Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (10 page)

Oh, please…was all she could think. She could not even form the words. Her pip was throbbing so hard, it was painful; she could feel a trickle of wet as it trailed down the inside of her thigh. Then his tongue was there, licking it, following the trail back up to her hot, wet quim, and she thought she would scream.

He pulled the sides of her bottom apart, leveraged her hips away from the glass so that she was half-leaning, half-hanging from her wrists; her face, shoulders, breasts, arms, shoved up against it. She felt him moving close behind her, and suddenly his tongue was just where she needed it.

She gave a soft scream, jerking uncontrollably against the mirror as he flicked his tongue over the hard nub of her tickler, faster, faster, harder, side to side, until she let go and sagged into a mass of quivering, shaking, shuddering muscle and bone and wetness.

Her mouth was open, planted against the glass, screaming silently into its silvery silk as she came, and came, and convulsed against it. Her body, damp and hot, slid helplessly against the mirror, leaving chaotic streaks over it.

“Now,” said Erik into her ear, “you will remember this when you sing tonight, won’t you, Christine?” He sounded ragged, out of breath, strained. “I’ll be watching you from Box Five, and remember…you sing for me. And me alone. No one else can give you what I give you.”

And then he was gone.

And moments later, her wrists loosened from behind the mirror, and Christine collapsed in a heap on the floor, landing on the silk of her discarded robe and the taut boning of her corset.

M
eanwhile, in a well-appointed flat not so far from the Opera House, Carlotta shrieked and tore the parchment paper that purported to be a note from the Opera Ghost into two long strips. “
Impossible!
Impossible! He cannot!”

“But what is it,
ma chère?
” Guy looked up from his pose upon her pillow-laden bed.

She cast a glance at his sleek, bulging muscles, arranged just the way she liked them, tan and perfect against the light bedding. He was propped on an elbow and his long, muscular legs were crossed at the ankle. His cock, at half-mast in its bush of tawny hair, enticed her, just as the classic beauty of his mouth did.

But then she recalled the letter, signed
O.G.
, but more likely to have been written by a friend of Miss Christine Daaé. “
Imbecile!
” she cried, her feigned French or Spanish accent (depending upon
the day) dissolving into her gutter London voice. “The cur thinks to keep me from singing! He says if I sing tonight, a horrible catastrophe will occur.”

“But who would not want La Carlotta to sing?” asked Guy, running a hand artfully through his thick golden hair and placing his luscious lips in a pout. “He is foolish. And not worth your time,
chère.
Come here.…Let me distract you from this foolishness.”

“The Opera Ghost! He does not want La Carlotta to sing. He wishes for his student Christine Daaé to take my place on the stage.” Carlotta’s chest felt tight. She should never have bowed out of the performance last evening. The papers had been filled with praise for the young bitch, whose freshness had surprised and delighted them. “The exaltation of a voice and the rapture of a pure soul,” raved
L’Opinion Nationale
, which had only days earlier sung praises for Carlotta’s own clear, glass-shattering soprano.

She was only thirty-five—much too young to be replaced by that snippet of a girl.

“Opera Ghost?” Guy sounded confused…but that was not unusual. He had muscle and stamina abounding, but what he had between his legs seemed to seep every bit of sense from his brain. Not that Carlotta cared much about the brains of a young buck like Guy. She had money enough, and brains of her own, and found she needed little from Guy or his ilk but a strong, on-command performance. Which he was most inclined to give.

“That bloody ghost!”

“But there are no such things as ghosts,
chère.
And you do not take orders from anyone but the managers, do you not?”

“No, that is true.” Perhaps she was becoming a bit too sensitive. Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin had said nothing to her about not singing. The vile note had to have been written by that little snip, or one of her supporters.

“Please,
ma chère
, you will upset yourself. Why don’t you come over here and let me ease your worries?” He patted a pink satin pillow, jostling its tassel.

