Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (23 page)

He lifted her, his hands strong and powerful at her hips, holding her as he drove inside, up and in, up and in, his warm thighs wound beneath hers, his knees pressing into the side of the sofa under her legs. In and out…his eyes were closed.…Why would he not open them, look at her?

He pushed in and out, faster.…Her breasts jiggled, moving up and down, free and chilled in the open air. Her pip swelled, her labia filled, slick and hot with the friction…building…her sex pounding, wanting it.…Erik breathed, the puffs warm and hot, moist, as he worked his hips…in and out…filling her, the curl of lust building…building.…

He came. Long, hard…

She knew it, because of the way his eyes flew open, his gaze driving into hers with the same intensity as the saber blade…naked emotion burning there…his jaw tensed and his neck corded, his dragging in of deep, gulping breaths…the pulsing warmth inside her as his hips stopped moving.

And he pulled away. Turned away. Gathered up his saber.

Slid it into its sheath.

“Erik!” she sobbed, her quim crying, her heart breaking.

“Helen chose Paris, causing a war led by her husband.” He looked at her over his shoulder once briefly, then opened a door she had not known existed. “This Menelaus will not fight for a lost cause.”

And then he was out the door.

When Christine reached it, opened it…he was gone.

I
n the privacy of the white salon, well away from the partygoers of the masquerade ball, Maude had one thick cock slamming her quim from behind, and another long, slender one in her mouth from the front.

What more could a woman ask for?

Something up her ass, for one. A tongue-lashing on her pip, for another. Perhaps another pair of lips on each nipple…if one were to get specific.

All things considered, however, Maude wasn’t complaining. No, she had no complaints as her body trembled in her third orgasm of the session. Her groans of delight were choked off by Firmin’s cock in her mouth.

The masquerade costumes had long been shed…except for the masks. She’d insisted they keep them on…as part of the excitement.

Her whip lay coiled on the floor, forgotten in the moment
of two cocks working her, one from each end. One in, the other out…one out, the other in…as though they were one long rope being pulled in and through her in a smooth, sleek rhythm.

Her heavy breasts dangled, thick, hard nipples brushing over the rough rug as they swayed back and forth with the pulse of their movement, sending little jolts of sensation to her throbbing clit. The slick suction sounds from her pussy matched those from her mouth as Firmin held her face, sliding in and out, long and slow.

“You lovely bitch,” he gasped between breaths. “I’ll choke you…when I come, you’ll be drowning.”

Oh,
oui, oui
, Maude thought in delight, her lips curving around him.

Behind her, Armand grasped her hips as his thick, round cock filled her quim, settling into its space and holding there, as he began to work the black dildo she’d dropped in Firmin’s pocket.

The unyielding column slid in her anus, and Maude had the lovely sensation of being filled, full, tight…so tight that every little breath brought pleasure-pain coursing through her body. Armand moved behind her, drilling the phallus deeper…and his cock in and out, slowly, full…fuller…so full, she felt her entire insides shifting with each of his strokes. The cavern of her vagina swelled, the sensation deep inside burning with the need for relief.

Exquis!

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, tears as the pleasure grew to an unbearable level…pain-wrapped, the feeling of being trapped, imprisoned by three stiff cocks.…She couldn’t move, and then, when she thought it could grow no more, Firmin released her head and grabbed for her breasts, holding them in his hands as they swung beneath his ballocks.

She was breathing heavily through her nose, choking on every other stroke of Firmin’s cock, her quim so wet that Armand slid all
the way out for one glorious moment…and then slammed back inside of her, pushing the phallus in ever deeper with his belly.
Pain!
Her pip throbbed so hard it must be bright red, burning with the need for release.

Firmin groaned, and shot himself deep into her throat, filling it with warm, salty ejaculate, choking her.

Maude gulped it back, tears stinging her eyes, and sagged, face to the floor, as Firmin pulled out, Armand still working sleekly from behind. And then, he reached around and touched her shiny, hard sex and she screamed into the rug…screamed as the violent burst of relief swept over her. She shook and quaked beneath him, and felt his long, huffing groan of orgasm pulsing inside her as he slumped over her.

When she staggered to her feet moments later, Armand and Firmin were both still lumps of male flesh on the rug. Maude stood above them, in all of her naked glory, her pip and quim still humming…her asshole still twitching.

She snapped her whip, and it cracked in the air over them.

Firmin jerked and opened his eye. “Surely…Maude…you are not…”

Armand merely groaned.

“Come, come gentlemen…or is it that you already have?” Maude chuckled at her own joke, and cracked the whip again. “The night is still young! The masquerade ball may be winding down, but we do not have to!”

But, to the managers’ infinite relief, Maude’s plans were suddenly interrupted by a scream in the distance. And then shouts and more screams. “The Phantom!”

A woman, one of the costumiers, had been found near the dressing rooms, deserted due to the masquerade ball…and discovered
only when one of the stagehands had been sent to locate a specific item for La Carlotta’s costume. She had been describing it to the Opera House’s patrons, the Chagny brothers, and the elder one had requested to actually see the intricate fan of which she had spoken.

The dead woman, Régine, was only in her late twenties…not a particularly pretty girl, but not an unfavorable one either. Her neck was broken; her head sagged awkwardly against her shoulder.

She had been costumed as a shepherdess, and her mask still remained in place over the upper half of her face. Her skirts were jostled up, but it was not clear whether that was because of the way she’d fallen, or because the Opera Ghost had helped himself to her charms either before or after he’d broken her neck.

For it had, indeed, been the Opera Ghost. The one who’d remained silent and unobtrusive for well over a month…since Joseph Buquet’s death. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was the perpetrator.

