Tears of Rage
By ryanalicia
CHAPTER ONE
"You little viper."
Christine drew back at the sudden rage on her angel's face and reached out a tentative hand to return his mask.
He slapped her offer away.
"You think it's that simple?" he bellowed. "You've ruined everything!"
"I..I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
"You did exactly what you meant. You meant to humiliate me."
"No, angel. Never."
He reached over and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him. "Do you know what happens to wayward children?" His voice was deceptively smooth, when she knew the anger that boiled within him.
"No?" he said into her silence. "Let me show you."
He sank down onto the piano bench, pulled her around to his right side and then dragged her across his knees.
Christine gasped in horror as she realized his intent. She began to struggle against him "You can't," she breathed. "You can't do this. Please, angel."
"Your angel was a lie. There is only me."
He released her wrists and used that hand to jerk up the back of her dress. The other hand pulled down her underclothes. She could feel the cold draft on her bare bottom.
The first blow caught her unawares because she still hadn't believed he would do it. It was hard and made her cry out.
"Don't think to get pity from me," he responded. "You are a heartless child."
Another blow followed the second and then another.
Tears began to streak her cheeks at the humiliation of it all.
Two more blows and then his hand stopped against her skin. He began to gently rub his palm over her burning bottom.
She whimpered at the smooth caress, and then cried all the more because she was being a fool. There was no gentleness here. He only wanted to further embarrass her.
But his touch continued, now running down the backs of her thighs.
She shook her head; she didn't want this.
"Please stop," she cried.
"I'll stop when you've been truly punished," he said.
One of his fingers slid between her clenched legs, running up and down. Then it slid higher, and Christine squeaked. "What are you doing?"
"Punishing you."
He spread her legs apart and ran his finger along her folds.
Christine cried, but vowed not to beg him again. He was determined to see this through – if she only knew what 'this' meant.
His finger slid deeper, and she was shocked that it met no barrier. Her flesh was wet and willing. He slipped that dangerous finger inside her and began to gently stroke.
"Ahh," she gave a strangled cry. How could that feel good?
"It seems the student wants her teacher," he commented.
"Why?" she asked. "Why must you do this to me?"
"We suffer together, you and I – loneliness and now humiliation." He rubbed some place within her that made her gasp. "And, it would seem, desire."
"No," she said, shaking her head, denying it to them both.
He removed his hand and caressed her once more.
"Get up," he told her.
She dropped down onto her knees and then stood to straighten her clothes.
"Did I say to get re-dressed?"
Surely he didn't mean to force himself on her, she thought in a sudden moment of panic.
"Come here," he said, reaching out to catch one of her hands in his own. He drew her down onto his lap so that her back was to his chest. She could feel his hardness, and it both frightened and thrilled her.
Then he pulled up her dress once more and began to stroke her again. This time he found another spot with which to torture her. His gentle caress against it forced a moan from between her lips.
"That's it, my little Christine," he said. "Show me you are not the child you pretend."
"I…I don't know what you mean."
He pulled her back against him and, against her will, she melted into the hard wall of his chest. This put more of her weight against his questing fingers, increasing the pressure. It mirrored the increasing pressure she felt within. How could she open herself to this man this way? Horror invaded her thoughts but would not stay.
"What are you doing to me?" she asked.
He slipped a finger inside her again and didn't answer. With his thumb rubbing her flesh and his other finger inside her wetness, she felt powerless now to protest. She didn't want to protest; she wanted to writhe. Tentatively, she moved against him. It brought her flesh down deeper onto his probing hands and rubbed her against his erection. She heard him gasp behind her, and the sound gave her a perverse pleasure. Truly, they did suffer together.
When she could no longer help herself, she laid her head back against his shoulder and began to plead with him.
"Begging me, my little Christine?" His voice was harsh.
"Yes…" she gasped out. "Yes, I'm begging you."
His fingers began to move faster, and she clenched her eyes shut until the moment she didn't know she'd been waiting for crashed over her like a wave onto the shore. She felt her body convulse around his fingers, felt them still sliding in and out of her wetness.
"Stop," she said. "I can't take anymore."
The fingers stilled and then moved to the outside of her thigh.
"You are beautiful," he whispered into her ear. "Did I hurt you too much?"
She shook her head. She could remember no pain.
"I won't say I'm sorry."
She shook her head again.
"Your angel knows only the beauty of music, but the man in me knows only rage. Rage at the world and everyone in it. Sometimes it controls me."
She wanted to ask if his desire was always laced with rage, if it would be now, but her fear overcame her need to know him.
"Will you take me back now?" she asked.
He nodded and put her on her feet.
Her legs felt like pudding.
She didn't cry all the way back, but as soon as she was through the mirror, she threw herself on her bed and let the tears pour out – tears for the death of her angel.
