Kiss the Bride | An Erotic Story of The Phantom of the Opera

Kiss the Bride

Christine considered her reflection in the silvery glass of the vanity mirror. Behind her, her maid worked quietly with the hot iron, twisting each too-perfect ringlet between her fingers and pinning it to the coiling crown upon her head.

She was beautiful, really, but the beauty felt false, contrived––this dress but another costume, another role put on for another aria––

She did not feel like a bride.

The snowy mass bloomed about her as she sat, cascading to the floor in a volume of rippling silk and florid lace, its massive skirts culminating in the perfect crest of her minute waist in its steel restraints. Above that the fleshy tops of her breasts overflowed from the graceful scoop of her neckline; atop their ivory peaks shone the necklace Raoul had given her especially for today, that crushing weight in sapphires and diamonds and pearls. It was a king's ransom, that thing.

The maid finished with Christine's curls to flit deliberately about her shoulders, fluffing and perfecting the gauzy trim. In the mirror, she noted Christine's downcast stare and placed a palm on the girl's elbow to offer an appropriately distant, yet companionable squeeze.

"Now, you mustn't be so nervous, m'lady," said the maid, misreading her. "Monsieur le Vicomte is a good man––yours is a good marriage. You will be a happy woman."

"Yes," said Christine on an inhale, her eyes darting to her reflection as if the maid's speech had surprised her, "oh, yes––he is. A very good man."

Well, thought the maid, with an inward chuckle, she would feel better about it tomorrow at any rate––all brides are nervous until the thing is over with. Then with her most congenial nod, she handed the girl her long satin gloves, one at a time, as Christine slid them up over her elbows and frowned absently into the mirror.

Surely it was only a trick of the eye. Surely that was not him behind her, reflected in the mirror as she watched the maid adjust the clips of her heavy sapphire and pearl earrings upon her ears––

Christine spun suddenly on her little stool as the maid gasped and clutched at her falling earring. She stared into the candlelit corners of the bedroom before her. Her eyes searched the dark hangings of the canopied bed, the long, heavy curtains pulled shut over high windows. A hushed wind caressed the velvet drapes in the far corner of the chamber.

The maid gaped after Christine, following her gaze. "M'lady?" she breathed, the forgotten earring held captive before her.

"I thought I saw––it is nothing. Forgive me," said Christine serenely, but the maid had noticed the shifting curtain.

"Oh––I am sorry––let me close that. It's just these old balcony doors––always opening––in the barest breeze, really––" chattered the maid. Christine's satin fingers flew forward to grasp her shocked wrist.

"No––" Christine said, too hastily, "leave it be." In a rustle of skirts she turned and sat upon the stool again, and tried to make her voice sound indifferent and sweet, as a Vicomtesse is meant to. "Please, the earring––"

The woman did not need to be asked twice. Forgetting the disturbance with professional dignity, she set to the careful arrangement of the earring, and straightened the other for good measure. She did not realize that as she worked Christine did not regard her reflection as it appeared, but looked intently past it.

"Is that all of it then?" asked Christine, when the maid stood behind her finally to smile approvingly at her reflection.

"Yes, m'lady––" she started, adding wistfully, "don't you look lovely––"

"Yes...yes. You've done well, thank you," said Christine, as she tried not to sound ungrateful; the maid looked mollified so she continued. "Do I have any time before I am expected downstairs? Might I stay here alone a while?" Her satin wrist wrapped about the other unwittingly; noticing, she tucked the gloved fingers into her surrounding skirts.