Christine stared in horror at the lifeless body as it was carried away, draped in a white sheet. Could Erik have done such a thing?

How?

She could not comprehend it.

Pressing her hand to her mouth, Christine staggered down the corridor to the room where she slept. Such violence. Yes, he was capable. She had seen it in his eyes, seen it even tonight when he’d contemplated killing the
comte.

Had he taken out his rage on Régine instead? Rage directed at Philippe de Chagny…and also at herself, Christine Daaé.

A strong hand seized her arm, and Christine whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. Madame Giry stood there, her face settled and foreboding. Her hair hung, not in its neatly scraped-back chignon, but loosely bundled at the back of her head and falling in swaths.

“It is long past time for us to talk, Christine,” she said firmly, pulling her into a nearby room. “You have put me off long enough, and now this has happened. If you had spoken with me before now, we could possibly have prevented it. Now there will be no hope for Erik. Do you understand that?”

She thrust Christine away so that she stumbled to a chair, and sank gratefully into it. “But Madame Giry, Erik…”

Her words faltered when the ballet mistress turned on her, her dark eyes sharp. “You do not believe Erik has done this, do you, Christine? After all you have known of him?”

Christine sobbed. “I do not know! I do not think he would…a woman…but, Madame Giry, he has killed before.…”

“You fool. You foolish girl,” Madame spat, whirling about the room. “Of course he has not. Of course he has never intentionally killed. You do not deserve the love he has given you if you believe otherwise. Foolish, foolish…both of you. I warned him that you were not…” Her voice trailed off, but the fury in her eyes did not wane. “Christine, the legend of the Opera Ghost is just that. A legend. One that he, with my assistance, has cultivated in order to provide him protection. If it appears that every mishap, every accident or injury, is attributed to the ghost, then he is safer. He is more the fool for not telling you this himself!”

She paced the room, the black and red strips of her skirt flying around her ankles, showing Christine a glimpse of well-shaped legs. And, she noticed faintly, a bodice that bared a healthy expanse of bosom.

“Why did he send you away? What happened that he sent you back to us?” Madame Giry demanded. “I thought you would go off together and be happy.”

“I…I…” Christine’s voice dried up. “I removed his mask.”

Instead of the wrath, the spew of fury, that Christine expected,
Madame Giry stopped. She looked down at her with an expression much more horrifying than what had been revealed under Erik’s mask. “You
dared.
”

The sobs came anew, wrenching from deep inside her. “I meant only to show him that I loved him, regardless! I did not know.…I did not know. I was startled.…It was so frightening. His face. I didn’t know what to expect, and it shocked me. I screamed, and he became so angry. He hated me. I could see it in his face. He didn’t want me anymore.” It was such a relief to speak of it, of the horror and the pain she’d experienced.

“You no longer love him,” Madame said flatly. “You cannot bear to be with a man so deformed, so you have found yourself a new, wealthy love.”

“No, madame.
No!
I—at first I was frightened. And he became so angry. And he brought me back here. He cannot love me any longer, it is clear. He hasn’t come to me since then.” She couldn’t tell even Madame how Erik had seen her and Raoul through the mirror. “But I love him still, madame. I do. His face…it is only a small part of him. It is horrible, but…he is more than that.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered how bereft she’d felt when Erik left her, claiming that he, like Menelaus, would not fight for a lost cause.

He did not believe she could love him.

Perhaps Madame’s countenance softened a bit.…Perhaps it was just that she moved and the shadows over her face changed. “He will not forgive such a betrayal. It is no wonder he sent you away. And then…and then you take up with the
vicomte
of all people. And his brother! How much more could you design to hurt him, Christine?”

She stalked away, red and black fluttering. “Part of it must be my fault, for not telling you. And his too, for not…but Christine!
How could you throw away the gift of such deep love, passion—a
truth
, so easily? So ignorantly? I thought you of all the girls here would understand the rarity of such a connection.”

Christine stopped crying. “Madame, please, I do not know what you are talking about. What must he be kept safe from? How does he know the Chagny brothers? Please…tell me. I did not mean to hurt him. I truly did not.”

“Philippe de Chagny will do anything and everything to destroy Erik. They have known each other since they were boys, young men. Always garbed in his mask, Erik would join up in the dark of night with the
comte
, his brother, and others as they roamed the streets of Paris doing what young men do. It was an odd, unsteady alliance, the masked Erik with the titled, spoilt nobility.…How they came to be friends, I do not know. Erik held his own, with his…athletic grace and sharp intelligence.…They respected him and perhaps were a bit afraid of him.…” Madame’s voice trailed off, and Christine fancied for a moment that perhaps the ballet mistress might have a much more…intimate…knowledge of Erik than she’d realized.

The thought did not sit well in her churning belly.

As if reading her thoughts, Madame looked sharply at her. “No, Erik and I were never lovers. His mother’s name was Amelie, and I was her closest friend. We grew up in the south together near Batéguier, on the sea, where my mother had a ballet school. Amelie’s father was a sailor and her mother a beautiful Persian woman he met during his travels and brought to live with him in the south of France. Amelie and I learned to dance together, and we came here to Paris when we were eighteen. She, with her exotic beauty, caught the attention of the old Comte de Chagny, and they had a liaison for a time. She died when Erik was twelve. Because of his relationship with Amelie, the old
comte
found work for Erik, and later, when it
became necessary for Erik to go into hiding, he came to me.” She hesitated, then added, “There is more to the story, much more. But Erik must tell you, for I have promised him never to reveal it. And, even for you, I cannot.”

“Erik came upon Philippe and me this evening,” