Chapter 21 — A New Type of Torture Chamber

Never had Erik so appreciated the similarity between the shape of a violin and that of a woman than when he held the former in his sweating hands as his eyes traced the curves and dips and sensuous swells of the latter.

Cradling the smooth wood, polished to a glow, under his chin, teasing melody from the tremulous strings, with slow, deliberate strokes. Listening with eyes pressed shut as Christine's golden voice poured from between her lips, praying desperately that his unguarded body would not betray itself — and cursing the vicomte for the lack of a keyboard and the convenient concealment it offered.

Breathing through his nose, slow and deep, struggling to control his pulse so that it did not run away from him, taking the rhythm with it, driving it faster and faster until he might lose control altogether.

Each song rising to a crescendo, lifting Erik along with it; straining, striving, grasping for something just out of reach — something which he would not let himself reach. Holding himself back with only one last thread of reason. Feeling that thread pull tighter and tighter with each song, until the tension was nearly unbearable, the thread only one slight tug away from snapping.

It was miserable.

It was glorious.

It was a kind of torture, really — the most exquisite kind.

And as was the case with a great many things, Erik had only himself to blame for this predicament. He had always known one simple truth, yet had foolishly decided to ignore it: just as desire created music, so too did music create desire. And the more hours they passed creating music, the harder it became to pretend that it did not.

Christine could never, never know. So during each of those hours, Erik did all he could to maintain an exterior which was collected, courteous, and cool.

But inside, he burned.

To bank that burgeoning fire before it consumed him, Erik spent the time between lessons attempting to compose himself — with reading and sketching and occasionally a bit of wine — and sternly lecturing himself on the proper behavior for a music teacher. It didn't help at all. Each time that voice and violin began to fill the space between the cold stone walls, no amount of preparation could keep Erik's pulse from quickening. So she sang and he played and the licking flames scorched and singed. Eventually, the pain of that fire became its own sort of pleasure. He let the music fill him, let her voice fill him, and let himself burn and burn and burn within the prison of his beastly flesh.

And when each song's final notes faded away and were replaced by Christine's lightly panting breath, Erik would exhale, grit his teeth, and smile.

...

To be fair, Christine wasn't making it any easier on him. As part of his promise to let her choose everything from here on out, Erik was no longer the one selecting her practice pieces. Pieces from Romeo et Juliet, from Semele, from Manon — even from Carmen, which wasn't at all appropriate for her voice but which she claimed she was interested in trying "just to see" — she chose almost nothing but the most fiery, the most passionate, the most...carnally-stirring music one could find in the repertoire.

It was a grueling test of Erik's ability to maintain a professional demeanor, but all-in-all, he did quite well, he thought, despite the difficulty of the task.

True, it might have been a bit easier if he kept his eyes off of her. But he didn't let his eyes rest upon her chest by choice; it was necessary that he keep a careful eye on her breathing technique. And while perhaps it could be said that he didn't need to watch quite as closely or for as long as he did, Erik was nothing if not a perfectionist, was he not?

Besides, he kept his gaze restricted to the area covered by her clothing. Most of the time, anyway. Occasionally, very occasionally, he might take a quick glance farther north to where her breast swelled with deep, full breath, straining the taffeta and lace that bordered those soft curves until that sweet, succulent flesh nearly spilled right out of her bodice.

But that was just a glance. Or two. Every few minutes. Hardly anything at all.

Really, there was nothing wrong with looking. Erik was a lonely man. Christine knew that, and she'd offered him much more than a look, which he'd selflessly turned down. Surely she wouldn't mind. It wasn't as if he was letting his fingers trace the path his eyes took as they slid over those elegant contours of bust and waist and hip, echoed in the instrument he gently wiped the rosin dust from with a soft cloth after each lesson, as Christine arranged her hair and clothes to give the appearance that it was her that Erik had laid down on a velvet bed and trailed his fingertips over, and not a hollow piece of wood.

But no, no, he would never defile her with untoward, unnecessary touches. He kept each touch respectful to the point of reverence, and, of course, always, always absolutely essential. So although his hands hungered for her, it was only with a slow, gentle brush of one fingertip beneath her chin that Erik tipped Christine's face upward to help open her throat. Only a light press of his palm to the small of her back to encourage her to straighten her posture.

