La Nuit Porte Conseil
Chapter Seven
A/N: TW Update! All previous warnings apply (mental illness, PTSD, emotional abuse, suggested physical abuse, some others if you caught them) now incl. consent
Feedback and reviews are greatly appreciated :)
Christine panted in his grip.
"Angel––tell me what to do," she breathed, as Erik looked on with every cell of his body still screaming for him to let her go, let her keep going, stop thinking, stop thinking so damned much––
He held her from him by her hair, tangling her silken curls to knots at the base of her skull in a bloodless hand. Like an animal in a trap Christine's frantic gaze shifted from Erik, to his red cock, to the enveloping dark, as her every labored breath shivered her soft flesh. Her pink tongue darted forward to wet her lips; Erik frowned.
"Christine," he sighed, regarding her uncertainly, "you cannot mean what you say..."
The reflected blaze of the gas-fire danced in her wild eyes as she squirmed against his hold. She was trying to bring her head down again upon his waiting cock as it throbbed and twitched beneath her gaze––silvery moisture pooled in the tremulous hollow of her throat and teased the secret skin between her breasts.
Erik sighed. With stilted fingers he followed the hypnotic trails of her sweat. He captured a droplet atop her wrinkled nipple to taste her salt on his lips, and watched her lips as she struggled in his grasp, repeating breathlessly, "please––"
You've never had her mouth…not really.
In his free hand he took up his still-eager cock and gave it a vicious pump in his fist. Christine chewed her lip and forced an impatient whimper between her teeth; that same salvific frisson began its tortuous ascent of her spine, sparking blinding heat in the blue rivers of her veins to light fires beneath her fingertips and behind her eyes––despite the answering sting of the Angel's grip Christine threw her head back to bask in his freeing light––
Erik closed his eyes on a sigh. Even he couldn't deny she was lost.
But the Devil, as always, whispered his temptations in his ear. You don't need to force her, not now. She's a liar. She's always wanted it. Every time, she wanted it. She won't even say no.
"Won't even say no..." Erik echoed aloud, frowning, and opened his eyes.
Christine fixed her gaze steadily to his, staring up at him through the dense feathering of her dark lashes.
She's yours for the taking…she'll even look you in the eye. You can do anything you want to her now––anything at all––
Anything, Erik.
He snorted an exhale in surrender. Then with a sudden violence Erik forced her atop his cock by her hair; unresisting, Christine received him, choking and sputtering as he buried the sizable length of him in her working throat.
No more corpses, if you just keep Christine––
By her hair he dragged her up and down again atop his cock, forcing her lower, lower, himself deeper, until her pink cheeks crushed against his aching testicles; she gagged upon the length of him, as liquid overflowed from her drooling mouth to make hot, sticky pools in the soft creases of his thighs.
Is this not all you have always wanted?
Erik growled her name, repeated the word like a holy chant, and wound her curls in his fingers until she cried out; his suffocating cock distorted the sound in her mouth as it vibrated upon his length as groaning, he forced her head back down again.
No––
Christine dug her nails into the soft flesh of his thigh until blood pricked beneath her fingers as her other hand flailed uselessly upon the tangled mass of the velvet cloak.
He never wanted a doll, he never wanted to hurt her…he wanted her to love him! To want him!
Could he not have that? Could she not love him, love him, love him––
But she looks just as beautiful as if she were dead, he hissed, with the Devil's forked tongue deep in his skull.
She is just as beautiful when she is dead.
Again Erik wrenched Christine from his shaft with a shuddering groan, and watched her beneath him as spit drooled from her panting mouth.
His expression contorted as he released her; he glared at his splayed fingers before him as if they had wronged him. Then he rounded on Christine as she stared, coughing, and water poured down her cheeks.
"Damn you!" he growled, "Was that not enough, Christine? Do you not have your proof?" he said darkly. His breath shuddered from his hammering chest. Between his thighs, his soaked cock pulsed with urgency, every vein rigid and angry upon its swollen length. "I can't even stop now, Christine––he can't––get out of here, I beg you––leave with your girlish fantasy––keep it, you stupid child, and think better of me––"
"No," she returned, still panting, and spat on the floor.
Erik eyed her miserably. "Christine, Christine, he's me––do you hear? Get out, do you hear? Oh, why won't you just go––"
But Christine wasn't listening; long before, she had ceased to––oh, the Angel is salvation, the Angel will protect her––
She had righted herself; now she worked her thumbs in the soft places of her temples, pressing into the flesh as if to crush her skull between them. Spittle crusted in the corners of her mouth unnoticed. "Stop, stop! Angel––please," she muttered, and coughed.
