Chapter Text
Like Pulling Teeth: Part One by catcorsair
A/N: This is a very dark story. Many tags have been omitted in order to prevent spoilers. Please consider yourself warned. Enjoy!
* Newest version as of June 2023! Latest changes posted May 2024.
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"Really, Christine," I spat, as she clasped both hands to her lips in yet another fit of obstinate humor, "compose yourself!"
Having deposited my request in the druggist’s box whilst en-route to the Bois the evening previous, I collected the order before she awoke; now, sitting on the crudely makeshift operating bench that was formerly my dining table, Christine let fall from her grasp yet another of the deflated silk air-bags and collapsed in inelegant laughter. Arms crossed over my chest with several silvery dental instruments protruding from my clenched fists, I watched without amusement as she folded gracelessly forward at the middle, the absurdity of her mirth having apparently earned more of the same; thankfully she managed to keep hold of the table this time, or I might have had to peel her off the floor again. With a feeble attempt at collectedness she gasped out, "give me another silly bag, Erik," as tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. Pointing cloddishly to the exhausted one on the floor she met my narrowed stare to add in a stage whisper, "that one has expired! "
Set again to giggling at her own humor, she kicked her dangling feet and laughed even more when her shoe, finally shaken free from her stockinged foot, clattered to the floor between us. I snorted in frustration and pushed my shirtsleeves further past my elbows.
"You will have no more until you settle down, Christine," I said seriously, knowing perfectly well that the girl would require a good deal more before I dared take my pliers to her; it was vital to me that she should suffer as minimally as possible with regards to this unfortunate injury and the surgery that must now follow. Performing a small drama of selecting the ideal instrument for the task at hand, I prodded at the tray of silvery dental tools on the dining table just beside her squirming rear in its many skirts, trying to ignore her failing attempts not to grin at me and the painfully explicit wriggling of her toes in their revealing stocking.
"Oh, you're a dud," she pouted. The nitrous oxide had been my idea, and—though I am reluctant to concede any sort of failure on my own part, even if an alarming number of my plans of late had tended such—this too was beginning to prove a misguided one. The task was already taking far longer than I had anticipated, and I had a great deal to get to before the day was through; the situation in the Garnier above was a precarious one and required my constant attention. I could not fall prey to another distraction.
But the girl had to be dealt with before all others. I hated to carry the conspicuous silk bags through la Place de l'Opera should any passing stranger assume that I were the sort of person who might indulge in such a cretinous pastime, and yet, down to the living room beyond the lake I had borne a case of the bloated things in service of my intended. She had found my operating-room prepared and ready as soon as she had exited her bedroom around luncheon, immediately souring her surprisingly good temper upon recognition of its purpose; though she fought my doing so heartily—she has always been a wiley one!—I forced a bag to her lips and held it fast until she fell, limp and laughing giddily against my chest, and I could lift her onto the dining table.
I had expected her to handle the drug far more adequately than this. Too often, it seemed, I was made aware of just how incapable, how helpless she truly was, and how reliant on my protection she would always be; despite my unavoidable impatience with the usual failings of her gender, I must admit this fragility served only to endear her further to me—my Christine had long required her choices to be made for her. She had requested a dentist, and so she would have one! If Erik was not the one she had expected, so be it; she would soon come to terms with this disappointment just as she has with so many others after learning that her Angel was only a man.
Though I was loath to be responsible for any injury to her, the tooth simply had to go; I had given her my word, and I honor my promises, even those which are ridiculous. Still I had done my best to convince her to keep it. Only last night, when she came begging to me for relief, had I not patiently explained that despite whatever she might think was wrong with her mouth, she was simply battling common sensitivity? If she could only quiet her whining and bear with it a short time longer her discomfort would cease, or more likely—though I refrained from saying so myself—she would forget all about it. Alas, Christine has little tolerance for anything, let alone pain.
I admit, Erik is no dentist—although he is certainly far better skilled at the practice than most of those imbeciles in the profession—but despite what he had in the moment promised, unforeseen circumstances had forced his hand; surely the girl could accept as much. And yet, in its way, this had proven a welcome relief; I could never have permitted someone other than myself to stick their fingers in any part of her and live. The girl was to be my wife, after all.
And so we found ourselves here, the dentist and his patient.
After three previous Christine took the next proffered bag from my hands eagerly, and I congratulated myself on the continued infallibility of my judgment; I really mustn't doubt myself, for I am guilty of nothing save acting in her best interest. As she greedily kissed its mouth of green silk, filling her lungs with the noxious substance, I even allowed myself the harmless reward of studying the steady rise and fall of her chest in the prison of the exquisite gown she wore; with each long breath her plump flesh pushed unnaturally forward, straining and nearly spilling over the blue velvet piping of her almost-indecently low neckline such that I from my vantage towering over her could witness the suggestive revealing and obscuring of that erotic cavity between her pale, blue-veined breasts. Find me a man who would not do the same; despite their diminutive size, the girl has magnificent tits.
This gown had been my own special request, today—from Worth's, of course, and flatteringly crafted to her exact measurements in cornflower blue dupioni to offset her eyes of the same brilliant shade, with a draping neckline and fitted sleeves that culminated about her elbows in a flourish of blue organza. As she had long come to expect during her time with me, I dressed her in this one as I had all the others; because she lacked my discernment of taste, preferring modesty to style, I found it perspicacious that I should choose her wardrobe myself rather than allow her to do so poorly. And what of it, if all the gowns I provide for her are somewhat modern in cut? Shall a man be denied even the most venial of pleasures?
For I am a man after all, despite her unwillingness to accept me as such.
In the early days of our arrangement Christine would protest my dressing of her quite ardently, though she could lately be convinced to put on almost anything I suggested without complaint, rarely requiring any unpleasant motivation on my part; I must admit that I appreciated this submission immodestly, as I truly hate to frighten her, and even more, to harm her. Since then I have bought her a great many dresses, and enjoyed the sight of her in every one.
She had apparently lost interest in the limp sack still dangling between her fingers, swaying pendulously, smiling, and humming to herself. I peeled the bag from her unresisting grasp and thrust it to the floor with the previous two. Almost immediately her empty hands landed on the bodice of her gown, just atop her chest; with a quiet moan of pleasure she dragged them heavily down her front to bury between her thighs, all the while writhing into her own exploration. Transfixed by this wanton display and frightfully aware of my own riotous pulse where it throbbed in my throat, I could only stare as she caught my eye from behind her pale lashes and crumbled uselessly over herself, dissolving once more into seemingly irresistible spasms of laughter. Squeezing absently at the hinge mechanism of the dental pliers I had forgotten I clutched, I huffed a long exhale as she continued in her self-caresses, smoothing the blue shimmer of her skirts between her parted knees such that her every curve was clearly outlined, the gold band encircling her fourth finger flashing yellow firelight with every move.
"I do like my new dress," she purred at her lap, enraptured; remembering again to breathe I stared at the place as well. "How do I look in it?"
"You look exceedingly well, my dear," I said honestly, forcing my nervous hands to still before adding in an afterthought, "and you are very welcome for it," despite the fact that once again she had not thanked me—for all her many charms, Christine has never been very gracious. Offering no reply she fanned her skirts about her such that the stack of clean rags I had prepared at her side were fully obscured, and with them a decanter of very potent brandy—the evening's roborance, long past unstoppered and now only halfway-filled; of this I took another long sip.
As I returned the bottle to the table with an unsteady clatter she glanced up expectantly with fine blue silk bunched in both fists. "Erik, do look at this," she said earnestly, pressing the fabric in my direction, "have you seen it? You must feel how nice it is—!"
