AN: Another short one with poor Colette. Another wonderful, accurate source for studying 19th Century ballet history is the collection of paintings/sculptures of the impressionist Edgar Degas. Nearly half of his work was of dancers and he used to spend a great deal of time in the Paris Opera House, studying the ballerinas in their dance classes.

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When I look in your eyes all my pain and woe fades: when I kiss your mouth I become whole: when I recline on your breast I am filled with heavenly joy: and when you say, 'I love you', I weep bitterly. - Wenn ich in deine Augen seh, Schumann

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Chapter 11

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Colette received a box that night. In it was a white corset and ballet skirt that she recognized in another long standing client's artwork. She had worn almost the exact costume for the sweet-tempered and amorous Edgar. She had posed for his paintings, floating her arms like a ballerina as he sketched her.

She smiled at the fond memories of Monsieur Degas.

The pointe shoes were foreign, but not too uncomfortable. The note demanded she wear this ensemble tonight when Master Erik, as she liked to think of him, came to visit. Not knowing when to expect him, she hurriedly dressed and poured some brandy in two glasses. She sipped a little beforehand to calm her nerves before sitting still as a statue, waiting for her Master's arrival.

Half of an hour later, he entered, a brooding, painful energy tearing through him to fill the room.

"Good evening..." he muttered to her, not saying her name. He removed his jacket at once, which was a strange development for him. Typically, he remained dressed; always efficient with their meetings and never staying after; always remaining mostly dressed the entire time. He eyed her in the ensemble, the image of his whore and the image of his muse blurring together as one.

She curtsied to him, demure and shy, waiting for a cue as to how to act. She gestured to the brandy, offering him some if he wished. It cost her half her weekly wages, but she enjoyed sharing it with her extra special customers.

He accepted a glass with a nod, and took a sip; something he would never ever do. "You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice low. He approached her, tracing a hand along her arm.

'Thank you, sir," she responded with a smile. She took her own glass and sipped from it,

He sat his glass down and reached for her, two strong hands gripping her hips, pulling her roughly to him. "You know how I care about you...worship you?" He murmured, kissing her forehead, lips dipping to hers.

"Yessss," she hissed into his mouth. She was in control his completely.

Hands pulled at her dance outfit, tearing down the corset, unlacing knots only to lose patience and tear at that corset, savagely, brutally. "You will give me..exactly..what I want..?"

"Always, my Lord, " she answered. She left her arms down and relaxed- the way he liked it. Total control. He could manipulate her body into whatever he wanted.

And he would do just that, the corset falling away as he pushed her back onto the bed. looking down at her, he removed his shirt, exposing for the first time his chest; well muscled, fit; older than her, but handsomely built nonetheless.

It was like being told a secret or shown a unicorn. This man baring even the tiniest bit of himself was so rare, so special. She spread her hands over his chest and pressed into him, scratching lightly.

He kissed her hard, moving over her, his hands undoing his pants. Then he was nude before her, the first in the entirety of his time with her. Pulling at the tutu, he traced down her legs, groaning when he felt the point shoes. "I...need to..take you..now."

"Yes, please!" She writhed beneath him encouragingly.

He pulled away at the tutu, ripping a hole in the crotch; finally moving to kiss her, hard. He would thrust, finding her entrance.

He had taken her before, many times over, but this time, he took her with a passion that she could never even imagine.

She screamed his name as she found her little death over and over again.

It was wild and deep. He turned her through position after position, his grip rough, his pace, relentless.

Soon, his climax came and he collapsed onto her. He was exhausted, totally spent, totally worn.

She clutched to him as hard as she could as he found his edge. After he stilled, she moved her hand up to caress the bare side of his face.

He kissed her in that moment, the blurred reality still pouring over them. In that moment, he was content, just totally relaxed, sated; though the self loathing still lingered.

"Erik, I love you," the whore murmured. Her voice was like a smokey mezzo crooning.

"Christine..." He just gasped, half delirious, half exhausted. He shifted, showing no intention of getting up in that moment.

Her heart broke, but even as it lay bleeding, she still didn't have the heart to move him. He paid for more than a whole night, so she had no reason to kick him out if she enjoyed his company, as stolen as it felt.

Erik lingered there for a moment longer before rising from the bed.

Colette joined him. "Merci, Monsieur. You are always so gracious." She sounded put out, broken, but she curtsied with proper respect.

Erik nodded and began to dress. "You...are always kind to me," He said, unsure, as if thank someone were foreign to his lips.

She dropped her eyes so he wouldn't see the pain in them. "Anything for you, sir." She wanted him to leave. He always rushed out. Why was he now taking his time! It was excruciating to be near him after he called out some strange woman's name. Christine. Always Christine!

Finally, he turned away, finishing dressing and preparing to leave. For her, it would be as if he was there one moment and suddenly gone the next, leaving her empty. Barren.