The numbing light of the Angel had crept about the corners of her vision as if it overflowed from the very crux of her throbbing skull, consuming all in searing brilliance; now it painted her vision with a thousand white stars, every one awash in unbearable fire––oh––blistering, raging, scorching––
The holy fire of the Angel!
This blaze would absolve only the worthy and burn the undeserving.
She must be worthy of him––
"I feel faint, Angel––I'm sorry––it hurts––" Christine breathed, and squeezed her eyelids shut.
Angel, Angel––do not let her burn!
Erik quieted. Now he regarded Christine curiously as she dug her knuckles harder and harder into the pounding cavities of her skull, seemingly consumed by the task. With a long exhale, he brought a careful thumb to her face to wipe the spittle from the corner of her lip as she ignored him; he let his fingers cup her pale jaw to draw her gaze to his.
"Yes, Christine––I know, I'm sorry," he said meaningfully, as he drew back his long fingers to coil them in a white fist, "you'll feel better soon."
But Christine had gathered herself once again, crawling forward on her reddened knees to close the space between them. "Do not shun me, Angel, my love––I'm sorry, I'll do better next time," she breathed, and pressed her hot palms flat upon his shuddering breast, "see?––see how I love you?"
Erik captured her hands in his own to pin them against his chest. "Is this love?" he said wearily, "is this love? Christine, you sweet fool, can you not see what I have done to you?"
"It's love, I love you, it's love!" she protested shrilly, clawing her nails into his flesh despite his hold. She pounded her fists upon his chest like a child. Erik gripped her tighter; she quieted, adding in a sob, "I will die, without you––it burns, it burns!––don't you see––you have to want me––"
"It's not, Christine, by God––not really––and you won't, you won't, staying with me only would kill you faster––oh, my love––if you only understood––" he released her; her hands climbed his shoulders, his face, groping and clutching at his sticking flesh as Erik ignored her caresses with his head miserably downcast, and muttered even as she pressed her desperate fingers to his lips, "oh, no, no…I'm sorry…I can't tell you, I can't, please, go home––I'm sorry, Christine––"
"No."
The fire-light carved shadows upon her pink brow as Christine fixed her bleak stare to his; her scrabbling fingers stilled to warm the cooling flesh of his shoulders with their trembling heat.
Erik frowned. "You need to leave, Christine," he said seriously. "I'll take you back above."
She shook her head hastily, convulsively, as her teeth dug hard into the white line of her lower lip.
"Sweet child," Erik sighed.
But the fire told her what she must do.
The fire promised Paradise, if Christine could only survive its heat––
With a ragged exhale she lunged forward to coil herself about Erik as he sat, stunned, his pale legs crossed atop the disordered cloak; she climbed atop him to saddle his naked hips as she wrapped her arms sensuously about his throat.
Again Christine opened herself to him, arching her back and spreading her thighs to show him the red flesh of her cunt.
"Angel, Angel, see how I love you?" she breathed, as distracted, Erik stared down into the hot crush of their bodies at her exposed sex. The musky scent of her filled his nostrils; he sighed.
"Angel––see?" Christine repeated, watching him.
"Christine, please, don't" he said wearily, still staring reverently into her cunt, "you can stop now, my love––it's all right––it's over, you can stop now..."
"I don't want to stop," she sighed, as she shifted her hips atop his, "want me."
"You fool...I wish I could not..." he protested weakly, as his mindless palms slid bodily along her spine to circle the fragile curve of her waist. Christine shivered at his touch; he huffed a soft groan between clenched teeth.
"Please," she whined, "Angel––tell me what to do."
Tell her––
Erik shifted beneath her. He crossed his legs to cradle the soft flesh of her rear; as he moved, Christine pressed a palm into the hard muscle of his thigh behind her, arching her back such that her breasts shuddered before his lowered face.
Tell her!
Erik gave a meaningful groan, a guttural exhale, and passed his palm in the barest caress atop the white flesh.
Would you tell her? hissed his Devil. Would you betray me?
I have protected you. I have given you all you desired. You have never been stronger than me.
If you tell her, I will keep her always.