"So it would seem we have finally found a gown Christine approves of!" I quipped sardonically, somewhat hoarsely, and without touching the offered garment—best to avoid that particular torture for some time yet—as I fixed my gaze to anything other than that damned arrow she had unwittingly crafted between her parted legs, myself standing there at the head of it. Still an insistent heat flooded my groin, forcing a heavy exhale to push through my gnashed teeth and a string of expletives to drown out all else. My only consolation for this slight obscenity was that the girl was far too intoxicated to yet note the tenting at my crotch; she had conveniently dropped her wire-framed spectacles some time ago.
In any case, not a minute could be spared to postpone. The wretched task had to be completed. The sooner I took the tooth, the sooner she could heal from its removal, and so too, the sooner I could hear her sing; although I had not anticipated its effect on me, her voice, and my exclusive control of it, I could no longer do without. Christine would sing Don Juan Triumphant or Erik would die—the role of his heroine could be trusted to none but she.
"Dear girl," I offered with feigned ease as with great difficulty I resisted the urge to at least thumb the head of my stiffening shaft through my trousers, "I do not have all night. Let us get on with it, please."
"Oh, but do feel this first," she demanded, again lifting her skirts, and revealing her stockinged knees in the process. She let the fabric first slip between her fingers only to raise it higher, adding breathily, "it's just so nice ."
I admit, watching this, I wanted desperately to touch the damned skirts, and far more than simply that; the vitiating promise of all that was underneath now threatened, searingly, achingly, to consume me, as did the understanding that in her highly amenable, drugged state—should I only surrender to putting them there—the girl would not object to my hands upon her. Nor was she likely to resist anything else, for that matter. I had rarely seen her so receptive before, save for when she still believed she communicated with an unseen, supernatural being, but those days were long past. As she had lately developed a frustrating habit of slinking with her back pressed against the wall whenever circumstance required her to move past me, I certainly knew better than to expect her to invite my touch, though this aggravating behavior would have to change before the wedding. Still she pulled her dress up all on her own, knowing full well who stood before her. The promise I had made churned like vomit in my insides; a yes was still a yes, was it not?
I coughed, hastily wrenching her skirts from her startled fingers to return to the table, and then in an afterthought tucked the fabric securely about her legs; she laughed. "Well, aren't you a gentleman, tonight, Erik!"
I ignored this.
"I will have to hold you still, Christine, if you cannot manage it yourself," I warned even as she determinedly started up again at her skirts, periodically raising a palm to stroke with the other as if she were attempting to reason whether it was the fabric or her fingers themselves that gave her such a pleasurable sensation; I could very nearly see the goose flesh rise on her pale skin. "I feel certain you would not prefer that," I added, eyeing her carefully for any indication of whether the words were true or not; she gave none, only fluttering her eyelashes with an audible moan as she draped more silk over her wrist.
Putting my hands on her would never have been enough, naturally. What I wanted was that which plagued me always: to tear the skirts from the giggling idiot and bury this revolting face between her thighs. To free my rigid cock and shove it in the damned child already, to fuck her until she moaned my name, to tear her open until she bled. To wrap the red cord around her lying throat just as I should that foppish shit she swore not to love, to squeeze until they both went still, to bask in the bloodspill all around, until screaming, pleading, forever and forever mine, if not in life my bride in death—
A stinging pain at my hip alerted me to the sharp nose of the pliers puncturing my skin and the hot blood which now flowed inside my trousers; glaring at Christine, I jammed the point once more into the meat of my upper thigh.
Fuck those skirts. Fuck the whorish gown she wore.
It was only a tooth. I would not lose myself.
Between her laughing fits and strange fascination with her own clothing, but perhaps moreso as a result of her initial reticence to take the necessary medication for surgery, she had managed to lose all but one or two of the delicate beaded pins that bound her extraordinary hair—hair like yellow cornsilk, like dandelion fleece, like warm, sunlit wheat on the earthy, sloping nape of her fine neck, and just as pleasing in fragrance; unbound, the dense braid she often wore twisted in a knot to contain its mass spilled across one shoulder and down her chest in a golden rope that rivaled anything Midas himself could produce. Flinching somewhat at the odd sensation a cord around her fragile throat inspired in the pit of me, I took care to bypass that appealing flesh entirely as I cautiously tucked a loose strand behind her ear—did she sigh?—and took careful hold of her jaw to angle her serenely smiling face to my shrouded one.
"Darling," I said roughly, for as I had shifted, the eager head of my sex barely prodded her thigh through my trousers, "are you ready for me?"
"Oh, no, Erik," she whined, her lips brushing the back of my hand, "it doesn't hurt anymore at all, not at all, do not be angry—please forget about the tooth. I won't even talk about it again, I swear I won't… I don't really need a dentist, Erik, you know… I really don't at all…" Tipping her head sluggishly into my palm she locked her gaze on mine and dissolved into another bout of mystifying laughter, such that I was forced to tighten my grip or else risk losing her entirely to the floor. "Let me sing for you instead," she offered breathily, steadying in my grasp, "let me sing Marguerite, you love Marguerite. If I can't do up above at least let me sing it for you tonight—or we could try your Sophia's aria—that one, you know the one—oh, you rogue," —here she cast me a look which set my sex to an almost painful throbbing in my trousers— "did you think I hadn't read it? It's foul of course, you know as much—oh, but I'll put on the silk robe and everything, just for you, Erik—those emerald earrings, the necklace—I won't wear any of it at all!—yes, yes, you would prefer that, wouldn't you?" She swept my forearm with clumsy fingertips, smiling wryly. "Oh, you would—"
I swallowed, loudly; certainly I would. I had not yet dared to ask her to perform any piece of my own composition—least of all that Don Juan depravity—though I had caught the sneak poking about its final libretto on multiple occasions and therefore known her to have read at least through the second act, having thankfully been spared the ending. "No, my dear," I assured her, though it pained me to do so, for to hear her voice in that part had been the intention of all of this, "not tonight. The tooth must come out right away, for your own good. If you say you cannot sing with it above then you cannot do below. What kind of tutor would I be if I allowed that? Do not mourn its loss, Christine. Is a useless thing, really, and none will know it has been taken but Erik." I had begun to stroke absently at her cheek with my thumb; now I added softly, "stay still, my love, and let him have you."
Shit. " It . Have it ," I stammered, "the tooth."
She fixed a gravely theatrical eye on me, though she has never been a strong actress. "Listen, Erik, Erik," she said, "clearly, it would like to stay inside me where it's wet and hot and… very good for a tooth. It doesn't even hurt at all, see?" Wetting her lip with the tip of her tongue, she repeated in an urgent whisper, "darling, darling—Erik, listen. Let my mouth alone." Her fingertips padded the buttons of my waistcoat just above my unmistakable erection; she lowered her eyes and quickly raised them again, meeting my stare through her lashes before adding conspiratorially, "you like it as it is, my mouth. I know you do… yes, you do!" With this she fell to giggles once more.
Why must the ignorant thing behave so? I shook my head. "You will not change my mind, dear girl. The tooth will come out, as I have told you. Did you not beg me for a dentist only yesterday? Erik is your dentist. You will be ready for Marguerite when this is done, and I will hear no more of it."
At that she gave an extraordinarily vulgar moan of what might have been dismay but certainly could be mistaken for something far more appealing, as I resisted the urge to clap my hand over her mouth and shut her up; I had not anticipated that the drug would make her speak so. Instead, thoughtlessly, I let my thumb glide across her lower lip to sample the smooth ridges of her teeth against its calloused tip.
"I don't want it to hurt," she complained on my finger.
"I won't allow it," I breathed.
Now, remarkably—and entirely without my demanding it of her!—she spread her legs wide to receive me, wriggling her bottom forward on the dining table; I advanced on her, attempting impossibly both to minimize any indecent contact yet get closer at the same time. I could not yet consider that distraction; first, I had to remove her tooth.
