Page 39 of Angel's Mask
Something darkened in her eyes at the mention of surrender, and Erik watched as her breath grew deliberate and slow.
“Will you let me give you that again? Please?” She was on her knees before him, Erik realized; like a penitent at the feet of a saint, begging him to bless her. To command her pleasure again. How could he say no?
“I could never refuse such a gift,” Erik whispered and brought his violin to his chin once more.
He wondered if Christine recognized the piece, a caprice by Paganini that only the most daring of performers would tackle. Rumors abounded that the devil himself taught the notes to the late master. Erik watched Christine as he played, the melody dancing like a fire and an answering flame igniting in her face. She was breathing raggedly already, her breasts rising and falling in time with the music as she fell under his spell.
“Show me how you are mine, Christine,” he said over the cascading notes, adoring that he could give her music and instruction this way. “Lie down.”
She obeyed instantly, rushing to the chaise across from the great mirror, her head tipped back in ecstasy already. He watched as one hand drifted to her neckline while the other clawed at the fabric of her skirt, her body writhing subtly. But she did nothing more. She was waiting for his command. “Please,” she murmured. “Please.”
“Touch. Don’t be afraid,” he replied, and immediately, one hand was at her breast, fumbling at the buttons of her blouse, and the other was between her legs. He played, imagining his fingers on her body as they raced over the violin strings. The thrill of the spectacle and his power over her rushed through him. He was achingly hard, but he didn’t care, this was about her. She freed a breast, toying with a taut nipple, but the music enticed her towards more. Erik willed her to more.
“Touch where my music touches you. Give in to it. Give yourself to me,” he commanded, and she did. She abandoned her breast and raked her skirts high, exposing that she had chosen to wear no pantalettes or drawers today. It made Erik bite back a moan to think of her walking his opera, so secretly exposed and ready for him. She spread her legs further, showing him everything as her delicate hand began its work.
The sight was obscene, or would have been to a decent, god-fearing man. To Erik, it was perfection. The notes burned through the air, desperate as a storm as she bucked into her hand, whimpering and squirming in pleasure.
“Inside,” he ordered, breathless. “Feel me inside.” She nodded fervently as she complied, and he watched in salacious awe as she sank one curious finger into her slick opening. She added another with ease and soon enough he was watching his perfect student fuck three fingers into herself as he played the devil’s music for her alone.
“Oh God...oh yes...” she moaned; her brows knit as she rode the crests of pleasure that her angel’s violin propelled. Erik was right with her, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by her, to let his cock do the work of her clever fingers. The music swelled to a dizzying peak, her hands on her cunt moving as fast and wild as his on the violin.
“Now, my Christine,” he nearly moaned as the crescendo hit. And she came. She cried out and spasmed, nearly doubling over in abject pleasure. And so did he. He came untouched at the sight of her ecstasy. His cock spilled and twitched, and he fell to his knees from the shock and force of it.
There was nothing but her breath to fill the silence now. He had to keep his own raged breathing under control, unheard by her, because angels did not breathe.
Angels did not do anything he was had just done. (Or perhaps they did, who was he to speak for the unknown powers of heaven?) Still, he felt entirely like a man now, amazed and intoxicated by the woman separated from him by a pane of glass and a hundred lies. This was the only way he could have her, and he accepted that. It brought both of them pleasure and joy, and there was no more to it than that.
Despite himself, he recalled Buquet again: the feel of his clammy skin, the sound of his scream. And the memory became a hundred other screams, and the skin grew cold and dead in his recollection. He could never share more with Christine than this. And why would he ever need or want more? What he had was already a marvel. A miracle.
Her voice and her body and her soul were his. What more could he even dream of?
––––––––
Christine was nervous. There was nothing for it. She was itchy and anxious and terrified in Nicole Duval’s old dress, new scores heavy in her arms.I’ll be with you, don’t worry, he had whispered as she left the dressing room, but how could she not worry on her first day as an actual part of the chorus.
The small rehearsal room was already occupied when she entered, and it did nothing to calm her nerves. The lone woman sitting by the piano was unquestionably beautiful and refined too. Christine had only ever seen Adèle Valerius from a distance on stage, but she recognized the woman she was now meant to understudy.
She was at least a decade older than Christine, maybe more, with aubrun hair and ample curves, and Christine wondered what sort of corsets and bindings she had to endure to play a young man like Siébel. Listening to her sing, Christine had always admired her voice, though she’d found it too mature and dark for Siébel. Indeed, Madame Valerius (no one called her Mademoiselle) was far better suited for one of Verdi’s mezzo heroines, a perfect Amneris or Eboli. Perhaps Carlotta wanted it that way; to only share the stage with a true mezzo and not someone who would takeherroles. Someone like Christine.
“Now, that’s Nicole’s dress but you aren’t Nicole,” Valerius said before Christine could speak.
“Oh. Well.” Christine gulped. “I was given her old dressing room and it was there and—”
“It looks better on you,” Valerius said. Her smile was thoughtful, and her eyes discerning. “Let’s hope you’re just as well suited to her job.”
“Did Monsieur Gabriel tell you I was coming?” Christine asked, and Adèle nodded slowly, picking up a cup of tea and taking a long sip as she continued to survey Christine. “I hope I can be as good as Mademoiselle Duval.”
“Nicole was a bitch who didn’t like that I don’t get sick,” Adèle said. “And she had no appreciation for good music. She thought Meyerbeer was the height of art.”
“Oh,” Christine said, not sure what she was supposed to say. It did not satisfy Valerius.
“Name me a composer from the last decade who has achievedreal art,” Valerius demanded. “And don’t say Wagner. Or Verdi,” she snapped before the names could make it past Christine’s lips. “Who do you know in France?”
“Bizet,” Christine finally said and to her surprise, Valerius smiled at the answer. “Unless you wanted someone alive. In which case, Delibes.”
Before Christine could speak further, the door opened again and Gabriel entered with another man, both carrying scores. “Oh good, you’re here,” Gabriel exclaimed, his smile bright. “We have about an hour, that should give us enough time to catch you up. Adèle, we’ll start with your aria.”
“Why me?” Valerius replied, cool and calm. “If this is her rehearsal, shouldn’t she begin?”
