La Nuit Porte Conseil | An Erotic Story of the Phantom of the Opera

PART SIX

Was it the Angel?

He kneeled before her in the chimeric haze of the gas-fire, rigid, unyielding, as the very air shuddered about his crushing presence.

A holy presence. Divine.

And yet as his gaze devoured her bare flesh beneath him, Christine did not see the Angel there––

No–––she could not understand it––but this, she had seen this, felt this before––with him, him––she'd seen him before––

The arduous fire painted her in glistening heat, and set her marble curves ablaze––from his touch, his stare––she knew not which––

With slow, hypnotic circles Christine shifted her hips in awareness of her exposed sex, her legs spread wide, as Erik had positioned her. Eager wetness spilled from between her thighs, trailing from the fleshy cleft of her rear to stain the velvet crushed beneath. Her nipples hardened to dark points as pink heat bloomed between her breasts; there, between that private voluptuousness, laid the key to the Rue Scribe gate upon its golden chain.

In silence he regarded her––but this coolness, was it not the righteousness of the Angel?––

The Angel would never hurt her––––

But Christine could see it there, in the Angel's face––something was wrong, yes, yes––something was not quite right at all––

And yet the darkling gloom caressed her, willing her beneath its mantle, tempting her to the nescient aegis––that sweet release, that comforting surrender––the ecstasy of ignorance––

Christine! Christine!

The Angel's presence was a blessing––––even now it coaxed submission––

With blood and breath she sang in orison––from her lips she cried his hymn––such holy melodies of invocation––

Christine, Christine––

Devouring music, all-consuming––ignored––forgotten––swallowed whole––

Louder, louder! Pronounce his Glory! Praise the Angel! Do not fear him!

In slavish rapture she received him––––

"Christine, Christine..." his malediction.

"Angel! Angel!"

Her Amen.

***

"Stay."

Christine writhed upon the evening-cloak. Her hazy gaze danced over the shape of the man before her, to the impossible beacon of the gas-fire in the black room, to her own trembling limbs, and was lost in the dark empty just beyond the blaze. She gave a groaning exhale, as her lids fluttered atop her glass stare––

"Open your eyes," Erik hissed, above her.

Her thighs had begun to drift together and her legs to straighten, as her toes stretched over the soft fabric. Erik gripped her knee, again pressing it to the floor; soundlessly he waited, still clutching the straining joint, and stared until Christine again went limp in his grasp.

When he was satisfied that she would not again move, he released her. Christine blew a ragged moan between her parted lips––her muscles clenched and complained, but even as the long tendons of her thighs began to tremble she would not shift her legs again.

And still, Erik stared.

His shirt and waistcoat hung loose and disordered upon his sweating chest: gracelessly he shrugged them from the translucent flesh to toss them aside. His spent cock twitched, eager beneath the folds of his half-opened trousers––ready again, for release––and he stood slowly, staring, still staring, working the fastenings as Christine watched senselessly from below; they fell and he flung the garment from him, to return to his knees at her waist.