When finally I lifted the pliers on a dry, "open, now," her tongue darted forward to childishly strike my bare palm; I barely managed to restrain the immodest sound that growled from deep within as I stumbled forward, nearly dropping bodily against her and as such only further torturing myself. On my second attempt I made a performance of gazing studiously into the open hole of her mouth when admittedly I simply hoped to be steadied, for I gravely risked giving in to temptation and had begun to greatly doubt this mad course of action. As she followed my movements with a frantic eye I was uncannily reminded of a horse that has come to slaughter; ignoring that prophetic vision, and with as much measured detachment as I could manage, I took a firmer, procedural hold of her jaw—damnable girl, to whine against me then!—and slid my thumb into her mouth, pressing the pad hard into the gum beneath her bottom teeth and curling the rest of my fingers about her chin to fasten her steady before me. Laughing throatily, she slid her tongue over my defilement.
The tooth was far simpler to extract as concerns any of this. I might have done better to sedate her fully—ah, but no, for that would involve far more temptations, and easier ones to get away with!
And then the repercussions to follow.
Shrugging away the ancient guilt which overwhelmed me then, I turned my attention to the girl beneath my hand. "Wider, Christine," I demanded, meeting her enticingly powerless stare; straining her jaw such that her lips slid back from her teeth and a web of her saliva stretched and broke in her open mouth, she obliged me readily. As I inhaled the intoxicatingly sweet chemical flavor of her hot breath, savoring its intimacy on my bare throat and exposed chin, I began to laugh as well, breathlessly and low: for in a sudden rush it had occurred to me that if I only bent toward her in the slightest our mouths would touch, and just as I had my fingers I could simply… slip my tongue inside. With her face held fast between my hands, lips defenselessly parted… I could make Christine kiss me.
And she would not stop me.
Her tongue teased curiously over my invading fingers, each slick contact summoning my hissing exhale in response; so too did the sight of the uncannily erotic corridor of her throat set my skin to bristling, as did the warm pressure of her thighs where they spread around mine. Painfully aware of how sensuously my rigid sex now met her squirming form, I had begun to sincerely doubt my ability to complete the extraction without offending her—or somewhat more alarmingly, though I admit less surprisingly, to remain a gentleman in my behavior towards her at all. Should I only grasp her rear to rub myself fully clothed against her center, so open and available to my own, I knew I could quickly find relief; another low laugh spilled from my lips as I imagined a means even more pleasurable for the both of us.
"Are you ready, love?" I breathed.
I wished she would close her eyes but she seemed determined not to; instead she held my stare even as I captured the offending tooth in the pliers and pulled. With a soft moan of pain she fell forward to steady herself against me, clutching at the back of my thighs just beneath my rear; snorting in surprise, I faltered and thrust the sharp nose of the pliers into her skin.
"Shit," I muttered, "shit, shit, " as a bead of blood formed within her cheek to erupt against my finger. Around my insertion she giggled thoughtlessly, meeting my stare with her impossibly blue eyes; holding that helpless gaze, I savored the faint, familiar warmth on my hand as a trickle of her blood slipped from her mouth and down her cheek.
The urgency of the situation having rather increased, I returned to my task with new vigor; I could no longer trust myself in such proximity for the recent state of my brain. " Now ," I managed to grunt in warning before attempting to wrench the tooth free. But that vile instrument between my legs had begun again to sing, softly, to the relentless percussion of my pulse—even as I grappled with her laughing mouth I pictured myself holding not the pliers between her lips, not these cold, lifeless pliers but my cock, as I forced my hot, hard cock into her smiling mouth, as I fucked her laughing mouth until she could not breathe for how much Erik filled her! In the eye of my mind she was choking on Erik's cock because she wanted it, the whore, she begged for it, she dripped down her thighs in need of it! For only an instant I closed my eyes and groaned her name to the vision of spending myself in her greedy mouth, my seed shimmering on her cheek just like the tears which now overflowed from her frantic eye—
With an embarrassingly demonstrative grunt I wrenched the offending tooth free of its inflamed seat to hold aloft like the dripping head of an Arthurian beast, like the child's bloody maidenhood; panting beneath me as I did the same above, she dug her fingernails into my trouser-legs and slumped her full weight on my front.
It was just another passing thought and yet it controlled me entirely as I stared into her open throat, my sex pressed to her stomach; I have never been skilled at ignoring such urges, and of late even less so. With my fingers still hooked on her teeth I slowly forced her head backwards such that her neck formed a perfectly straight line from heaving chest to chin. As she sputtered I slid from her mouth to stroke her cheek, trailing the wet pad of my thumb down the line of her straining throat to take hold of her braid as one might a marionette's string. Watching her quivering throat-nodules as she laboriously attempted to swallow her bubbling spit and blood, I traded my cold instrument from one hand to the other, then carefully placed it on the tabletop, her bloodied tooth still captured within its silvery jaws.
"One more thing, dear, quickly," I breathed, transfixed, insensible, "if you would forgive—" As if all reason had abandoned me—a sensation I am regrettably more than familiar with—and taking full advantage of the drug's convenient ability to numb the throat's instinct to retch, I tightened my grasp on her braid to ease her head back further. Nothing existed in my vision beyond the red hole before me as I slid my fingers into that living, breathing, bloody wet. Her touch crept between my thighs from behind, the nails biting as I pushed only deeper, numb to the quiet cries she gave; smothering those fascinating sounds I captured the red canal of her throat in a steadily hypnotic rhythm. Like the wolf I relished in her unconscious struggle—in her helpless gasping and the battling of her tongue with every additional finger I thrust within, and another, and now my thumb, claiming her perfect instrument, fucking it, fucking her as only Erik could as she groped for my thigh, slapping me hard, again and again and still I took her to the heel of my hand, my wrist and then more, more, more, Monster—!
The sensation of the thrashing muscle of her larynx on my fingers jogged my abandoned senses, alerting me to her alarmingly limp, convulsive weight against me, despite her needled grasp on my thighs; jolted and afraid, I tore my plunderous hand free. As soon as I released her she lurched forward, clutching white-knuckled at the table's edge to cough and spit into her lap. Without thinking I stuffed my soiled fingers into my mouth, trembling somewhat as I considered her; tasting the copper tang of her blood on my tongue I realized the vulgarity of that mindless action, and with as much self-possession as I could muster I slid my hand from between my lips. I did not care to be reprimanded for my manners tonight.
Having ceased her coughing, Christine watched me with red lips and hands, tracks of blood staining her bodice between her heaving breasts and pooling in her lap. As she worked her tongue curiously about her stained teeth, blood began again to steadily flow from the corner of her open mouth and down her chin. She sputtered my name, again laughing hoarsely into her stained palms; to this uncanny vision of her, at once foreign and familiar, though I could not in that moment reason why, I whispered, "Christine?"
Blood bubbled over her bottom lip and chin as she spluttered, laughing still, "you're perverse!"
Collecting myself, I reached for the pile of cotton rags I had earlier prepared to hastily press one into her hands. "Here, take this, ah—hold it to your mouth," I stammered, taking stock of my surroundings as if to assure myself that I was in them. I guided the cloth and her obliging fingers to her serenely smiling, bloodied lips, my own hands trembling atop hers. "Press it down, dear… yes, just like that," I added, likely more for my personal benefit than hers, "and settle down, now, Christine—Erik still has to finish—just a single stitch, only one—one quick stitch, or you'll bleed out on his dining table—"
I groped for the open decanter beside her to splash brandy on my soiled hands, heedless of where the excess liquor spilled on the carpet, then wiped them on another rag as she watched me steadily from behind her own. Deep crimson seeped from its center like a rose unfurling its fragrant petals; I wanted to press my ugly face to its bloom, to sample its heady perfume and pluck the fresh bud. Her tongue trailed that of her mouth I could see behind the rag, reddening as it captured her overflowing blood; without taking my eyes from her I swiped again for the decanter to swallow a loud, ungentlemanly mouthful.
