V
PoTo belongs to its creators. I just play.
The rope frame beneath the down mattress squeaked in time with the thrusts of the man laboring over Christine, a faint, sibilant protest in echo to the one Christine left unvoiced. The customer, a short, bony little baron old enough to be her father reeked. His breath fluttering in a warm, moist caress against her neck held a curious mixture of sweet brandy and the stale meaty stink of his last meal, laden with onions. His body odor and the rank stench of his sweat didn't help matters. His other . . . assets were nothing much to speak of, either. A little of Madame's oil helped with that, though the perfume of roses that wafted up from between their gyrating bodies only added to the miasma of sex floating in the air.
"Ughn, how do you like that, kitten? Huh?" he panted, grinding his bony hips against hers, his sweat dripping down onto her naked breasts. Christine hid her aggravated sigh in the false moan she uttered.
She hated it when customers expected her to participate, to like it. But her occupation was every bit as much an actress's role, about flattering delicate egos, coquetry, entertainment as it was about sex.
The other whores had taught her well and Christine did what she knew would appease him: moaning soft broken words of encouragement and pleasure, to arch just so . . . with a cry like a strangled goat, the baron spilled his seed within her body and fell heavily on top of her. Luckily, the curtain of his greasy blond hair hid Christine's disgust.
Christine knew there were three possible outcomes to a man's orgasm: one, he expected praise and rapture for his performance; two, he expected crooned comfort and love words before promptly falling asleep; or three, he rose to leave. The baron fell in the third category, thankfully, for he dropped an affectionate, glancing kiss on Christine's cheek before heaving himself off her. His flaccid cock slid from her body. Customers were very careful not to kiss on the mouth. That cost extra.
"It was a good ride, kitten. I'll tell your Madame so." He threw the words over his shoulder as he donned his trousers and fastened them.
"Thank you, Claude. I am grateful for your patronage," Christine simpered. Was she supposed to be flattered? By the time Bruno knocked, Claude had already dressed and kissed her forehead again. Oily affection got under her skin, so she was grateful when Bruno escorted Claude out.
Madame billowed in not a moment later, as Christine was pulling on her stockings. A talon-like hand seized the soft meat of Christine's upper arm. She winced, unnerved by the manic brightness in the Madame's hazel eyes. The effect was somewhat exaggerated with the heavy coating of sooty kohl on her lashes and the rouge on her cheeks. It was whispered also that the madam used bootblack to cover the threads of silver appearing in her black hair.
"Come, my lovely. You have another customer!" she chirped, dragging Christine behind her. Christine stumbled, hauling the bodice of her gown up over her naked breasts. Her mind whirred.
Another, so soon? Usually there was a least a quarter hour between customers, to ensure that they were fresh and generally up to standard. What also marked this occasion as suspicious was that the customer had asked for her specifically. Christine had not been working long enough to build any kind of personal clientele.
"A customer? Who is he?" she asked, dodging servants and the other girls as they wove through the warren of rooms in a flurry of preparation. After supper was their busiest time, and each of the brothel's four floors seethed like an upset beehive. Madame Sophia ignored her, pausing at the mouth of the stair.
"Pauline, yours is the gentleman in the Chrysanthemum Room. Try not to upset his temper. Bruno, roust that German lech out of the parlor. No sampling the merchandise without paying! And you! Raoul! I said fetch the applewood for the furnace. This shite smells almost as bad as you do!"
"Come on!" she snapped, dragging Christine down the stairs to the third floor, shouting more instructions, then altering their route to the back stair.
At the ground floor, they burst into the frigid September alleyway and skirted puddles of fetid water by the rubbish heap before re-entering the brothel in a warm room just off the kitchen, lit by a lone candle. A steaming tub waited, redolent with the scents of herbs. A soothing mixture designed to tend to abused tissue.
Was Christine's appearance so subpar that they had to detour the parlor entirely? And why was there time for a bath? Madame released Christine's arm and wrung her wrinkled hands together. Christine eyed the normally composed madam warily, rubbing her arm.
"Is—Isn't the customer waiting? Should I just-"
"Get in, you stupid girl! Wash yourself well. The customer specified he wanted a clean, fresh girl. We mustn't keep the Vicomte waiting."
Christine paused her undressing as her heart stuttered in her chest. Vicomte? Their interlude three weeks ago seemed like a dream. So much so that Christine had sworn to remove him from her heart where he had unaccountably taken up residence and surfaced in her thoughts at the most inconvenient times.
"Oh?" Christine said with deliberate casualness, easing into the wonderfully hot bath. At the madam's gimlet stare, she quickly poured a palmful of Madame's ridiculously expensive hair soap made of shaved lye boiled with hyssop and myrrh and worked it into her hair. It foamed into a pleasant lather that trickled in warm, wet rivers down her back and breasts.