"You can still go, Christine," Erik said raggedly. He took her breast in a hand, watching his own fingers manipulate the pale flesh, "if you go, you'll be safe, you'll live––don't let me do this to you, please––please, go––"
But this, Christine understood; this was easy––this, a distraction––a blessing––
With a moan Christine curled her spine into his touch; she brought a hand behind his scalp to crush his mouth to hers. Now they were kissing, kissing––the wet tip of Erik's still-hard cock teased her black pubis with every roll of her hips, bumping and dragging over the sticking flesh as he groped between their bodies at her small breasts––Christine broke from him to gasp an eager cry upon his open mouth––
"Stop me, Christine," Erik growled upon her sweating throat even as he clutched at her, "please, stop me––"
But Christine grasped his hand in hers and brought his fingers to her mouth; she drew them slowly between her lips, tortuously slowly, one at a time as she met his eye with her supine gaze––the empty desperation he knew so well––
Sweet Christine––what had he done to her?
With each wet embrace Erik exhaled heavily, and watched her as his breath shuddered from his open throat. His other hand dropped limply between them to rest useless upon the soft fleshiness of her lower abdomen.
"Is this not what you want?" Christine breathed, and she dragged his long finger between her parted lips. "My love, my Angel––let me give you what you want––" she chanted, twisting and coiling her tongue about the bone as Erik stared miserably between the crush of their bodies. His thumb skirted her pubis as he dragged his palm over the fleshy curve.
Tell her––oh, God––
"I can't, Christine––" he sighed, staring, touching, frowning––as his Devil chanted in his ears, do you feel your pink belly growing, sweet Christine? Growing, growing, growing––
"Let me try again, my love, my Angel, I'll do better this time––"
His cock rubbed knowingly at the sticking flesh between her straining thighs as Christine dragged another finger between her panting lips––
Growing, growing, growing, sweet Christine––
"Christine––" Erik tried, in a shuddering growl, "forgive me––" and stared at Christine's mouth. "I have tried, Christine, believe me––I tried so desperately not to––you must know that––
"Damned temptress––I am trying to free you! If you only knew the truth––"
She would learn it soon enough, the Devil hissed.
"Christine, I––"
But his words caught in his throat and he gave a strangled groan, as Christine lowered his hand to her groin to press his wet fingers to the slick flesh of her sex. As she held him there she shifted into the pressure of his hand, using her own to crush him to her.
"Please," she whined, "help me…make it stop…"
Yours, yours…
Erik exhaled raggedly at the stirring moisture of her cunt in his hand; mindlessly he passed a long finger, two, across the soaked mouth. Christine gave a whining moan in relief as her eyelids fluttered atop her dark gaze.
Anything you want…
"Christine––look at me, my love," he breathed, frowning. "Let me see you––" Her lids snapped open, her eyes beneath feral and black. Erik captured her stare––he sighed––
Anything at all…
With a thumb he found her clit––she let out a surprised gasp and clung at his shoulders with both hands as he circled the swollen nub slowly, deliberately, and Christine rolled her hips into his touch.
Beneath her searching fingertips, Christine felt the wrinkled softness of innumerable scars upon the flesh of his back, and traced the ruined damage as his powerful muscles moved beneath her hand. These silken fissures––
All that remained of his wings.
"Can you truly not remember, Christine?" Erik said quietly, as his thumb worked steadily between them, "tell me, please––the truth––you must be, Christine––are you pretending to forget?"
She gave a moan and panted, "forget, my Angel?…no, no…"
Behind the mask Erik closed his eyes as Christine writhed above him. When he opened them she was watching him; she chewed her lip and tilted her jaw in a childish frown.
"My sweet girl…" he sighed, and without relenting in his caress pressed a gentle kiss to her closed lips. "It's nothing…nothing, Christine…"
Erik remembered.
She had stayed with him, in her little bedroom underground, for four days. It was a Wednesday.
How beautiful she had looked then, sleeping so soundly, for so, so long, with her white gown billowing about her like cotton wings, and her knees curled up beneath it nearly to her breasts as her dark curls spread in a silken halo upon the mattress.
Just like an Angel.
When he climbed into the bed behind her he had only wanted to smell her hair. He had always wanted so badly to just smell her hair…
Erik remembered. Erik remembered everything, even the things that he forgot––and he forgot so many things––
She never even made a sound. Even when he held her knee up high by his palm and eased himself behind her––
Not a sound. Barely a movement.
His dead wife.
When he was done, he cleaned her with a warm, wet rag, and Christine had slept for six hours more.