"No pain at all, Christine… just as I promised," I told her softly, wiping the flat of my hand across my lips and replacing the bottle on the table with only slightly more care than I had managed to take it up with. With sudden shame I noticed the apparent stain on my trousers, that precursor to what I could so easily bring forth should I only betray her for an instant; interestingly, as she would normally chastise me for such a display, now she appeared to think nothing of it. Nor of my fingers having just been in her throat, for that matter. Absently thumbing the slick wool, I imagined what her complaisance in this might further entail.
"I feel strange," she admitted after several moments, frowning, "I feel very strange." Behind her bloodied rag I could see her tongue poking about against the side of her cheek, distorting and stretching the flesh outward as if it were filled with something—
"Stop touching it," I snapped at her, balling the pile of rags in my fists and thrusting the crushed mass to the ground. Staring at the rags at my feet, the slick bulge of my desire a distortion down the front of me, I added quietly, and much more composedly, though I am not entirely sure what I meant by saying it, "the pain will surely come later, Christine."
There was blood in her yellow hair. Blood that had charted the curve of her cheek and buried itself in the feathery tendrils about her ears, leaving dark trails on her skin like long, deep cuts from mouth to throat; considering this, I murmured, "Erik could give you some more, Christine. That pleasant, numbing gas… isn't the gas clever? So nothing will hurt... if you would like."
She nodded with enthusiasm. For having begun the evening in such ardent opposition she had truly come to embrace the bag; as soon as I unwound the string around its neck she pressed her mouth to its throat and shut her eyes to inhale deeply, her breasts pushing against her neckline with every breath.
"Finish the whole thing, love," I murmured, tipping the bag to her lips with my fingertips as my erection throbbed explicitly between us. "Yes… that's very good, Christine."
See, the unfortunate thing was this. It had already occurred to me that in this particular circumstance, Christine (normally more than combative regarding the subject) would most certainly not refuse any other parts of me, should I so desire them—God forgive me, but she might even give herself quite uncharacteristically pliantly, if I could only manage to form the damned words to convince her, now, and then more importantly, those to explain myself later—and yet I could not deny that she was not at all herself. As it were, I knew already that the perpetually-somber, joyless child would feel foolish enough regarding her silliness in my presence at all—because assuredly, she would remember it all tomorrow, and possibly even within a few hours, if not less. If I allowed her, under the influence of the gas, to behave in an altogether un-Christine sort of way, she would quite possibly never recover from it—or forgive Erik for whatever he might do as a result.
Unfortunately, the drug was not that powerful. And yet, it was not without its benefits.
No pain, for one, at least temporarily. Heightened physical sensation, and with it, a delightful abandonment of one’s inhibitions. Uncharacteristic affability. And most enticingly, a certain submissive willingness to obey commands, very much unlike her natural inclinations, and very much by myself prized—and the bit about the gag reflex had certainly proven true.
I took another sip of the brandy as she continued to watch me dreamily from behind her soiled rag; catching her stare I wagged the bottle at her in a preoccupied gesture. A steady stream of blood had escaped the capture of her cloth, charted her chin and eased its way down her throat to snare on her collarbone, tracing its way between her breasts; following its path with a hungry eye I thrust my thumb into the mouth of the decanter.
But how could I be assured that her behavior was not her own? Lowered inhibitions, surely… but why should that mean her actions are false? Could they not reflect a deeper truth, one which she is so reticent, so afraid to speak aloud, to act on? Is it not well understood that those in their cups are far more themselves than they might otherwise be, sober?
My Christine wore a mask just as surely as her Erik did.
It was true that from the very start of my courtship I had proposed marriage, and all that accompanies the tradition. Though I had convinced her to wear my ring, I knew she would not consider me her husband until we had said the words in front of a priest, or at the very least, consummated the thing; but despite my best efforts to do precisely that, she had, quite unjustly, refused all of my overtures.
That she would not admit her love for Erik was entirely the other one's fault. The blond boy, the useless usurper, that pretty de Chagny shit whom she spent all her free hours fawning over—she desired his handsome, youthful shape just as much as he wanted hers. Her apparent lust for the boy aggravated me like nothing else, and my impatience with the object of her affection, unavoidably, was often abominably projected upon the girl herself, to my great shame after. Did she not understand that if she only cast him from her heart, I could have no reason to be angry with her?
The stupid child frustrated me to no end.
Just like his useless brother before him, the Vicomte was only another rich, titled patron in search of a courtesan; with his affection, he condemned her to a fate which I would not permit her to descend to. Even whores of highest standing are only that: whores. I refused to allow another innocent girl in my care to be brought so low; from there, the only way forward is down. That boy would use Christine and tire of her, or perhaps worse, put her up as his mistress as soon as he found his Vicomtess, permanently destroying her reputation and prospects in one. I could smell his perverse obsession with her hymen from five cellars below, for claiming it is the hobby of men such as he—I knew it fascinated him as much as I, and yet, he was not the man who deserved it! Even if her brainless regard had surely made him think the thing was his… But if I took it away from him, if I claimed it, I could honor my oath to the girl and let him live—for what more could keep him? Let him open her legs and see the prize has already been won by another; let him spread her wide and despise her for a whore. Ah, but see, I ought to kill him just for looking, and she would not thank me for that, even if she should.
My gaze sought the silver tray of tools beside her bottom, that host of fearsome dental implements that I had hardly any reason for owning at all beyond a morbid curiosity and a penchant for token-keeping, which were now somewhat disordered by her constant fidgeting. As I took another long swig from the decanter, an unwelcome thought occurred to me; yes—such a simple solution, I wondered how it had possibly escaped me before—and despite the odd nauseation the fancy inspired, what I now considered seemed unavoidably necessary… it is not as if she wouldn't fully recover, and Erik's practiced hands could be so careful, so gentle with her, where others less loving than he would not…
I had made her a promise, of course, and yet, the means by which I imagined had not been a stipulation of the official arrangement; I cared little for the child's virginity myself, only for the absence of it. Could I not kill two birds with one brutal stone? And was it not in her own best interest to save her from him ? To save her from herself, and the inevitable ruin that would follow any further indiscretion between them, of which she seemed so eager to engage? When the thing was done, see, I could—and this, I admit, appealed to me tremendously—I could tell the boy what I had taken in a note signed in her virgins-blood!
The decanter toppled onto its side on the table with the force of my release, its scant remains gently sloshing about as the bottle made a slow roll across the tabletop. Christine tipped her head, smiled mildly behind her bag and stared up at me through her yellow eyelashes. I groped for the small silver knife from my kit to stroke its sleek metal handle in my palm.
Just a cut, a single cut. Over in an instant of ecstatic pain. Like pulling a tooth.
A cut, a cut. It is a beautiful thing, after all, to bleed. Only the living bleed. And Christine was so full of life.
I watched her throw her head back to suck at her bag, a soft whine of pleasure spilling from her lips; one delicate hand slid lazily over her breast to push between her thighs, then slip past her hip to the tabletop. Turning the blade in my palm I pictured that virgin cunt beneath her petticoats, saw her legs spread wide and her sex split from asshole to tip, her blonde curls soaked in dark, red, blood; what would Christine look like here on my tabletop, ruined, open, made ready for me—
In my mind's eye the vision came to me unwilling; one slice, as I held her down, only one, and nothing more. One scream, and then it would be over; the gas would take care of the rest. After, what use would he have for her? She would heal, even if it took years, but she would heal—and then she would be mine.
And what of the Vicomte?
He could ask his brother for a whore.
The madness that had been creeping on my consciousness for weeks infected me fully, and yet I saw my path forward with perfect clarity; because the cut would not be necessary, would it? Not knowing what I knew, not seeing as I have seen. There were kinder methods than the blade.
