Let Your Fantasies Unwind
"It has been a while since we visited our private rendezvous," Christine giggles as Erik escorts her through the door of the Eyrie.
Although full of light thanks to the skylights and windows that reach from one end of the long room to the other. The separate rooms are partitioned off with none having walls to the ceiling, with the exception of the bedroom suite Erik created years ago in wishful anticipation of Christine's return.
Despite the sunlight filtering in, the room has an unused feel and the vague odor of must and mildew built up along the edges where glass meets wood and the snow settled for days at a time before melting.
"The room certainly misses activity," Erik says, walking to a few of the automatons, removing the drop cloths covering them. "I used to spend entire days at a time here, seldom leaving, even to eat."
The movement of a cloud outside the window clears the sky for a random ray of sunshine to fall on the now empty six foot case where the mannequin was housed. "What did you do with her?" Christine asks.
"Dismantled." Erik strides over to the case and draws the heavy brocade drape over the glass door. "I should have removed this as well."
"Why? It is a beautiful piece of workmanship. I am certain you would be able to find another use for it."
"My dear, this case would always be a reminder...to both of us…of my…"
"Your what? Loneliness? Love? Grief?"
"Lust? Obsession? Foolishness?"
"Now you insult me."
"You are being ridiculous. The first mannequin you saw had you faint – it terrified you." He pushes the case over to a dark corner, pausing to gaze at it one more time before turning back and returning to the light in the room.
"Shocked was more like it – when you pulled the curtain and she fell forward, the blood rushed from my head and I fainted."
"Not afraid?"
"The entire experience was strange, but, no, not afraid," she says, walking over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You forget I have had ten years to look back and review the events of that time."
"Yet, when you first came to this room, you did not wish to see the automaton."
"True enough – I sensed you did not want me to see her."
"It, not she. It." He takes her hand, leading her to the piano. "I would take her hand, just as I did yours right now and bring her here, to this spot. A wave of my hand could adjust her stance, how she held her head and arms, but I could not make her sing or talk or be you."
"I am sorry. I understand loneliness, Erik – I had my father and when he died, I wished I could have had a substitute. "
"When I was a boy, my mother's dog, Sasha, was my only friend. When she was killed, I wanted to die, too. After that I swore I would not love another living being, because that being could die. This was not terribly difficult, no one wanted to be close to me, so I began creating dolls – sometimes just a rag, but a companion."
"The bride at that Palais?"
"I worked for months on her – trying to get her just right. It never dawned on me you would ever want to be with me, so I would have conversations with her I could not have with you."
"But then we did talk – after that day, we became friends."
"Why are you bringing this up now?"
"I will be wearing the wedding gown you created for her."
"You. I designed it for you."
"Yes, I understand, but you just said you never expected me to be your companion."
"Are you having second thoughts?"
"No, you silly."
"Then what?"
"Did you design clothing for this automaton?"
Erik frowns. "Well, yes, of course."
"A large wardrobe?"
"Modest – a few gowns."
"Modest by your standards might mean a hundred or more," she smirks, pressing a hand to his chest. "May I see them?"
"Um."
"What?"
"They are…um…not exactly the type of dresses you are accustomed to wearing." His voice stiffens along with his posture as he draws away from her to sort through the sheet music on top of the piano.
"Perhaps I would like to experiment with something new. You must have had some sort of vision of how you wanted me to be garbed."
"Um."
Christine laughs, taking the music from his hands and putting the tidied sheets out of his grasp. "Now I really demand to see these gowns. I suspect I might like them quite a lot."
"You are not the automaton."
"But you imagined her to be me," she counters. "I should like to see that image."
"You are determined to make me look and feel foolish." The papers gone, his hands begin to twitch, having no outlet for his discomfort.
"No, I want to look stunning and different. I know how I feel when we make love – I should like a dress that reflects that." Holding her arms out, displaying the yards of organza and lace, she says, "Do you really believe this is what I would choose had I a choice in terms of fashion? Layers upon layers of fabric, which does not begin to include the undergarment. Trust me, this is not comfortable."