Carlotta eyed him speculatively. He settled back flat on the mattress, placing his hands behind his head. The bulge of muscle filled the triangles his arms made, and his stone-hard pectorals gleamed smooth and tan in the sunlight streaming through the window. She smiled coyly, stepping toward the bed as she dropped the strips of parchment at her feet.

How glad she was that she had graduated from the grasping hands of Monsieur Contriste, her first protector, to this stage in her career, where she need not sacrifice anything for money, and where she made her own choices—in bed and otherwise. She had Maude Giry and her own talent and hard work to thank for her current situation. She was not about to let a wisp of a girl—or an Opera Ghost—take it away from her.

She had heard, for she had spies in the theater, that the Chagny brothers had dined with the bitch last evening. If Christine Daaé had such backing as from the
comte
and his brother, that would not bode well for Carlotta. But her spy said it was the younger one, the
vicomte
, who appeared most taken with her usurper.

And the
comte
, who had recently interrupted his attachment with La Sorelli, might very well be looking for a replacement.

How convenient. She felt her lips curl into a smile.

And then she returned to the matter at hand.

“You cannot move,” she told Guy sharply, the Spanish lilt back in her voice.

“As always, I await your every command.”

She reached out and trickled her fingertip over the ridges of his hairless belly, bumping, one, two, three, from the curve of his rib
cage down toward his groin. He shivered under her touch, but he did not move.

Except for his cock. It flinched and grew.

“I said you were not to move,” she reminded him mildly. And slapped at it.

He grunted and his cock grew larger. Carlotta felt his eyes fastened on her as she bent forward to take the tip in her mouth. She circled her lips around it, slipping her tongue over the velvet skin, and then pulled back to look down at him.

He had not moved, but his eyes were dark and focused on her mouth. His beautiful chest rose and fell a bit faster. She liked it best when it was covered with droplets of sweat, when he had to fight for control.

Carlotta yanked at the tie of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. She stood in front of him and let him look his fill. Her breasts were generous and had barely begun to sag, and her hips were round and voluptuous. Her waist nipped in, leaving her a perfect hourglass form. She had no bush tangling over her quim; every hair had been plucked away, leaving her smooth and white.

“Now,” she told Guy in a cool voice, “we shall see how well you will distract me.”

She clambered onto the bed near his feet and crawled so that she straddled his massive thighs. Sitting her bare rump on his knees, Carlotta spread her legs wide so that he would have a clear view of her sex, and rose up on her knees.

Taking her breasts in her hands, she began to play with herself. She teased her already tight nipples until they were puckered tight as her anus, flicking them with her fingers, sending shoots of desire down to her sex. She lifted and squeezed and massaged, all the while watching Guy watch her.

He did not move, but his chest rose a bit faster; his eyes narrowed
a bit farther. When she slipped one hand down to cover her mons, his attention followed her. She was wet and she slid her fingers between her labia, drenching them and bringing her juices up to wet her nipple. The feel of her slick fingertips swirling over the very front of the tight nubbin made her pip throb and swim.

When her areola was hard and shiny with her moisture, Carlotta eased herself forward, sliding her dripping self over his cock, letting it slip through the juices of her lips to rest in the crack of her ass as she moved up closer to his head.

“Taste,” she told him, bringing her wet nipple down to his mouth. She felt the jerk of his body as he reacted, but then he quickly subdued the urge to remove his hands from behind his head and reach for her.

When his hot mouth closed over her entire areola, Carlotta closed her eyes and thrust her chest toward him. Pleasure drove down to her belly with every hard suck of his lips, and she rocked her hips over his strong, flat belly, rubbing her juicy sex into his skin. It swelled and burned, and when he released her nipple to slide his tongue over it, slipping over the most sensitive area, another rush of liquid dampened her sex.

“Harder!” she ordered, grinding herself down, rocking her hips faster as he fastened his teeth around her nipple. “Suck me harder!”

He sucked; she could see the cords in his neck stand out as he fought to keep his hands in place behind his head, and the movement of his jaw as he sucked and licked and at last drew the whole front of her breast into his mouth. Inside that hot, wet cavern, her nipple strained and he swirled his tongue, that thick, strong muscle, up and around and under her jutting nib.