The thing must be done one way or another; she knew this as much as I. Despite her general, oft-stated unwillingness, she would surely prefer Erik to the knife, would she not? As I aimed to marry her anyway, where, truly, was the harm in a premature copulation? And she would certainly be marrying me. If anything objectionable should come of our union, such could only serve to ensure her glad reception of my offer. That , though never a great personal desire of mine—but not heretofore unimaginable, as I have been careless in the past—may even prove to be for the best, in this instance.
And what if I cut her before I fucked her? No, no—Erik must only be good to her, sweet to her, and so she will thank him for it when it is done…
As the righteousness of my intentions became perfectly clear, I breathed, "do you trust your Erik, Christine?"
Grasping the bag just before her bloodied lips with both hands, she gave a long, low sigh and nodded lazily. I expect beneath the straining blue silk of her bodice, her nipples were hard as rocks; I could nearly smell her cunt already dripping through her drawers.
I stroked my palm heavily over her thigh. "Will you do as Erik says?"
She stared at me through half-closed eyes for several moments, then frowned, though a soft laugh still exited her lips with the words, "I am sure, dear, that whatever it is that Erik says, I will not be offered a choice!"
She incited me intentionally! I captured her fine wrist in the same hand that grasped the blade and wrenched her close, such that the bag fell from her startled fingers and flopped to the table. "Vicious little witch," I growled, meeting her gaze, "you will learn not to chastise me, for all that I have done for you! You know what Erik is owed!"
With a shove I released her; unsettled, she toppled onto her back, giggling madly and rolling about as she clutched herself around her stomach and kicked her feet out at either side of my thighs. Her scrambling fingers touched on the fallen airbag with an utterance of pleasant surprise; taking it up again with both hands, she brought it to her mouth like a babe on a bottle.
I had groped for my groin just as soon as she had landed, stroking urgently at my sex through my trousers even as I clutched the knife in the same hand; in that senseless moment I imagine I did intend to take her right then, one way or another—admittedly, how jumbled these mad passions have the tendency to get in my head is the sort of thing I prefer not to concede even to myself. Laughing quietly, she twisted up to her hip to lean on a splayed hand with her other still clutching the limp bag to her lips, then gradually brought herself again to sitting before me; glaring as she suckled, I still could not determine whether I desired more to fuck her or to kill her.
I must not kill her.
Repulsed by its meaningful weight in my palm, I dropped the knife on the table and wiped my sweating palms down my trouser-fronts as Christine stared down her nose at me, the spent gas-bag dangling from a rigidly extended arm; with a snort I snatched it from her and flung it to the ground, senseless of its landing as once more she had begun to stroke lazily at her breasts with the backs of her fingers, arching her spine into that provocative caress. Blindly I took up the tools with which to complete her surgery; my fingers trembled as I threaded the long, silver needle.
"I know what you are thinking, you dog," she said softly, glancing up at me through her eyelashes. Shifting slightly on the tabletop, she inched her skirts up her thighs to reveal her stockings beneath. "What is my horrid pet to do?"
"Do not test me," I hissed between occluded teeth; she laughed.
Why must she make it so easy? Was it my fault she failed to control herself under the barest influence of a medical drug? Was it my fault that her buried desire for me could not be repressed; that she shuddered in such an amatory way whenever I now touched her? I wanted to marry her, impure or otherwise. What other man would offer her this? By God, Erik should be canonized, not reviled for the thought! He was the only one doing right by her!
"Be still, dear," I said roughly, attempting to collect myself, as I still needed to stitch her up, "and open your mouth wide for me." This time she obeyed with no more inelegant retorts, pleasing me and as such, steadying my hand. I admit that as I readied myself to make the final stitch I pressed far closer than necessary, my erection hard on her thigh—but as I was currently, quite vehemently debating simply climbing onto the table and ravishing her as she bled out beneath me, this harmless violation seemed a sensible compromise.
Clutching at the table's edge and giggling, Christine darted forward to play her girlish game once more and lick at the black leather of my mask, such that I could taste the metallic sweetness of her open mouth and the heady chemical scent of her breath that lingered after. I surprised myself by laughing hoarsely into her face; utterly unprepared for this blatant invitation, I huffed a loud exhale and captured her jaw much too roughly. I am sure she thought me mad, frozen as I now was before her with the needle held aloft in a tremulous hand and my nails digging into her cheek. She wet her bottom lip with a long drag of her tongue and met my stare; a ragged groan hissed through my teeth.
No, there could be no doubt. Surely she was asking it of me!
"Just do it already!" she cried thickly, laughing into my hold. Her hands scrambled in her lap, stretching and twisting her soiled skirts as if to beg me to tear them from her, spread her legs and claim her virgin cunt beneath; I fought the maddening urge to shove my hand between her thighs.
"Not until you settle down!" I shouted far louder than intended; I did not like to see the pout my tone cast on her expression, but in truth I was so consumed with the idea of forcing myself upon her that I am surprised I managed any kind of language at all. How quickly, how eagerly I might have devolved into carnality then!
Ah, but first the god-damned tooth. One task at a time—Erik is nothing if not responsible.
"You will not move again until I tell you so," I hissed as she shuddered a sigh on my fingers. I had begun to roll my hips against her, my ready length violating her stomach, nearly relieving myself on that entrancing sensation alone; as if she knew what was coming next, she dug her nails into my thighs.
"Yes, Erik," she burbled into my hold, "what do I do?"
"Swallow," I told her.
As I pushed the needle through her broken flesh, she groaned and collapsed upon me; "put your hands between my legs," I hissed, senseless, and she did. Her palms slid up my inner thighs and beneath my rear, her reticent caresses reaching everywhere but where I needed, everywhere but where I knew she knew I needed—
"Touch it, you damned child!" I roared into her open mouth, violently thrusting myself into her scrabbling hands, as fresh red spattered about my fingers and spilled from the corners of her straining mouth; beneath my gnashing teeth she whimpered and shut her eyes tight as I worked the needle through and through again.
And then her hands were padding blindly between our bodies, prodding my shaft as I groaned out her name—for who am I not to surrender to such seduction, to deny a request as sweet as this! With complete, ruinous abandon I pressed myself bodily into her touch and felt her grip tighten on me, as helplessly panting above her I forced my shaking fingers to tie up and trim the final stitch.
The silver needle fell from my grasp and to the floor. With both hands she worked my erection over my trousers, rubbing and squeezing the animal parts of me like the slut I have always known that she was, like the damned Devil herself, Heaven help me, how had I resisted fucking her for so long? Laughing wildly, I grabbed her face with both hands and met her pleading, wide-eyed stare, then sucked in a shuddering breath and thrust my tongue into her mouth.
Her arms fell slack between us as I twisted my fingers in her hair, releasing the golden rope of her braid as I directed her head against mine to overwhelm her fine lips with my wasted ones. With soft, tender whimpers she rewarded me now, rewarded my prudence, my patience—for I have been more than patient—as I chased her tongue with mine and tasted the backs of her coppery teeth. I pulled her from me just enough to drag my tongue over the blood on her skin, licking her cheek and her chin and the dip beneath her pointed nose; directing her head to the side revealed her white throat to my lips and I took it too, groaning and biting and suckling as I followed the same path of the red I had so envied, washing her clean with my spit.
So far she had denied me nothing, though she whined and trembled beneath my lips, pinching her lashes together when I tasted the crepe flesh of the lid; surrendering completely to my handling of her, she lurched and swayed beneath my hands as if she were only a doll or a dead thing.
But Christine lived, and tasted like it.
Soon she began to titter above me. "Erik, Erik," she whispered, "what are you doing?"