The next day at rehearsal, she was re-cast into another girl's smaller part, and Carlotta was back as the lead. She already knew her part well, so rehearsal was a lot of standing about – for which she was grateful because, as she'd discovered that morning, sitting was a little uncomfortable.
At her dressing table, brushing her hair, she'd been reminded by the throb of her skin of all the phantom had done to her. Her exquisite, untouchable, unknowable angel had been a lie, but she'd shed her tears for him. Something the phantom had said last night had stuck with her, and she realized now that the angel was the fantasy of a child. And she was no longer a child. Such a fantasy was no longer to be afforded to her. Now she had to deal with the man.
Oh, if only he were just a man, she thought. She had little enough experience dealing with men, but the phantom was her teacher, her virtuoso, her voice. She might not know him, but she knew his music, and she loved it – loved that part of him.
Raoul's sudden appearance distracted her from her thoughts. He was there to take her to lunch, and she happily acquiesced.
"Tell me, little Lotte," he said, when they were seated at the café, "what brings such a lovely blush to your cheeks?"
The fact that he noticed and asked made her blush even more. She'd been thinking of the phantom and his ministrations.
She looked over at Raoul and somehow couldn't see him ever dragging her into his lap and making her climax in his arms. But Raoul was a good man – that much she knew. She should be interested in a good man – only in a good man.
Lunch passed companionably, and Raoul returned her to the theater with a kiss on her hand and a promise to see her after the opera's next performance.
Back in her dressing room, she wasn't surprised to hear his voice from behind the mirror.
"Will you now throw away all that we have, Christine? Have I chased you into the arms of your insipid viscount?"
"He is a childhood friend, nothing more."
"Don't lie to me, when I can see possession written in his features. He figures you to be his."
Did he? She wasn't astute at noticing such things. Especially when her own feelings didn't correspond.
"What should I call you now?" she asked. "There is no more angel."
It was a long time before he answered. "You may call me Erik."
"May we skip our lesson tonight, Erik? I promise tomorrow night we can return to our schedule."
"Alright," he said, agreeing much more quickly than she'd expected. "Tomorrow night, then."
"And Erik?" she called out.
"Yes?"
"I see no reason for you to hide behind my mirror any longer. We should practice at your piano."
Another long hesitation. "As you wish."
She heard his footsteps retreat and knew it was only because he allowed it. When he'd been her angel, his every movement had been silent.
When she knew he'd gone, she left her dressing room and made her way to Madame Giry's small apartment.
"Christine," she said, seeming startled to see the girl at her door after working hours.
"May I come in, Madame Giry?"
"Of course, dear. Is something the matter? I know you've had a trying time the last few days. You mustn't let it get to you."
A trying time. She had no idea. Or maybe she had some idea.
"You know who my tutor is," Christine declared.
Madame Giry said nothing.
"Please," Christine said. "Be honest with me. I know he's the phantom."
"Ah, so he's made himself known to you."
Christine nodded. "But not really known. I only see a man who's part anger and part music. I want to know what drives him. Can you tell me? I feel as if I have none of the pieces."
"His story should be his to tell."
Christine shook her head. "He's angry with me. I'm afraid he'll never tell me anything now. I made a terrible blunder."
Madame Giry sighed. "Yes, you must be careful with him. He's fragile, for all he tries to play the omnipotent ghost."
"But why?"
"Can't you guess?" Madame Giry asked. "He's had his deformity since birth. When I met him, he was kept in a cage in a travelling freak show, forced to pull off the sack he wore as a mask to frighten tremulous children." She shuddered. "He cowered in the corner until a man came in to expose him to us. The rest of the crowd jeered and threw things at him."
She sat down in a small chair.
"When I next saw him, he was free, skulking between two tents. I slipped away from my friends and showed him how to enter the cellars of the opera house." She shook her head. "I thought only to give him a temporary place to hide. I had no idea he'd feel doomed to live here – underground-for the rest of his days. First he took the opera as his purpose, providing plans for its renovation, the designs for set pieces. For his efforts, he demanded a salary from the owners – a salary they have always paid."
"But it wasn't just for his services, was it?"
Madame Giry shook her head. "He's taken on the role of the imperious opera ghost, and when he doesn't get his way, well, things happen."
"What kind of things?"
"The more practical minded among the company call them 'accidents', but those who believe in the opera ghost know the truth of it. He costs the managers more than his salary if he does not get his way. And he's occasionally caused injury. Last year he demanded the third violin be let go, and when the managers didn't comply, the violinist turned up with a broken hand, blaming the opera ghost."
"Is he…is he evil, Madame Giry?"
"I do not know, dear girl. I barely knew the boy, and I do not know the man. We have a certain amount of trust between us, and I serve him because I know his situation. You must have a better idea than I of the man he's become."
Christine pondered this as she went back to her room.