Carlotta slid a hand between her legs and found the kernel of her sex, jimmying it around as she rocked and he sucked and she
came closer to the end. The orgasm vibrated through her, and she moaned, keeping the rhythm of her finger strong until every last bit of pleasure had shuddered through her nerves.

Guy released her nipple as she pulled away, and he was breathing hard. His eyes were dark and unfocused, his mouth open as he drew in circles of air. But his arms had remained behind his head as ordered.

“Very good,” she purred, leaning forward to kiss him. She planted one hand on each side of his head, resting on his bulging forearms, wrapping her small white hands halfway around the tan muscles, and bent her lips to his.

She tasted the bare musky scent of herself on him, and thrust her tongue into his mouth to get every drop. He began to kiss her back, his lips fighting with hers, but she pulled away.

“I did not give you permission,” she reminded him sharply, sitting back on her heels, her hot quim warm on his belly. “You shall have to be punished quite thoroughly.”

His eyes flared dark and his pupils grew larger, and for a moment, she thought he was about to beg. But he did not, for he did not have permission to speak.

“Good, very good,” she told him, acknowledging his restraint. “Now you will eat me.” That ought to get him to the edge.

She slithered up his hot, muscular torso, taking a moment to suck,
hard
, on one flat nipple, before arranging her widespread legs over his face. Gripping the ornate iron decoration of the headboard above him, she positioned herself just above his mouth, making certain she was high enough that he would have to lift his head to reach her.

The first swipe of his strong, hot tongue sent a wave of renewed lust spreading through her. He swept it over one thick labium, up, around, and down the other one. His tongue was flat and wide and
wet and it made a delicious slapping sound as it dipped around her lips. Carlotta stifled a moan and tipped her head back, her breasts pressing against the cold iron scrollwork. Her nipples were tight again, hurting in their pleasure, and her knees began to tremble.

She could see the red silk that draped from the ceiling in a sort of canopy above her and she focused on its burning hue, bringing the sensation of pulsing, red heat from her vision down to the throbbing of her sex. Guy slid his tongue into the slit between her inner and outer lips, tracing it around and back, around and back again. He had not touched her pip, not even slipped inside her vagina. Just stroked and teased over her hairless lips, sending her hips to rocking again above him.

“Eat me!” she ordered, and felt the trembling of her knees and thighs, trying to keep herself from settling down over that luscious mouth. She would make him work for it. Beg her for it.

But he wasn’t begging yet; he was nibbling at her labia now…ignoring her nib, ignoring that wide-open sex of her rumpled inner lips…just nibbling with gentle, hard teeth. Teasing. By God, he was teasing her!

His tongue slipped away from her outer lip and swept over the delicately wrinkled skin between it and her inner thigh, down and over the shivery sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and then back to allow his lips to suck on the lower edge of one swollen labium. Right where it folded into her skin. She was dripping, and she felt her juices running down her thigh, heard the erotic wet sounds as his tongue lapped through them.

“Eat me!” she ordered again, her voice husky.

And then, without warning, Guy reared his head up and fastened his mouth around her hard, swollen pip and
sucked
, drawing the little nib harshly into his mouth, and pulling on it as though he were trying to swallow it.

The sharpest, most intense arc of pleasure burst through her, radiating in a blast from the center of her body. Carlotta screamed and came, shuddering so hard that she lost the battle with her muscles and collapsed over his mouth, where his tongue and lips still worked, still did their job, as she dissolved into a mass of shudders and sweat.

When she fell away, onto the bed next to him, she became aware of the manner in which his chest was rising and falling: fast, as though he’d been running. And she saw that his hands were still behind his head.

“Very good,” she told him, and reached for the column of his cock. It was purple and thick and the vein that ran down it looked as though it were ready to burst. When she closed her fingers around it, Guy jerked, his eyes fastening on her hand as though he could will her to move it. Up and down, up and down…

She did not, of course. She held it, purposely still, barely touching it, not nearly as tightly as he wanted her to.