If his hand lingered there, well, that was only because proper posture was so very important.

In any case, Christine had no complaints. She seemed quite pleased with his instruction, in fact. She greeted him each time with a flushed face shining with eagerness; each lesson ended with breathless thanks. And she really was making good progress, which was no surprise; she'd always been an excellent student.

Her focus, for example, was unimpeachable. When the music began to flow, her attention rarely strayed from her maestro. Or rather, from certain parts of him.

With his hands busy with the violin, Erik kept time with a sharp tap of his toe — an accompaniment which Christine seemed to find useful. Her gaze, he noticed, was constantly darting down to his feet, as her face flushed from the considerable physical effort of her exercises.

Also, quite often, Erik would find Christine's eyes fixed upon his hand as he worked the strings along his violin's fingerboard. It made sense — Mlle Daae was the daughter of a violinist, of course she appreciated good technique. She certainly seemed to, anyway, judging by the way her eyes would widen when his admittedly skilled fingers nailed a particularly tricky bit of fingering.

Erik envied her her ability to separate music from desire, a skill she'd no doubt developed after he'd shattered all her illusions about him. After what he'd put her through, of course music would not inflame her the way it used to, when she sang for him until she trembled with ecstasy.

As for Erik, he would weather this particular storm alone, and he would continue to burn and burn with no relief.

Well...with some relief.

He was, after all, only human, with a man's needs and urges, and there was only so much a man could take. He did, at least, try to keep his promise not to think of her as he buried his unmasked face into the crook of his arm and drove his hips into his fist each night, but it was impossible when the only image he saw behind his closed lids was her — her and her heaving breast and her reaching hands and her lips parted wide in song and ah god, he'd done it again. And again. And several more times.

Ah, well — he was only human.

Afterward, sleep came, but it was fitful. Even in his dreams he was tormented by the pulse of desire, beating with a rhythm more music than biology. Forbidden images flickered and teased, endlessly frustrating, never satisfying, always ending the same: by waking up in a cold bed in a cold room in a cold house buried underground — alone.

…

Three weeks of this glorious misery passed, each lesson a little more torturous than the one before, until Erik was certain he'd reached the limits of suffering. Still, he took heart in the fact that even at its worst, he could always maintain complete control.

He was wrong, of course.

…

The hour was halfway through.

Erik took a moment to retune the violin — a frequent necessity with his apparently too-forceful bowing and vise-like grip on the neck — while Christine unfolded the sheet of music she'd brought tucked away in her bag.

She flattened it as best she could and placed it on the music stand, watching Erik from the corner of her eye as he read the title.

"Liebestod?" he questioned lightly — though he wanted to say Jesus, Christine, are you trying to kill me? — "I thought you didn't care for Wagner?"

Christine smiled back a bit sheepishly, but did not answer, simply arranged herself in position, holding her head high. Erik took a deep breath and began to play.

Gooseflesh rose along his arms as her voice rose to meet the music; by two measures in, if she had been trying to kill him, Erik would have happily volunteered to be the corpse that Christine's Isolde wept over.

To keep control, he kept his eyes trained on the violin, tried to focus on the sinuous swirls of wood grain captured under the lacquer, the silky finish glowing amber with reflected gaslight. Christine's voice was everywhere — caressing his heated skin, clouding his head, pulsing through his veins — cresting toward the song's climax. Sweat trickled from under his mask and pooled in the chin rest cupping his chin. He licked his lips, tasting salt, and glanced up to see Christine watching him.

Her eyes were dark and wide and shining, lips parted, face flushed. Subtly, she shifted, angling her body towards him, her breast rising and falling, her hands reaching, and—

Erik's bow-hand slipped.

The result was not subtle, as he hoped in a flash of panic, but a horrible, impossible-to-miss, discordant screech. They both flinched.

A second or two of thick, tense silence followed, before Erik broke it with a rush of half-mumbled apologies. Abruptly, he turned from her, his hands shaking as he returned the violin its case, then surreptitiously patted his face dry with a quickly-pocketed handkerchief.