Now he passed a palm atop her hair, dragging the loose curls toward his face to sniff her fragrance, as Christine shifted her hips into his fingers, alive and meeting his with her own living eyes––
"Sweet, sweet girl," he repeated, surrendering, as the Devil laughed in his ear.
With one hand on his shoulder Christine clutched his knee to brace herself upon him. Erik sighed, watching her.
"Shall I make you sing again, little dove?" Erik said, softly, still rolling his thumb steadily atop her clit, "would you like that, my love?"
She fixed her clouded stare to his. A red flush had climbed the pale flesh between her breasts to bloom atop her chest, reaching ever upward to stain her throat, her cheeks, her nose––sweat beaded atop her sticking skin to slide the length of her body and pool between them.
Her lids fluttered atop her eyes; as she breathed his name his expression darkened, and still he stared at her features––moving, living, expressive features––
"Christine, my love, look at me––"
Her head lolled against his, as her panting breaths echoed in his ear. When she did not turn he brought his free hand to her chin and directed the unresistant flesh before his gaze. "Please," he repeated, "please––I need you to keep your eyes open, Christine."
"Yes…Angel…" she said, between labored breaths, blinking. As she met Erik's stare she gave a little smile, and huffed an exhale between her teeth.
Erik took her jaw in a careful palm to kiss her, delicately, reverently, as she writhed atop his fingers; Christine caught his lip between her teeth and dragged it from him as she threw back her head and moaned. They broke apart.
Erik stared, his expression unreadable behind the mask.
"Christine––" he sighed, and ran a finger across his smarting lip. "Christine, I love you…"
Pretend.
She gave no response but a low whine and pressed her forehead to his to steady herself upon him.
In a short gesture he brought his thumb to his lips to suck on it, briefly––the white skin shone wet in the half-light––then returned the hand to her sex; Christine gasped weakly as it caught her sensitive nub again.
Now she groped carelessly between them at his cock to run her hot fingers over its pulsing length. Erik groaned at every touch, as her breath teased his mask with moisture––
"Wait, Christine––" he growled and crushed her to him, forcing her fingers from his shaft; his own buried between the crush of their bodies as his hot breath warmed her flesh.
With senseless fingers Christine clawed at his shoulders, pleading, "I want you––"
"Do you, my love?" Erik sighed. His tongue darted between his lips to taste her skin; drawing a palm to her flesh he watched her expression contort as he twisted a nipple curiously between two fingers, and gave a long exhale as she gasped and shivered atop him. She arched her spine, sighing, as now Erik took up her breast in his mouth––sucking, pulling, biting––he chewed the tender flesh until she cried out breathlessly above him; he made hypnotic circles about her nipple with his tongue until the pink skin shone silver with its wet tracks.
Christine watched the whites of his strange eyes behind the mask as he looked steadily up at her from her chest.
There were images, whispering and dancing in the blinding fire at the corners of her vision––pleading, sneaking, cutting––they wanted in, they wanted in––
It was too much––she did not want to think of that––
"I know my own mind," Christine said suddenly, too-late and overloud––she met his gaze seriously, frowning––then her expression clouded, and she brought a white palm to her face to press her fingertips against her forehead, even as he sucked at her flesh.
Erik broke from her breast to look up at her. He frowned.
"Do you really, Christine?"
"Yes," she breathed, distracted. She blinked and crushed her lids shut.
Beneath her, Erik took up his cock in a hand; he dragged a careful palm atop her thigh to spread her unresisting legs, and slid his wet tip along the red mouth of her sex.
Suddenly Christine turned her head about and gasped, as every muscle in her body burst into rigid tension beneath Erik's grasp. Her nails dug into the bloodless flesh of his shoulders. Her eyes widened into white saucers as she stared, unblinking into the enveloping dark.
"What was that?" she hissed.
Erik released his length to grip her to him by her thighs. He followed her gaze with placid interest, as a parent might follow a child's urgent desire to reveal a secret nest of faery-folk. Christine turned urgently to him, whispering, "did you see it?"
"It was nothing, my dear…nothing…" he said, his words like silk, as he watched the pale flesh between her breasts shiver with every mad hammering of her heartbeat.
With his palm still resting carefully atop her thigh, he brought his thumb low to stroke again at her clit.
"Just a feint of the dark. Look at me, all right? All is well…remember that, Christine. All is well."