"Which Vicomte?" she asked, scrubbing her scalp. The madam was making her nervous, seated on that squat stool watching her with an avaricious gleam in her eye.
"The Vicomte de Chagny. He's been quite the busy boy. Climbing rungs of the social ladder and all that. He's been formally accepted back at court."
To hide her pleasure, Christine slipped under the water to rinse her hair. She broke the surface and shook sodden curls from her face. Christine loved baths. The sense of restoration and renewal were one of her few pleasures in this new, terrifying world. She quickly scrubbed the lathered cloth Madame offered over her body. With surprising agility, the madam lunged, bringing her face less than an inch from Christine's. Her breath smelled of brandy.
"Don't disappoint him, Christine," Madame hissed, inviting her to imagine all manner of horrors if she did. Christine sank into the protective embrace of the tub, blinking through moisture-clotted eyelashes.
"I won't. I promise!" she squeaked. Madame's frenzied facade mellowed into one of indulgent amusement. She patted her cheek.
"I know you won't. Don't forget to clean your cunt, dearie," she crooned, in the same cautionary tone one would offer when going outside without a coat.
"Yes, Madame," Christine said dutifully, hoping the hot water would hide her blush. With that, Madame Sophia rose and left Christine alone with her hopes and ever-present fear.
XXX
"You try my patience. Where. Is. Christine?" Erik spaced the words with scathing precision, spat through clenched teeth.
Three weeks was much too long. The hunger she'd built inside him only grew. Irritable and restless, he had paced the parlor for the twenty minutes ticked off by the mantle clock until Madame returned sans Christine. The portly madam offered him her best smile, revealing small teeth stained by brandy and tobacco.
"She is busy making herself beautiful for you, Monsieur le Vicomte. You mustn't rush these things. If you have grown tired of waiting, I have other girls available. Louisa would be most happy to attend your needs."
The black-haired vixen rose and sauntered over, placing her red-lacquered nails on Erik's chest. A powerful wave of her dense, floral perfume encompassed him.
"I would very much, Monsieur," her throaty voice screamed of debauchery. Her liquid Saracen eyes held his boldly. Erik remembered their interlude with fondness, but it was not Louisa's face and voice and body that haunted his dreams and drove him to take himself in hand at least twice a night like a randy youth.
"Tempting, my dear, but I have a prior engagement," Erik purred, imbuing his voice with indulgence and regret, peeling her hand from his chest. He caught the flash of dismay in the madam's face as well as the tang of hurt ruffling Louisa. The madam's reaction rang some internal warning bell and he vowed he would examine it later.
Madame Sophia's eye cut to one side with a slight sagging of relief and Erik followed her gaze. He froze, stifling the urge to gasp, or stare slack-jawed, or ravish the beauty before him on the brothel's good carpet. Instead, he gorged himself on the sight of his shy, Swedish rose. Clothed in naught but a sapphire blue silk wrapper, Christine looked sultry, womanly, ripe and sweet like a peach. He longed to sink his teeth in and lap up her juice.
His gaze traveled from her delicate feet, vulnerable and bare, up the creamy length of calf to the hem of the wrapper embroidered with subtle patterns of glossy black thread. Damp silk clung to the swells of breast and hip and thigh, enticing him with their bounty. Her glorious hair was loose down her back, dark and damp and heavy. The sweet face that plagued his dreams was luminous, her brown eyes—not the mundane tones of mud or dirt, no, but of the richness of chocolate and coffee!—wide and bright. Was she happy to see him? Had she missed him? Lust stripped him of his eloquence.
"You look beautiful." He wondered, in the name of God's eyeteeth, how he was going to keep his hands off her. His trousers were already uncomfortably tight. Luckily the drape of his cape hid his affliction. Christine curtsied prettily, glancing at the madam.
"I couldn't find any fresh clothes, so-"
"As long as my customers are pleased, so am I," Madame preened. Erik shook himself and offered a stiff bow.
"I am very well pleased," he said huskily and heard the intake of breath from all three women present. If Louisa's voice invited debauchery, Erik's was seduction made audible. He watched, and saw Christine's eyes darken with arousal, plump pink lips slightly parted.
"Shall we?" he drawled, offering her his gloved hand. Her warm hand slid into his and Erik sent up a swift prayer for strength. Tonight promised to be sweet torture.
XXX
Christine was sharply aware of her nakedness beneath the wrapper; delicate tendrils of air caressed her through the damp silk, bringing her nipples to aching points. God, Erik's eyes felt like hot honey drizzled over her skin, and his voice . . . oh, his voice saying that she had pleased him filled her with unspeakable primitive joy. The lingering wanting she had felt for his protection and his touch returned ten, no a hundredfold. She had never wanted to before. But she wanted now. Oh, how she wanted.
Erik led her up the stairs, the wood cold and smooth beneath her bare feet. Each of the brothel's rooms was decorated with fine wallpaper of a certain theme: roses, chrysanthemums and so on. Their first night together, Erik had taken her to the Rose Room and sought to do so again. Christine stiffened, quailing at the thought of those tastefully wrought flowers closing in on her.