"Kissing you, my love," I told her throat as I pulled the tender skin between my teeth, "finally, finally kissing you—"
As I sampled her flesh I bound her closer to me, grasping her braid to direct her. Straining her bloodied gown across her legs, I pushed myself further between her spread thighs, my sex pressing urgently into the soft warmth of her core still hidden from me beneath the mound of ruined fabric. I stared at the child and she at me; then with a crude groan I thrust myself against her in a clothed mockery of that which I so desperately needed but must not do, had to do to protect her—!
Bound to my chest I humped her rapidly, my panting breaths shuddering her yellow hair where it clung to her sweating forehead. To the rustlings and whispers of the blue silk between us I gripped her beneath her ass to pull her closer; silent, unresisting, her body moved limply on mine, pliant to the intentions of my hands. Still I pounded my sex to her heat until I could nearly penetrate her through the wrinkled mass of her skirts; was this not enough?
It was almost enough. It should have been enough.
I kissed her again. Quickly my mindless hands pushed the layers of fabric between us aside, exposing her sheer cotton drawers; as soon as I sensed her on my shaft between the split of her underthings I groped for my fly, with complete abandon preparing to free myself and plunge inside. When she realized what I did she wriggled fitfully against me, still clumsily intoxicated, her scrambling hands sliding up my stomach to push weakly at my chest; it would be so easy, I knew, as a voice in my head shouted above all the rest, why resist when she will not fight you? Why resist when you know the truth?
I shoved her from me with a groan, forcing her backward such that there was just enough space between us that my cock was no longer in contact; she hissed a long, shuddering sigh as soon as she had broken from me, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand then replacing her skirts over her knees.
"Your promise?" she whispered.
"And have I broken it?" I spat.
Unable to stop what I had begun but unwilling to continue and risk what I could not repair I groped blindly next to her rump, scattering what silver instruments still remained in their tray to scramble for the sharpest that my mad furor could identify. Determining it as such by the wet, stinging gash it opened on my fingertip, I slid my free hand beneath her bodice to draw the fabric taut. She gasped as I brought the bloodied knife to her chest but did not struggle against me; I ignored the terror apparent in the rapidity of her heartbeat and the scarlet flush ignited on her skin.
With the blade I rent the ruined dress apart from the velvet trim just at the midpoint of her small breasts, slashing and tearing at the layers of slippery, blood-spattered blue silk, rigid cotton coutil and warm batiste compressed on her sweating skin; she submitted limply to my grunting ministrations as I tore her clothing from her, revealing all her hidden hurts beneath, those black-blue and green stains on her breastbone, her ribs, no—I did not see them—and I would be better now, would I not? Instead I followed the ragged, fraying split of the shredded garment with my eager mouth to her bare skin, drunk on the intimate musk of her hot flesh and worn underthings, thrusting my tongue into the passage between her petite breasts, drinking every droplet of her nervous sweat; soon I had exposed the entire front of her and sampled it all between my hungry lips.
Absently I slid my palm over my straining cock as I took in the effects of my frenzy. Her skirts remained intact, though stained and disheveled about her spread legs and mine, but from heaving breast to narrow waist her gown hung entirely open, split apart along with everything else she had on beneath in a ragged line down the center over her bare chest, still fitting snugly just as it had moments previous across her back and down her arms to the elbows. Her large nipples tightened to firm points as I studied the steady rise and fall of her rapid breaths. The strange expression she wore as she sought my eye served only to sweeten the effect of it all, but in my consuming determination I ignored her; my attention was fixed on her breasts. The girl really does have remarkable tits.
Forcing myself between her legs such that I could see the naked muscles of her abdomen trembling with the strain of keeping herself upright, I took a breast in each hand to manipulate as if each were not attached to the body of a living girl, mindlessly squeezing and slapping the flesh; sighing softly and without resistance she allowed my groping hands. When I pulled a nipple between my teeth she gasped as her elbow gave out beneath her, but my arm was there to catch her; sitting upright in my embrace, she let her yellow head drop back, let fall her arms to drape limply at her sides, as indifferent to the quiet words she murmured above me, I ate at her—and still she did not scream.
Instead she slid her hot fingers between my parted thighs to stroke me, her knowing touch masturbating my shaft above my trousers and fingering the fastenings of my fly; soon her small hand crept beneath my waistband to stroke lazily at my bare erection with a hot palm. Her eyes were closed, her body limp as I submit to her completely, thrusting my hips into her hand and throwing my head back to groan her name. Soon she attempted to slip my cock from my trousers; to appease this desire I folded over her, climbing one knee to the tabletop aside her hip. As she stroked me I spread her legs wide, shoving her many skirts out of the way, intending in my ecstacy to enter her as soon as she had exposed me; when she realized what I did I felt her startle and slip her hand from my trousers, though she did not struggle or try to escape. In her absence the head of my cock protruded eagerly from my waistband, clear fluid glistening on its red tip; panting lips open, she slid her tongue slowly across her top teeth, then leaned back on her elbows, silently expectant.
Holding her gaze I spread her legs wide; without closing them she eyed me curiously as I began on my fly.
"You are not going to stop me?" I breathed.
She frowned; my fingers stilled on the fasteners.
"Why are you not stopping me?"
Nothing.
"Damn it," I spat, "say something!"
She giggled breathily, cheeks flushed, and dug her teeth into her lip.
"Please," I panted, "please. Say something, Christine."
For an eternity I stared at her, my pleading gaze searching her own; and then as my head sagged low in exhausted shame I shuddered a long exhale past the cleft in my lip, abandoning my fly to clutch the edge of the table with both hands. "Close your damned legs," I hissed, finally, again raising my chin to glance shyly up at her, even as I worked a knuckle into my temple, "just—close them, my love."
As she pressed her knees together she smiled and frowned at once; I could not determine the meaning of such an expression. But while I studied her she reached for me, taking my face gently in both hands to touch her hot forehead to my leather one; I met her gaze with a sigh, relaxing in her embrace, then brushed my lips over hers to whisper against the skin, "I love you, Christine."
And then she kissed me.
Her mouth met mine delicately, nervously. This kiss was tender, where the other was violent; I accepted it numbly with closed lips, afraid to respond or frighten her from me. When she pulled away the sting of tears threatened my eyes behind the mask. I could not break her stare even as the water began heavily to fall.
"You love me?" I breathed.
Still she said nothing.
What I did next was automatic; in lust, in gratitude, it makes no difference. My arms which hung senselessly at my sides suddenly found purpose, sliding up her thighs over her skirts, shifting her unresisting body against me just enough that I could access the crux of her. Despite the silks between us I could feel the heat of her sex on the tips of my fingers as I sought her out and began to stroke; willing beneath my avid touch she curled her hands about the table's edge and worked her writhing hips into my caresses. I groaned as I felt the pressure of her hand climbing my spine to my skull, of her forehead pressed to mine; and then in climax she cried out against my cheek, one word, one word but within it all of them, " yes —!"
Once more her lips closed over mine, desperate and wanting; her kiss swallowed my breath, her tongue stole my soul. In that mad, breathless instant nothing could have stopped me from doing exactly as I did; breaking from her to groan her name I floundered beneath her skirts to find her naked, wet heat and slid one finger inside until my knuckles met the skin.
And so it was done.
My invasion must have jolted her; or was it the odd growling laugh I senselessly uttered as I thrust myself inside, again, again, and once more after that, fucking her virgin cunt with one finger? Around us had echoed a feral din and I realized the sound was borne of my own panting mouth, a symphony of things unsaid which she must have seen the primal meaning of in the depths of my stare; with a gasp she freed her hips from my grasp and stared at me, her little tits heaving on her glistening chest. Shouting a string of exotic expletives I tore my finger from her, then brought my fist down on the table with a crash that rattled all the silvery instruments and sent several clattering to the floor.
Her gaze slid down her front to land between her legs, splayed and motionless beneath her skirts. "But you swore," she breathed, eyes wide and staring.
