The skirt of Agathe's wedding dress was now on the chaise lounge. Erik's tux jacket, waistcoat and Christine's stockings and pantalettes strewn around.
The Soprano gently kissed The Phantom's jawline, slowly moving her lips to the taught, reedy skin of his pointy cheek bones. His hands that were on her upper thighs, tensed the nails digging into the flesh.
"Christine…" He whispered into her ear. "You don't have to."
"I don't have to, I want to," her soft lips gently touched the terrible sensitive skin.
The Opera Ghost slid one of his hands further up her thigh under her disheveled petticoat, "Christine is too kind to her dear Erik. Touching so lovingly where so many still not dare look." There were tears on the edges of his eyes.
"Oh, Erik…" The Diva raised her mouth and kissed the creases of his deep-set eyes, tasting the tears. "I love you, dear husband. You deserve to feel like a husband. To be touched like a husband."
His lanky fingers crawled in between her thighs, their light brush against the downy hair, a jolt to the swirl of electricity already alive in her body. Her whole body arched up as the air from her gasp tickled inside his ear.
"Kisses on the cheek are hardly what most husbands desire," He ran his thin lips down her neck as she tilted towards him.
"But you do. My poor Erik's face craves this intimacy," Her words were breathless as her poor Erik slipped his middle finger into the crevasses of her womanhood.
All the knowledge he'd collected over the years from books and stories and yet he still felt ignorant. Yes, it had been very informative but to tread on terrane he never thought he would see was everything and nothing like his education had promised. Her warmth and wetness were a delight no story could properly prepared him for. The Opera Ghost recalled the name of the engorged tissue he now rubbed with his figure covered in her moisture. He also recalled where it was on the Gray's Anatomy illustrations and that his Christine's was slightly off center from this. He could never forget after that first moan she released. It was more glorious than anything she had ever sung.
Outside of the Greenroom, Vicomte de Chagny took a deep breath leaning his head against the wall.
He did not understand his brother's ways with women. Still a bachelor at his age, it was an open family secret Phillipe had entertained a handful of performers in the Opera Populaire, Sorelli being his most recent conquest of the past few years. She was not a cheap artist to patron, but they also seemed to have a connection beyond that.
Raoul was raised by an Aunt, surrounded by female cousins; he was to be the brother to continue the de Chagny name by taking an acceptable wife upon returning and having a family. Phillipe planned this brotherly time as his proper forte into manhood: Salons, Turkish Baths, rendezvous with the women of the Opera. It was also supposed to be a time for him to bond with his estranged brother before heading off for his first Navy expedition. Instead Raoul grew smitten with an old childhood friend to the point that he would only think of marriage, not the tryst she should have been.
The young de Chagny turned his head and looked down towards Christine's dressing room. Her dressers were nowhere to be seen. Slowly he tip-toed that direction seeing more flowers added to where he threw his. It is worth the chance? He raised his fist to the door to knock when sounds from the other side stopped him mid-action.
"Angel, Angel!" Christine's gasping words were followed by one of her distinct giggles.
She is still here!
Raoul pushed his ear to the door trying to her more.
"Beautiful, such beautiful singing," A man's voice; smooth and pleasant.
What is the meaning of this! Who is in there saying such things! I hope it's not that Erik!
Raoul looked down and there he saw it; the keyhole to Christine's door: open, no key to obstruct his view.
Slowing bending down, The Vicomte then pushed his right eye to the hole. While he was familiar with the layout of Christine's dressing room, it took him a minute to orient himself with the obscured view. Vanity, mirror, chaise lounge…his eyes reached the ottoman and he spread his hand against the door frame for support.
Ivory colored petticoat rested above the porcelain flesh of a small round rump nestled on a contrasting pair of black trousers.
Oh Christine, how dare you be a divine example of a woman!
The Vicomte dug his nails into the wood of the frame. His eye did not move as he watched lanky fingers trail down the back of her corset, over the lump of petticoat, only to finally rub the derriere. Soft sighs escaped The Soprano's mouth.
Who are you? How dare you! Show yourself!
"Oh Angel there is still too many layers between us!"
A bowtie landed on the floor behind her.
Angel who is Angel? Raoul pushed his head harder into the door. When he did, he lost he balance and his knee hit the door.
Christine gasp and jumped up off the mystery man's lap, her petticoat coming partially down, "What was that?"
Merde! Merde! The Vicomte quickly adjusted his position so he was kneeling.
"Maybe it was The Phantom of The Opera," The man wrapped his arms around her waist as he chuckled.
"Oh Erik!"
Erik! It is Erik! What is she doing with that monstrous bastard!
Kissing and giggling, the couple made it to the chaise lounge where Erik's face came into full view to the Vicomte. Hideous! Monstrous! Bile reached in the back of his throat as he pushed himself away from the door. Swallowing the bile back, he took a few deep breaths. Shall I look again?