"No, no…" she said breathlessly, and returned her feverish gaze to his, "it was him, it's always him…oh…I'm so tired––it's too hot, it hurts––"
"Christine, focus––you're all right––" Erik said gently. Again he brought his thumb to his mouth as Christine followed his movements vacantly; he soaked it crudely with a wet slip of his tongue and returned it to her sex, working the too-swollen nub of her clit with a new vigor, breathing, "come on, love––"
Christine gave a weak groan. "Angel…I see him everywhere…he is always with me…he follows me wherever I go…"
"Does he, Christine?" Erik watched her curiously, as below, he entered her with two fingers.
"Have you seen him? In the Opera, especially––he is always with me––oh––I do not like the dark––" She looked down between the crush of their bodies and gave a low exhale. "You will keep me safe, Angel," she added.
Erik pinched her clit to force her whimpering cry and drove her roughly upon his fingers; distracted, Christine dug her nails into the rigid tendons of his biceps. She met his eye and frowned.
"Angel… I really am so tired…"
Now she turned as if dreaming to stare absently into the hearth. Erik pushed his fingers inside of her, he stroked a mad rhythm atop her clit and still she watched the flames, muttering, "his eyes…like fires in the dark…burning, burning…always burning…"
Erik watched the sputtering blaze reflected in the empty whites of her eyes and sighed. His fingers slackened atop her sex; he held her sweating legs to his by her thighs.
When Christine would not turn away from the hearth he caught her chin between a thumb and long finger to direct her from it. In silence he passed a careful hand over her cheek and capturing one stray curl among thousands, tucked the silken strand behind her ear.
"Like fires, my love," Christine repeated, meeting his gaze, "….black fires…."
Her eyes narrowed as they bore into his.
"…fires…" she breathed, staring.
"Angel, it burns…what should I do?"
Erik considered her a moment.
"I want you to kiss me, Christine," he said quietly, "please. Will you do that?"
But as soon as he'd said the words Christine worked her fingers in his hair, tugging and twisting, holding her tremulous weight against him by his scalp––she dragged him to her face and wrenched back his head to kiss him wetly, thoughtlessly––
Then she broke from him to stare again into the dark, even as her nails dug fiercely into the back of his head.
Erik swiped the flat of his hand across his lips. He brought his hands to his scalp to loosen hers upon him; as she held them, frozen about him like a trembling halo, he straightened his disordered mask and smoothed an easy palm atop his hair from forehead to neck.
Now he turned his attention to Christine, still staring absently into the dark.
Erik sighed. "Christine––look at me––do you know where you are?"
She turned to him quickly, frowning as if she'd forgotten he was beneath her.
"Yes," she said seriously.
He frowned. "Where do you think you are, my love?" he repeated.
Christine raised a limp arm to drag a heavy palm over his cheek atop his mask. Her fingers skirted its edges to tease beneath the dark leather; Erik jerked away from her touch unconsciously, with a snorted exhale. As soon as he had shaken her from him her searching fingers returned to his face.
"It was dark, by the lake…is that your lake?" she murmured, her eyes following her caresses. "I don't like the dark..."
"Do you know who I am?"
Now she fixed her gaze to his. "Angel, yes––"
"Sweet Ophelia," Erik said sadly, after a pause. Christine smiled.
He glanced at his cock throbbing painfully between the crush of their bodies, rising up like a curse from the sheer flesh to slap in bitter irony upon her pink curves.
He hated the thing.
God laughed to give it to him. He was a genius, he knew, a master of any subject he decided to claim as his––and yet this, this wretched pile of useless flesh, controlled him. He had the violin, the piano––his voice––but this, this was his instrument.
He had only ever wanted to be loved.
To be looked at, with love.
By Christine. Alive.
And now, before him, little Christine was frowning again, her dead eyes shut tight in the marble sweetness of her face.
Surrender.
Erik sighed, as unnoticed, he took up his cock in a dead fist––
"I'm going to fuck you again, Christine," he said softly, watching her with the barest tilting of his head. "Do you understand?"
"Right, of course…" breathed Christine. She pressed both thumbs to her temples; with a sigh she dropped her head to rest against his shoulder.
He drew a cautious palm over her hair. "Is that all right, Christine?"
"Yes, yes," she muttered against his skin. With a finger he tipped her chin to see her face; he stared at her a moment, even as her eyelids began to close again atop her glassed eyes. Then he released her to drop heavily upon his chest.
"I'm a little tired," she sighed, and he felt the tickling brush of her eyelashes upon the cold flesh of his collarbone.
Now with his palms beneath her rear Erik resettled her atop him, as she moved weakly, unresisting, to his guidance.