"This is on you!" I roared at her, gripping the tabletop beside either of her thighs with both hands, still feeling the heat of her on my fingers, the scent of her filling my hole of a nose, "you are a vile slut and you know it, to incense Erik so! See what you have made him do?" I glared at her bloody face, red cheeked, glassy-eyed and panting, until thoughtlessly, with all the fire of my blood throbbing between my shaking legs, I struck her hard across the mouth.
As she recoiled I groaned in anguish, chest heaving wildly; when her startled gaze returned to mine I groped for my sex to stroke over my trousers. For some moments she only stared as cock in hand, I silently begged her to cry or scream or tell me no, to laugh, call me inhuman, a monster, obscene—as she herself has so often berated me, and so many others had done long before her—to fight me or hit me or kick me or barricade herself in her room for me to sate my repulsive desire in violence instead of lust as I threatened to break down her door—
Though I have a way of getting through doors.
Still she said nothing. I hated her for it; I hated that it was I who had to make the decision, that the stupid child had given me this opportunity to betray her, and that I had so easily surrendered to it. I hated the steady way she held my eye even as blood began again to collect in the corner of her mouth and spill down her chin, and most of all, I hated the sad smile she plastered to her face, that lie, that pretense we both knew was as much a mask as mine.
"You maddening woman," I spat to her relentless silence, "make up your damned mind!"
With a phlegmatic snort I lunged again for the toppled brandy as it rolled about beside her hip. Downing all that was left in a sloshing gulp, I shook the empty decanter before me as the bitter remains spilled down my chin. "Oh—you are some bitch, Christine—you wanted me to, and you know it!" In another violence I flung the bottle off somewhere, continuing to mutter through gnashed teeth, "damn you, you stupid child… damn you for this!"
Because the final barrier had fallen. She knew as well as I did: there was nothing preventing me now.
A long time ago, someone very dear to me spoke these words that I have carried with me ever since: once it has been done, what matters a second time? A hundredth?
And this was that first.
I believe I managed another curse or a sorry or a please—or more likely—a terribly wretched sob, but then my traitorous fingers were tearing blindly at the ivory buttons of my trousers, as pressed close against me she shifted on the table to steady herself on her palms. Watching me, she licked the blood from her lip; I faltered in my half-dressed fury as ugly sounds, senseless, meaningless noise spilled from my open mouth. Glaring at her I struck myself on the tender inside of my leg; with a second hit I smashed my scrotum and stumbled, groaning, catching myself on the table beside her thigh.
"Forgive me," I huffed, "please forgive me—I cannot tell any longer—you wanted it, did you not? You wanted it. Tell me you did. Tell Erik, just once, that you wanted it, Christine. Please."
A moment passed in thunderous silence until I managed to bring myself again to standing, steadying my breath to the distracting pulse of this new ache, and returned my hands to my groin. I met her unrevealing eye as she met mine; then on a long exhale I slowly unfastened the remaining buttons of my fly, and carefully freed my erection as she lowered her gaze to regard it.
"Christine," I pleaded, as the thing bobbed eagerly between us, "what do I do?"
It was never meant to go like this. I had always planned to marry her from nearly the first moment I had laid eyes on her—for better or worse—to marry her and then naturally, to fuck her straightaway. In the Madeleine perhaps, before the priest, if we even made it down the aisle. I would have fucked her with my mask on fire if that was how she would take me, that is how desperately I wanted her; I could have been convinced, easily, to slaughter every man in Paris if she might have let me plug her for it, though I highly doubt she would have gone for that!
I wanted her to want me. To love me. I had tried so hard to make her see. It was only the boy's fault she did not.
And this face behind my mask.
I knew that she would never want me as I did her. In all my life, none truly had before her, and I would not delude myself into thinking that might change now; she need only want me just a little. Still I knew what was best for her, and what was best for her, was me. I would save her from the life that boy would surely push her into, the life of a whore, a mistress, a slave! I would bring her fame and glory and triumph—protect her from him, and damn her, for also, from me—if she would only do as I asked, she would be safe! If I only had her, then I would not need her—and I would not hurt her. No more bruises, no more teeth. I knew it must be so. Could she not see? It could be so easy, between us, if she would—
It was the only way to save her, and myself, and her from myself.
She need only love me just a little.
"Please," I heard myself appealing to her unbearable silence, "please, Christine. Just say it. I have only ever needed to hear you say it."
She sat rigidly before me, hardly breathing for the stillness of her naked chest. Just before her I stood with my cock in my hand as I offered it to her in shame, in desperation—for what felt like an eternity I glared at her, as the entirety of my pulse throbbed untenably in my fist, and all the rest of me was numb from lack of blood.
I was still waiting for her to scream.
"Erik," she started, finally, as every cell in my body thrummed in anticipation of her next words, as if I were only a body about to be pushed over a precipice—pushed over, or spared— "Erik—darling—do not be angry, but I do not feel quite right… I do not think I can sing tonight. Please. Do not be angry. May I go to bed?"
"To bed?" I growled, returning to myself much as a flood breaks a dam, "to bed, little Christine?" Mindlessly pumping my needful sex I advanced towards her. "So that you might dream of fucking your darling Vicomte instead of your Erik, after he has done all of the preparation ?"
She had begun to pad at her bottom lip with the tips of her fingers; now she frowned to find them coated in blood, as squinting, she brought the hands before her eyes. "Raoul?" she whispered, still furrowing her brow at her fingertips; watching this, hearing that , I pumped myself roughly in my fist.
"The thing is done, Christine," I said, "you know what must follow."
"Oh," she murmured, staring down her naked front. She wiped her red fingers across the tabletop. "I see."
"Do as I say," I promised, "and nothing will hurt."
Her blue gaze sought mine. She was beautiful and I deserved her, she would say my name and no one else's, she would never say his again! She was mine! Was she not?
She would be.
"Yes, now—open your legs," I hissed as she sighed and spread them for me as far as they could go, then flattened her palms to her trembling knees. "Show me," I said, pulling my length between us, "take up your skirts, Christine—now—you know what Erik wants to see."
Still she whispered to me, "I could sing, after all, I can—wouldn't you prefer me to sing?" which served only to incense me further.
"No more games!" I roared, " now! "
"But only—?" she panted, mouth hanging open, brow deeply furrowed. She reached out to me, her open palm only inches from my naked sex. "Should I—"
I shook my head, unable to meet her eye. "Skirts, Christine."
"Later, perhaps—"
"Pull them up or I will tear them from you!" I shouted, thoroughly abandoned to my insanity—for now as she slowly pulled her skirts up about her hips, balling the mass of fabric around her waist and under her rear, preparing to take me inside of her, actually inside of her —I desired only to wrap my fingers about her trembling throat, to kiss her and beat her as I pounded deep inside of her—to choke her, hurt her, cut her, kill her—no, not kill, not kill—
I was fairly certain I could resist further violence if I only took her quickly.
Very quickly. Before me she was nearly bare, tucking away her skirts about her hips such that I could clearly see her thigh above her stocking ribbons and the white cotton of her pantalettes above them. With my cock in one hand I groped for her leg with the other, capturing it about that strip of bare flesh and wrenching her towards me such that her palms slid out from underneath her and she collapsed bodily onto the tabletop with a cry. Still she held her skirts up even as she writhed on her back against the wood; they fanned out around her as I dragged her ever closer, until her bottom hung off the table's edge and I could see the closed mouth of her cunt between the split of her drawers. As I stared at her open beneath me I spat into my hand and rubbed the fluid over my ready shaft; then, grabbing the back of her upper thigh and yanking her close, I shoved the slick head of my cock inside her.
" Fuck," I heard myself utter.