"What is it?" Erik asked gently, the hot focus of his green eyes trained on her. Having his complete and utter attention was heady stuff.
"Uh . . . um," Christine stuttered, "could we use a different room?" It was so hard to discern his expression with that black bandit's mask covering his face from hairline to upper lip. The full curve of his mouth thinned.
"Why?" he asked. Christine blushed.
She couldn't very well say it was because she was afraid of the wallpaper! She looked down at her feet, trying to ignore the squeak of mattresses and the muted sound of a laugh raised in professional flirtation bleeding through the walls around them.
"Please," she whispered. His fingers cupped her chin and tilted it up to meet her gaze.
"Very well."
He led her down the hall to the Green Room over the kitchen, warm and private. Christine breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the deep green walls decorated with wide vertical stripes of cream.
"Better?" he asked, closing the door securely behind them.
"Much," she said, giving him a shy smile.
Erik chuckled as if sharing a joke and kissed the back of her hand. It was a light, polite peck, but nevertheless, Christine felt it down to the soles of her feet. Erik moved to the fire and removed his hat, cape and gloves. He shucked off his coat and sat in one the chairs.
How had Christine not noticed how graceful he was? That exquisite surety of movement, a confidence that every sinew and muscle would obey his will to perfection, like a conductor before a symphony. His eyes moved over her and Christine repressed the delicious shiver it sent through her.
"Coincidence, or fate, do you think?" he said, with an inviting crooked smile.
Christine settled into the chair opposite him, crossing her ankles primly. She puzzled over his enigmatic statement. It was bad enough that she was in awe of him, combined with a heretofore unknown level of physical attraction, but now he wanted to verbally spar with her? She wasn't as witty as the other girls, especially Louisa. The image of Louisa's red nails possessively spread on Erik's chest rose in her mind's eye and Christine shoved the hot, nameless emotion aside. She abandoned the feeble retorts she could have offered and went with blunt honesty.
"What do you mean?" the sparkle in his green eyes said he was pleased with her answer. He gestured between them. It was only then that she realized his waistcoat was of the same sapphire hue as her wrapper.
"We are dressed to match each other."
"Oh . . . I'd say dumb luck," Christine said, "Madame simply forgot to lay out fresh clothes for me." Erik laughed, leaning forward to brace his forearms on his knees.
"Christine, in my experience, Madame Sophia doesn't 'forget' anything. She left the wrapper because she knew it would guarantee my reaction to you." Christine blushed to the roots of her hair, her heartbeat speeding up.
"And . . . what reaction is that?" the smile fell from his mouth.
In reply he leaned back in the chair, allowing his arms to sprawl along the arms. The firelight washed over him and she saw the evidence of a very prominent erection straining against his trousers.
"I've been like this since I saw you downstairs. Hell, I've woken up like this with your name on my lips." His gaze seared her.
"It's been a long three weeks."
That simple admission flattered and titillated her as dozens of flowery compliments and cheap trinkets had not. Yes, he wanted her body as the others did, but Erik knew her. Knew the most painful events of her life, knew about her culture and family and liked her for it. And he had enough honor to give her a choice.
"Oh. I've . . . ah, I've thought about you too."
Something shifted in his gaze, hardened into a smoky, predatory glitter. Christine was reminded of the image of a lion she compared him to in her head. If he had a tail, it would be twitching about now.
"Have you, now?" Christine lacked the words to articulate the layers of sex and sin his voice insinuated. Heat throbbed through her body, gathering in a damp well between her thighs.
Erik shook himself like a wet dog. He gripped the carved arms of the chair with white-knuckled fingers. The firelight gilded and burnished him in gold and red. Would his bronze skin bruise her, those jade eyes rend her? She was so afraid . . . but exultant at the same time.
"Christine, if you don't want this, if you don't want me, tell me now. Do not feel . . . obligated in any way. We could simply eat and talk and sleep like we did before." There was a sharp, pleading edge to his voice that Christine found heartbreakingly wonderful. He would protect her. Even from himself.
Before she had even consciously decided, Christine found herself on her feet. Erik leapt up, closing the suddenly unbearable distance between them and clutching her to his chest. The buttons of his waistcoat were cool and smooth against her cheek, fine, silky cloth over a thundering heart. A soft sigh escaped her: of mingled welcome and arousal. His body was lean and hard and tall. She felt enveloped in his warmth and strength, sheltered and cherished.
Erik pressed a warm kiss to her forehead. Christine peeled back, looking into the beautiful—yes she had come to terms with the fact that he was in fact beautiful—green eyes and gave him a brave, wobbly smile.
"Try that a bit lower," she instructed, before pressing her lips to his.
A/N: Turning up the heat! What do you think? Like it? Hate it? Tell me!