He buried his lips in her tangle of hair to press a gentle kiss upon her forehead.
"Poor Christine, my love," Erik said raggedly, "forgive me for this…"
He directed her hips atop his shaft. As he entered her, Christine gave a whimpering sigh and reached about his neck to hang from his shoulders; he groaned throatily and arranged her legs about his back to bury his full length within her.
He moved purposely, steadily––he clutched at the soft flesh of her rear with both hands to drive her, slowly, atop him, as Christine worked her fingernails into the bones of his spine and rolled her hips mindlessly atop the slow thrusting of his cock, as her head bobbed limply upon his shoulder.
"Kiss me," Erik growled. She tilted her face toward him; in his skeleton's grip he captured her jaw as she pressed her lips clumsily to his. He released her to slouch against him.
"Angel?" she breathed into his chest.
"Yes, my love?" he directed her over him again; she gave a quiet moan as he filled her.
"Only, it's the strangest thing, really––" Christine mused, and steadied her forehead in the hollow of his shoulder, "have I ever told you?"
Again Christine sought his face, suddenly crushing her dry lips to his.
Erik broke the kiss to groan upon her open mouth,"tell me what, Christine?"
"Oh…" she began, as if she'd already forgotten, "I'm afraid I've caught a cold…it burns, Angel..."
Erik regarded her. "It will pass, Christine," he said gently, after a pause.
"I really don't feel quite right at all…"
He panted to the slow thrusting of his hands upon her hips. "Yes, my love…it will pass."
A pause, as Erik grunted softly above her. "It's the strangest thing…Angel?"
He said nothing, and shuddered a long exhale behind the mask.
"Did you know… Angel…did you know my Papa sent you to me?"
"Yes, sweet girl," he murmured.
"You look so much like him…"
Erik gave a shallow sigh. "Do I, my love?"
"Yes…Angel…not before…but now, how strange––" She gave the barest shake of her head, shivering her sticking cascade of damp curls down her back and upon her chest––she dropped her gaze again to the tangle of their bodies between them and frowned–– "oh––strange––really––"
"Christine––look up at me, love––" Erik said, and directed her chin, too roughly, with the sweating flat of his hand.
She met his eyes and smiled serenely. "Did you know him?"
"Did I know who, darling?"
"Papa, Angel––"
"Oh––yes, sweet girl…of course I did," he panted.
Christine gave only a low hum in answer. Again she was staring between their crushed bodies, as her own hips rocked upon his to the guiding pressure of his hand on her rear, to his slow rhythm as he moved within her. Frowning, she met his gaze, then tipped her head to the side as her lids dropped over her eyes.
"No, don't close your eyes, all right, Christine––"
She blinked. "Is he with you?"
"Who, love?"
"Papa!" she said, and she almost laughed, then "oh––" as Erik ground her roughly against him with a shallow groan.
"Yes, my love," he sighed, recovering, "of course…he's here."
"Yes…yes, I thought so…only it's the strangest thing…"
Erik said nothing and crushed her hips faster upon his cock, "––oh––" she gasped, then panted, "but he is dead, Angel––"
Another thrust, another cry, "dead––oh, God––
"You're not him––"
"Oh, Christine…" Erik said sadly, pausing, "am I not?"
A queer expression washed across her features even as she rolled her hips upon him. Her pale brow furrowed; she gave a shuddering exhale. Her glass stare widened beneath his gaze, as she breathed,"Papa?"
"Hush, now," Erik sighed, "no, Christine, no…you sweet girl…no, I am not your father." For a moment she stared at him, squinting intently.
Then her gaze clouded over and her forehead returned limply to his shoulder, bobbing softly upon his collarbone as he drove her atop him, again, again. "How silly of me," she muttered, "silly––oh––I thought I saw the strangest thing, really…" She blew a ragged pant upon his stone flesh as Erik pressed his leather cheek to her curls and groaned above her.
"Look at me," he said raggedly. His bottom lip dragged upon her unresisting forehead, moistening the hot skin. "Christine––here, please––can you do that for me?––oh, God, fuck, Christine––can you keep your head up for me?"
Again she raised her chin to gaze dully upon his mask.
"I don't like this," she said, after a moment, and trailed listless fingertips across the leather even as her body rocked against his chest. Erik frowned.
She fixed her clouded stare again upon the mask. "I don't like looking at it."
"Christine," he huffed. Strangling a sound with a snorting exhale, his grip slackened upon her rear; again he stilled, panting, within her.