"Why would you think any of the gowns would serve that purpose?"
"From your response to my request," she says. "Please. Consider them to be costumes for me to wear when I sing with the orchestra…the modern songs."
"I am not certain I would like you to be seen in public gowned in such a way."
"Is that so?" she teases him – her tone low and seductive.
The Christine he often fantasized about. The model for the gowns. The one night they had together, fed his fantasies over the ten years they were apart. Now that they were together, in the privacy of their room, she was even more sensual than he imagined. "Yes."
"Well, then, what about in private. Just us." Pressing herself into his body, lifting her face so only inches separate them. "I demand you show me."
"Very well." Taking her hand again, he leads her to a small room she recalls him saying was where he slept when staying at the Eyrie. He opens the door, flipping the switch on a sconce just inside the room.
Unlike the luxurious room they shared for their trysts – this room has no skylight. The one tall window draped with black velvet – the single bed, hardly more than a cot, is also covered with a black duvet. An upright piano holds a candelabra with a dozen candles melted halfway down.
"This reminds me of the tunnels beneath the Opera House. At least you were sleeping in a bed, not that godforsaken coffin."
"Yes, well, even I have to admit the coffin was a bit much." Closing the door behind them, he turns on an electric lamp, casting a golden glow to the room. Much of the light absorbed in the uniform darkness of the fabrics, but pleasing, nonetheless.
"Why a coffin?"
"In the early days I was displayed in a casket as part of my act, it became my bed as well. Javert – the gypsy master found it amusing."
"What a horrible thing to do to a child."
"Javert was a clever man and I learned from him – much of it most would consider evil, negative at best."
"Still, why the coffin?"
"I became used to the sensation of being surrounded and felt safe. When I created the lake house, I bought a more elaborate casket, with the satin pillowing. When I suffered my night terrors, being enclosed in such a way, I could not do harm to myself."
"So the practical along with the elaboration on your darkness fantasies?"
"The darkness of my soul is very real, Christine," he says. "Never doubt that. It is only through you I am acquiring some grace in my life."
"So this room was a place of solace?"
"Yes, I suppose you could say that. Despite the comforts of the bedroom in my hotel suite, when I was able to sleep, I got the most rest here." Pulling the chair away from the desk, he invites her to sit down.
"I can understand that," she replies, settling herself on the round-backed chair, surprisingly comfortable for being all wood, with no pillows or fabric. "You worked in here, too?"
Erik nods as he walks to an armoire tucked into the corner farthest from the door. "Not exactly an organ," he says, waving a hand at the small piano, "but serviceable. I wrote Love Never Dies in this room."
"Enough of your stalling…present me with some of the fashions you created for my alter ego."
Swallowing his trepidations of what she might think, he opens the armoire and removes a dress of gold and black lame – strapless and, from all appearances, form fitting. No lace, no organza, nary a ribbon or covered button to be seen.
Christine's eyes widen, she stands up and takes the garment from him and holds it up to herself. "Are there any mirrors here?"
"Just in the other bedroom – your room."
"I must try this on." With that, she pushes past him leaving him to stand waiting with trepidation for a reaction he has no ability to know. Christine was far more complex than he ever realized. Her return might bring damnation or bliss. In either case, he feels completely at her mercy.
The time passes both too slowly and too fast. His fingers demand he move or do something, but he is welded to the spot in the middle of the dark room, unable to consider any other option than Christine be totally disgusted with him – proving Meg correct about him ruining her as a woman. No longer an opera diva, but a chanteuse, dressed in glitter, her body as much part of the act as her voice.
When she reappears in the doorway, he is certain his heart will stop beating. He does not believe how close he came when creating the mannequin to the real woman. The dress clings to her body, perhaps requiring a stitch here and there, but otherwise perfect. Her hair released from its pins and combs, the curls falling loose down her back and over her shoulders. A faint hint of jasmine fills the air – a more exotic scent than her usual choices.
