arms around each other, lips pressed to one another's, the warmth of the fireplace nowhere near the burgeoning warmth in his veins. Christine had kissed him. Him! Willingly! And kissed him again, each time she visited his underground house. Erik retired to his bedchamber most nights in a haze of bliss yet aching, only to toss restlessly with erotic dreams.

He glanced down at the cleaning supplies sourly. This did not promise to be a pleasant interlude. He poked at a sponge with one long finger. "What, pray tell, are we to be cleaning?"

She looked up with a smile. "Everything! It's time for the spring turn-out and tidying up."

Erik looked around helplessly. His dwelling place was spartan to begin with, bereft of the knick knacks and trinkets that covered the surfaces of so many homes. But his angel scowled. "If you'd been raised properly you'd know that Spring Cleaning must be done! I want to be a proper wife for you. Madame Giry says it's time for spring cleaning, and she's the most proper woman I know."

Erik opened his mouth and shut it again, knowing full well that Adele Giry would be most displeased with him should certain aspects of her life, or prior escapades, become known. Instead he forced a smile, a truly hideous attempt, he suspected, and reached for a dust cloth. His angel gave him a dazzling smile and resigned, he followed her into the kitchen.

Cleaning did have some benefits. Christine disappeared down the hall to change from her street clothing and returned wearing an old and rather shabby dress he'd not ever seen before. What it lacked in style it more than made up for in attraction, for she'd rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and tucked the skirts into her waistband, revealing a dizzying amount of previously unseen flesh. Reluctantly Erik turned his back and removed his own suit coat, trading his polished shoes for worn felt slippers. He debated for a moment as to rolling up his own pristine shirt sleeves, and ultimately decided against it. No point in frightening the dear girl with a view of his scarred forearms. She'd demand to know every story behind every mark. Dolefully he nodded in the right places as Christine, pinning up her hair, began to lay out her campaign against cobwebs with the ferocity and enthusiasm of a military general.

They'd been "at it" for some time, maneuvering around each other in confined spaces and more likely as not, brushing against each other. Erik had made rather a point of dropping a kiss on whatever enticingly exposed bit of skin might happen to be within reach. The sweet curve of her bare neck, the top of her curly head, her upturned nose...all tempted. His thin lips warmed with enthusiasm and her exasperated exclamations of "Erik! Behave!" more often than not dissolved into giggles.

Christine had climbed atop the old Welsh dresser and was probing a dark and shadowy corner of the ceiling for cowering spiders. Erik was standing nearby, ostensibly in case she slipped, helpfully handing up folded rags and admiring the view the unusual angle afforded, when his dear girl threw down her cloth and clambered down the sideboard.

"Erik, I can't bear this anymore," she cried, wrapping her arms around herself. Couldn't bear what? Himself? Had weeks of close proximity to his loathsome body and twisted mind finally driven her past all endurance?

"Christine...what is the matter?" he asked hesitantly, and she turned, eyes blazing, then cast herself into his arms. Caught off balance, he staggered back slightly, then wrapped his arms around her to prevent them both from tumbling over. He feared her answer, even as his body responded to an armful of warm, willing woman. Erik buried his non-existent nose in her sweet-smelling hair.

"You. This," she choked out, and his marrow froze in his bones.

"I am afraid I don't quite understand," he began, trying to gently set her on her feet, but his angel simply tightened her hold on him.
"Dyuthnkanynewudmindifwejusgmarridwiththpries?"

Pressed as she was against his spindly form, it took Erik a moment to sort out her mumbled response. "Do-you-think-anyone-would-mind-if-we-just-got-married-with-the-priest?" he said slowly, translating, and she looked up with hope.

"Do you?"

"Think anyone would mind?" Relief made him babble. "I rather think the good Daroga, not to mention my dear Adele, would be most displeased with us."

"Oh," Christine said sadly. "Meg too. She is most looking forward to the wedding."

"But why, my dear?"

What he could see of her face turned crimson. "I...I'm ashamed to say," she muttered.

Erik scooped her into his arms and carried his angel to the sofa, settling her comfortably in his lap. To hell with cleaning. Christine threw her arms around his neck as he lifted her, and did not remove them upon sitting. She looked up into his golden eyes, patently puzzled, and tightened her grip.

"Oh Erik, I love you so." She kissed the corner of his mouth. He felt nimble fingers untying the knot of the strings which held his mask in place.

"Christine..."

"Hush."

She set the porcelain carefully aside and kissed him again, lips so soft and willing, trailing down his throat. He shifted awkwardly, feeling a surge of blood rushing, flesh tightening. The dear girl had no need to know of a man's desires yet. He resettled her in his lap, resigned to another night of unfulfilled lust. Christine continued her assault on his lips and jaw, her soft hands caressing his thin hair, his neck, and his miserable countenance, and he responded enthusiastically. He'd be damned if he knew why this lovely woman wanted him, but he was not about to argue with the only good thing to ever happen in his life.

Her tongue stroked his nearly non-existent lips and they parted, plundering her mouth as he grew steadily more dizzy. Through the haze of his desire, he barely could make out her muttered words as she kissed him, feeling the heat of her hands through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"...so embarrassing….never thought...feel so ashamed...but I have these….I think of you...and us...and I have these...these dreams...these...feelings...I feel so...ashamed...but" she lifted her head and looked directly into his puzzled eyes. "It's not wrong, is it?"

"What?" She was making no sense, or perhaps he simply was incapable to thinking by now.

"That I think of you, of us, in that way," she said fiercely. "If it's wrong then does that make me sinful? A wanton woman?"

Slowly her meaning penetrated, and Erik gaped at her. "You think of...of us...in that way? Christine!"

She threw her arms around his neck and hid her face, tears starting to flow. "I knew it. Please don't be angry with me. I'm not like some of the girls in the chorus, or the dancers, who look at every man that way! I have these dreams, and they're always about you...and us...and...sometimes I don't think I can bear it!"

"Oh my angel," he murmured, stroking her hair. "There is nothing sinful, nothing evil or wanton about it. What you...feel...is a beautiful thing. It is the way we are made, the way we should be, between husband and wife. It is an expression of love, of trust." She raised wet eyes, staring at him, lips trembling, and he touched her mouth gently with his thumb. "I am only surprised that you feel this way for me," he added humbly, "when you could have had any man. I am all too aware I am a poor specimen, and I fear to disgust you with my body, Christine," he whispered. "You have spoken in honesty, and I will too. I fear I will horrify you."

Her eyes blazed. "Erik, you are the man I chose, and the man I...I dream about." Here she blushed. Christine lifted his hand, turning it over. "I dream about these hands touching me," she blushed more furiously but continued, "these lips," she laid her small white fingers across his twisted mouth, "these lips kissing me. I don't care what your body looks like, it is the body I want against mine. And I'm tired of waiting, Erik...I want you."

She placed her hands on his chest and reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. Regretfully, Erik caught her hands in his own. "Oh my love, you have no idea how I want you as well." He shifted slightly, pulling her against him, and Christine's eyes widened at the sudden heated hardness pressing against her. Erik groaned and gritted his teeth. "But I have done few things properly in my lifetime, and this I want to do right. I fear you would regret it, someday, and I could not bear that."

He rose, setting her on her feet, then tipping her chin up. "So behave yourself, Miss Daaé."

She pouted, but the flush on her cheeks was rosy with joy. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his bared cheek once more, then whispered in his ear.

"Erik...I think we two shall be very happy together."

I hope you've enjoyed this little humorous piece! Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. :)

~R