She was pleasantly slick, surprisingly so, though as I attempted to fuck her there at the table's edge I felt her body resist me; I found I could not easily push my full length inside. I opened my eyes, having closed them upon sampling the unbelievable tightness of this virgin on the tip of me, drunk on the sensation that was so much more exciting than any amount of brandy, and drunker still on my own vicious abandon to the task. She would not look up at me, but had raised her dangling feet—one still in its slipper and stocking, the other tantalizingly underdressed—to push against my stomach to prevent my entering her fully, her scrambling fingers wound up in the blue of her skirts, attempting to cover herself and close her legs even with me already inside, little tits bouncing on her chest with her efforts. She squeezed her eyelids tightly shut as I attempted to push on, her shallow breath hissing loudly from between her parted lips; but I remembered the taste of her tongue chasing mine, I remembered her whispers in my ear as I took her on my finger and I knew, I knew that no matter how much she fought me, no matter how many tears she would spill tomorrow, she wanted whatever I did to her now.
She wanted it all along.
"Open your eyes," I demanded as I caught her behind one knee to yank the leg up against my chest, its foot flailing at my shoulder; obliging me, she watched wide-eyed and without blinking as I peeled her toes from my front to sling the other around my waist. Her anxious brow furrowed only deeper when I captured her beneath her skirts and about her rear, taking a moment to sample that pliant flesh on my fingertips; kneading her there, I realized it was likely that no one in her life had fully explained what I now inescapably intended to do to her, and felt a sudden parental need to warn her.
Erik had been another father to the girl, after all.
"How is your tooth, Christine?" I asked her, impressed at the medical indifference with which I managed the words as I held her rigid form almost-skewered upon me. I will admit it took a great deal of my strength not to simply finish in what depth of her I had so far entered, but alas, I needed to claim her entirely, and so I would. Besides, my nerves were getting the better of me, and I could benefit from the distraction. "Do you feel any pain?"
"No," she said quietly, her gaze evasive as it darted past mine and into the surrounding darkness, "I do not feel much of anything at all." She swirled her tongue in her mouth, its tip flicking at the blood gathered in the corners; at her side I noticed a shallow pool of reddish saliva as if she had spit or unwittingly drooled it.
I pressed my lips to the inside of one straining knee. "The drug is likely wearing off," I murmured through another kiss, "it does not last for long." Caressing the length of the leg pinned to my front I rolled away the stocking, suckling the newly-bare flesh as the silk gathered around her ankle, then slid my hand back down again to grip her tightly beneath her rear. "Erik will do this quickly, and—he will not hurt you, child, I promise. It will be all right, I swear it. I know that you are—nervous. But you will be glad that it is done, Christine… you will see."
"Oh," she breathed. I felt her leg tense around my waist.
Then, tightening my slipping grasp, for my palms were soaked with sweat, I promised, "I love you."
She sucked in a breath as I thrust myself fully within her, groaning obscenely through my teeth when she had taken it all; pulling her hips onto mine I felt the release on the drill of my cockhead as I broke through that final barrier of her girlhood. Upon my full entry she bucked from the tabletop with an anguished cry, her frail body tensing around my violation; I remained still inside for a moment as I tried to prevent my immediate climax and she panted in recovery, again flat to her back with her slim thighs trembling weightlessly against my sides.
As I slid from her my shaft was slick with blood.
She fixed her gaze to the ceiling as I silently pushed inside once more; despite my whispering her name in summons she would not meet my stare. Arms slack on my tabletop, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth and into her ear, she said nothing, taking my every thrust in silence, even as I began to steadily fuck her; with every filling, each deeper, more careless than the last, she winced and bit her lip, her little tits bouncing beneath the torn remains of her bodice. Blood collected between us, lazily dripping from the edge of the table to the carpet beneath, some spattering instead on my trouser-fronts or the toe of my shoe; a shudder of pleasure built in me as I released her hip to brush the join of our bodies, smearing her maidenhead across her inner thigh with the tip of my thumb.
"Christine," I breathed in awe of her, "beautiful Christine."
Despite my efforts at prolongment I anticipated a rapid finish, and already I felt that familiar ecstasy building within me as with a groan I folded over her to bind her wrists. Pinned to the table and with nowhere else to writhe about, she began to arch her back even as she clearly resisted it; teeth fixed in a red grimace, she turned her head and pinched her eyelids shut as I, grunting with each eager thrust, continued in her surgery.
The table shifted beneath us in a grating clamor on the slab floors, erratically sliding out from under me and disordering the dining chairs in the process. I could sense her body's resistance to me—she was not enjoying herself, but that I might have expected, and would certainly remedy in time—and as I pushed inside her she moved fitfully on the table despite my hold, jerking about and whimpering softly. I freed her arms to take her around the waist and shove her harder upon me, in the insanity of lust forgetting to treat her gently; with every vicious landing, she soon cried out behind her teeth. A chair clattered to the floor, the pile of rags toppled over the side; her arms flailed clumsily about her, one scrabbling on the tabletop as the other clung tightly to its edge.
"Fuck," I hissed again, for I could not believe what I did, or that the woman impaled beneath me was truly this one, "fuck, Christine—fuck—"
Blood began to slip through the spaces between her gnashed teeth and pool at the corners of her mouth such that when she finally opened wide to cry for me, she painted her chin and cheeks red. And then there was blood in her nostrils and flooding her eyes, blood spilling into the holes of her ears and staining her yellow hair, blood coating her sex and the front of my shirt, blood at the join of our flesh as I took her—blood, red blood unfurling beneath her like felled wings, like my own ruined reflection in an endless hall of mirrors, blood that bound this child to me—blood, red blood, as proof that the child was no longer a child, but my wife, and my wife was mine, finally mine, completely mine—
Laughing madly I pushed into her harder, faster, yanking her slack body up against me to press her tits to my chest, enfolding her in my embrace; freed, she flung her arms clumsily about my shoulders. Clasping her bottom beneath her tangle of skirts I drove her unresisting body onto mine as her legs flailed at my sides and she chanted into my ear, her whispers meaningless in my madness; dragging my slick palms up her sides to pin her arms at the biceps, I pulled my tongue across her throat, chin and teeth. Mouth open against her own, I spent myself within her—in spasming ecstasy, in hot, throbbing release I filled her, each convulsion thrusting me deeper even as I shook her with the effort. Sweat stank from my damp shirtsleeves as groaning raggedly, I wrapped my arms around her, hugging my wife , my wife, my loving, living wife tightly as her bare legs dangled at either side of my hips and I kissed her hard on her willing red mouth—and then gasping, we broke apart and I stared into her laughing eye, laughing even though she was silent, laughing as the blood filled my living room and splashed around my feet—laughing even as she whispered, so close against me that I could feel her hot breath on my lips, " Puppy, Puppy, what have you done— "
A/N: The exploration of consent, both sexual and otherwise, is a major thematic element of this story—as we know, the source material lends itself exceedingly well to the discussion. What, truly, constitutes consent? Where precisely do we draw the line, in relation to our own behaviors, our beliefs, and those the relationship is defined by? Who determines consent, and how does one know it has been granted? Sometimes consent is inarguably given. Sometimes it is inarguably refused. Sometimes consent is granted even when it is not wanted, sometimes it is denied when it is desired. This story will often explore the gray areas in-between, so those with rigid ideas around consent and sexuality may find themselves upset or triggered by it. My hope is that my readers will keep an open and empathetic mind regarding all elements of this story, but most of all, remember that it is simply that—a story. None of what you will read is fact, or is representative of my values or beliefs as the author. This is an exploration of humanity, sexuality, madness, and most of all, love.
And it is absolutely not going to go the way you think. ;)
*Extensive edits to the text have been made since the original date of publication, the latest being this massive Summer 2023 rewrite. Miss an old version? Message me!
Thank you for reading. If you read until the end of the chapter, please leave a comment or review and let me know what you think, especially if you are reading the new version! Comments of all sorts are very much appreciated, at any time, and keep me publishing!
- Cat