"I don't want to look at it," Christine repeated, staring. "Show me, Angel––where is the Angel?"
"He's here, Christine," said Erik slowly, "I'm here, my love." His muscles tensed beneath her clutching fingers; like knives, his rigid tendons carved the sweating flesh of his throat, standing out dangerously from the glistening skin––
"Please," Christine whined, and rocked her senseless hips atop his; he shuddered a groan as she drove herself upon him. "Angel––show me the Angel!"
Now her fingertips brushed, careless, atop his leather cheeks, his chest, his throat––her wild eyes following her own mad fingers––every touch, pleading, begging––then she drew them up again to pad the smooth edges of the mask upon his jaw, meeting his black stare, her face so close to his––her gaze blank and desperate––
"Angel––it frightens me––" Christine breathed, and he felt the taunting heat of it upon his skin, felt it seethe beneath his leather flesh, clutching and scraping like so many fingers–– He had tried, and still she did not want him––an Angel, she would never understand––
Quietly, silkily, he said, "you don't have to look at Erik's mask if you don't want to, Christine."
For a moment––an eternity––Erik watched her, his eyes leaden pits as they bore into hers.
Christine groped carelessly at the ruined flesh of his malformed lip––both thumbs pressing, distorting the tender skin atop his clenched teeth, as his breath hissed out between them––
"I'm so frightened––" Christine said, again, and drew herself forward to crush her lips to the white line of his closed mouth. "Show me––" She rolled her hips upon his still cock, rigid and demanding inside her; she laced her fingers about the back of his throat to draw him to her, to kiss him, again––repeating, "show me, show me––"
The black eyes narrowed behind the mask.
With a sudden violence Erik broke from her lips and turned her upon his lap. They separated at the hip with an obscene sound; Christine gave a confused cry and clutched at his wrists even as his arms spun her about. He wrenched her back against his chest, smothering his sticking cock in the hot cleft of her rear. With his legs he forced her passive thighs apart, opening her lewdly to the surrounding dark.
"Angel!" she cried––
He circled her with his arms, imprisoning her body within them. He slid his thumb along the red folds of her sex––Christine whimpered––as the cool fingers of his other hand trailed over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, pinching at the pale skin at the crux of her leg as he drew her flustered limbs further apart.
"Is this better, my love?" growled Erik from behind her, his siren's voice dangerously placid, as his lip dragged the hot flesh of her cheek, "mad, frightened Christine…she never liked to see the truth…now she need not see Erik at all!"
Christine groaned as her head fell back against his jaw. Her hair piled madly between them as Erik buried his face into the silken mass, blowing and snorting the curls aside to chew at her white earlobe––
He thrust two fingers again into the hot mouth of her sex, as his opposite thumb resumed its tortuous rhythm upon her swollen clit. Christine writhed into his touch, crushing his rigid cock between their bodies as she moved––
"Little Christine, always dreaming, always dreaming, dreaming in her little bed––it's never sweet Christine's fault, is it––" he bit her earlobe, "––is it, Christine––no, not if she can say it never happened…blame Erik, it's Erik who's done it all, Erik who's done everything––all the rest is just pretend––"
Now, with his mouth still crushed to her ear, he added, wetly, "is that not what you came here for, Christine? To pretend?"
When she made no answer Erik growled and thrust a third finger into her sex; she cried out as he whispered his taunts in her ear, another for every mulish carom of his fingers––
"Teasing poor Erik, with your little screams––and never once opening your eyes for him! But Erik knows just how to make her sing––yes, Christine, sing, Christine!––ah, hah––how very much she used to like it––soaking her sheets as she did––"
"Angel!" Christine started, as her body heaved limply against his chest. She clutched at his wrists even as his murderous fingers worked at her cunt, mindlessly digging her nails into the translucent flesh; he gave a carnal growl at her timid assault and buried his teeth at the base of her white throat.
When she cried out he released her to breathe an inhuman laugh in her ear.
"You never said, Christine, what you dreamt of, every night in your deep, deep, sleep…And all the while, what sweet songs your Orpheus would play in your ear! But she's still pretending––it's all pretend, always pretend––he wanted you alive, sweet girl, and he's still not had you, no, no––" he pressed his tongue in her ear as she squealed and complained, hissing, "because little Christine just can't dream without her Erik…Sweet Christine has forgotten how!"