Please, he prayed desperately, please don't let her understand what she does to me.

When he turned toward Christine again, she was no longer looking back. Her face, still flushed, was tipped toward the floor, her fingers worrying at the lace trim of her bodice. Erik's stomach sank; she couldn't even look at him. How disgusted she must be, what a foul, disgraceful old lecher he was — unable to accompany her properly because he couldn't keep his wretched lust controlled for even a handful of minutes!

He'd tried so hard to maintain his iron-fisted control, wrestling his impure thoughts into submission, suppressing the mounting pressure.

Although…perhaps that was the problem.

Clearly, he could not sustain this state for much longer. If some little amount of steam was not released, surely the boiler would blow. So to speak.

It was common knowledge: the more one attempted to resist a temptation, the more tempting it became. Perhaps...perhaps if he loosened that crushing control, just a little...

Christine needn't even be aware; he could be artful about it. He wouldn't make any clear advances, wouldn't do anything truly foolish.

It wouldn't be slipping if it was intentional.

Erik cleared his suddenly very dry, tight throat. "We have a bit of time left," he said, and incredibly, his voice came out much smoother than he'd expected. "Perhaps we could try that last line again, without accompaniment?"

Christine's dark, wide eyes darted toward the door before meeting his; she considered him silently, lightly biting her lip. Breathlessly, Erik waited as she blinked, she sighed, she ran a fingertip over the sheet of music. Erik could feel a muscle in his jaw begin to twitch.

And then she nodded.

With a small smile slowly spreading across her face, Christine again got into position, shoulders back, chin high.

Erik exhaled, low and slow, feeling the oppressive, ever-present tension slacken, letting the pressure escape, allowing the space left behind to fill with a warmth that was syrupy-sweet and intoxicating. He drew himself up and moved behind her, his motions fluid, deliberate, perhaps somewhat…sensual, yes — but still restrained. He wouldn't allow it to turn into too much. He could handle himself.

Christine shivered slightly as his hands grazed her shoulders, and impulsively, he dipped his face down to the lustrous curls piled atop her head and covertly inhaled the fragrance of her hair — nothing indecent, just one small indulgence…

And as he made the necessary adjustments to her posture, his body pressing in close — but not touching; still never really touching — it occurred to him: if this was as close as he would ever be to her physically, why not enjoy it while he had the chance? Why not soak up her heat and her scent, inhale her every breath? Memorize the new topography of her, the sharper collar bones, the straighter spine?

So he let his eyes drink her in — let her heat and her scent and her breath fill him till it hurt — let the flames of desire lick and scorch until pleasure and pain were one and the same. He pressed his palm to the small of her back, brought the other to rest just below her sternum, lowered his lips to her ear, and breathed a command —

"Sing."

And she did, transcendentally. And for a few moments, with Christine nestled in his arms and her voice filling his ears, Erik knew true ecstasy.

And although she sang until she nearly collapsed, trembling within his embrace…surely, surely that was only due to the exertion of singing…

Wasn't it?

ALW Erik - horniest man alive (alive in my heart, anyway). I hope I did him justice. For fun, see if you can find all of the many stupidly suggestive words I tried to work in there. Hehe, sorry, I'm forever 12.

Up next: Look, you just can't appreciate how good you've got it with Erik unless you have some time with Raoul. (Am I talking to readers, or to Christine…or perhaps both?)

Thank you to Aldebaran for your incredible support and helpful feedback, and for a perfect boiler analogy which I shamelessly stole. You're the best!

Thanks everyone for reading, and for your comments, which help push me to keep this moving along - hopefully at a quicker pace now!

And one more thing: I am taking suggestions for the name of Erik and Nadir's business. They do architectural renovations and redesigns in Brussels, and in this universe, in case it helps, Erik takes Rouen as a last name (something I've taken from Suzy McKee Charnas' wonderful and very influential-to-young-Flora published short PotO story, "Beauty and the Opera".) If there's a good one, I will use it (with credit) in a future chapter. However, ridiculous answers are also always appreciated.

Thanks so much, all of you!