"What do you think?" She makes a turn, until facing him with a brilliant smile lighting her face.
He holds up his hand and returns to the armoire to retrieve an elegantly carved jewelry box. Setting it down on the piano, he opens the box and removes a necklace of braided gold centered by pear cut topaz. Stepping behind her, he fixes the necklace. "There…perfect."
"Oh, Erik, I feel…I cannot explain how I feel. Sensual, beautiful…free," she giggles, throwing her arms around his neck. "So very free – not bound up in the trappings of society's approval or disapproval."
"You are not reviled by how I chose to remember you, to keep your image close?"
Kissing him lightly on the lips, she twirls away, her hands smoothing the gown over her hips and thighs. Considering the question, she tilts her head. "Would it surprise you if I said no?"
"A little, I must admit," he says. "There was so much about you I did not know – the woman you are with me…well, there are times I am mildly shocked."
"You thought me pure and virginal?" she asks with a tilt of her head.
"You were until I tainted you."
"Tainted, never," she says, as she opens the hooks down the side of the gown. "Awakened is more the truth. My voice, my mind, my body." The dress slides from her body to the floor, leaving her standing naked in front of him, only the necklace remains.
His breath hitches. Whatever he imagined Christine to be, she is so much more – constantly surprising him. What a fool he was to have left her. How grateful he is to his own obsession to have connived to bring her here to him.
"You are far too overdressed, my dear man," she says, striding toward him, addressing the removal his clothing, piece by piece. With his assistance the task takes little time and soon his nakedness equals hers.
"Better?"
"Much better. I see you are prepared to ravish me." Taking his already engorged member in her hand, ghosting her thumb around the glans.
"It would seem you are the one doing the ravishing," he hisses, sucking in his breath as she kneels in front of him to take him into her mouth. Pressing his hands on her shoulders, his knees weaken when she begins massaging his sac. "This is too much…you…"
Pulling away, she leans back on her heels, putting her hands on her hips. "Too much? Me? What?"
"You…your needs. I must attend to your needs," he mumbles, reaching his hand out to her. "Come, to the bed – allow me to love you."
Accepting his hand, she stands up and pokes him on the chest. "You go to the bed and lie down and I will finish what I started."
"But…"
"But, what – you can pleasure me, but I cannot pleasure you?"
"I…"
"Get onto that bed, now."
The sight of a naked woman with an elegant necklace, hands on luscious hips ordering him around has him chuckle. He bows his head. "Of course, I am yours to command."
"I am pleased you understand."
Pulling the duvet down, he reclines on the white Egyptian cotton sheets. "Is this correct?"
"It is," she says, joining him on the small bed, sitting on her heels next to him to resume her ministrations.
A broad grin crosses face smiling as he grips the bedclothes with his long fingers. Could his fantasy really be taking place? Try as he might, it is impossible for him to simply lie still. Every instinct inside him, demands he not allow himself to be so vulnerable – so truly naked. Christine willing to play the role of the automaton come to life. How could she know? Despite the fact their lovemaking was something enjoyed for months, this was something beyond that. Still she was not shocked or angry or disgusted.
"I cannot – this is too much, he says, lifting his head from the pillow.
"Stop fighting me," she says, continuing to stroke his length with one hand, the other toying with his pubic hair. "There is nothing wrong." She glances down at him to make her point. "Your own body is telling both of us, there is nothing wrong. What were your words? Help me make the music of the night."
His golden eyes meet her aquamarine – bright and seductive. Her rosebud lips turned up in what could only be called a wicked grin. "Turning my own words against me?" Perhaps it was all right. If Christine says so, it must be so. Falling back on the pillow, he says, "I surrender – do with me what you will."
"Thank you, I shall," she says, before running her tongue the length of him.
"Ah, Christine."
"Yes?"
"Nothing…just ah, Christine."