Now he was breathing roughly behind her, as his sweat slid down his chest to pool between their bodies. He broke from her for a moment, no more––Christine gave a gutteral sigh of relief––and drew his hand up to his mouth buried in the crux of her shoulder, sniffed lewdly, snorting the sound in her ear, then stuffed his sour fingers carnally between his lips; he spat loudly into his palm and thrust the hand back into her sex.
"Such sweet dreams, were they not, Christine?" he demanded, when she gave a yelping groan at his new vigor. "And now, she wants the dreams back!"
With her cheek pressed to his Erik dragged his hot tongue down the side of her face. "Ah––will she die now, die again, in Erik's tomb with him?" he continued in a voice nothing like his own, as still his undulating fingers worked relentlessly at her sex, "little corpse Christine––we can lay together in the little coffin, love––sleep there together, forever––
"Strange, sad little dead Christine… is that what you wanted? What you came here for? To die here, with Erik?"
Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, the muscles jumping and shaking; Erik forced them against his with the searing pressure of his pointed elbows, forced her open, wider against him––
"Angel!" she cried, as her cunt seized and shivered about his demanding fingers, "Angel!"
"Yes, Christine," he growled without slowing, "sing for me again, my little dove…"
She arched her back into the shuddering curve of his chest. She chewed her lip, groaning between her teeth; she clapped her hand to her mouth to silence the sound. Her legs stretched and slid out in front of her, tangling about his rigid thighs as he ground her to him by her cunt––
"She's always sung so, so prettily for Erik––"
His hand pounded at her entrance, over and over in a bruising rhythm, relentlessly slapping against her sticking flesh––his hot cock stabbing like a blade at her sex from behind––
"Angel, Angel!" she repeated, for lack of other words, throwing her head back as his teeth bore down again upon the delicate skin at the base of her throat. She caved against him, writhing into his grasp, her every sound breathless, her moans choking her breaths––"Angel!"
"Sing, Christine––for the Angel of Music!"
And now she screamed, obscenely, as only an animal can scream, as Erik pinched her swollen clit, twisting it mercilessly between his fingers to revel in the perfect sound––her living scream––
Christine was spent and shaking upon his intolerable fingers, and still he would not release her; he could not, he had no control of him now––and yet he knew he hurt her––but more, more, he needed more––he needed her to scream for him––a scream for every time she had said nothing, a scream for each time he forgot––
He entered her faster, deeper, as his knuckles beat against her sex with each thrust, grinding and torturing her red clit––Christine kicked out, she clawed at his flesh with her fingertips––again she screamed, loud, breathless––burning, burning, burning––
And behind her Erik hissed his hot breath in her ear––
"Do you remember now, Christine?"
But she remembered nothing, thought nothing, as she shook flaccidly in his grasp. Because there was nothing, nothing but the Angel, and the feeling––the feeling that his presence could bring her––the feeling she felt––here––in the dark––oh, so many times––
The blessing of the Angel––
And she knew it, she knew it well––
Such ignorance, such emptiness––such bliss––
Hardened with fatigue, his unyeilding muscles shook with violent tremors as Erik held her against him; sweat beaded on his forehead to disappear in wet trails behind his disordered mask. His cock, slick and hurting, teased the stinging entrance of her cunt with every cruel thrust of his fingers, its pressure milk-wet upon her skin––and Christine, only a body beneath his hands––only a corpse––numb, thoughtless, lifeless in his surrounding arms––
The Angel's wings!
"Dead or alive, no man may have you but Erik," he growled against her wet flesh, "I will kill you before you are touched by another!"
And again Erik felt the core of her cunt seizing, shuddering around his merciless fingers––again Christine was sweating, crying, her nails deep in the flesh of his marble thighs as he groaned against her––now her flailing fingers groped behind to pull his hair, to trace the leather cords that fanned like so many black veins across his scalp––
"You belong to me!"
She screamed his name then, slack against him, her exhausted body spent––but in her shaking fingers she had the mask––that terrible black shroud––and with a groan she flung it from her––
As the darkness swallowed the thing Erik had her, wrenching her from him at the waist to toss her down upon the twisted mass of the cloak. In an instant, he was upon her, his purple cock urgent at her opening.
"Look at the face of the Devil, Christine!" he roared, "Look at Erik's face!"
Then, with a savage groan, he entered her, again.
A/N, again: hey, I'm really sorry about this too. I'd love to hear your interpretations of what is going on at this point––it will help me a lot with the next chapter. (Only 2 chaps left!) Love you all for sticking with this dumpster fire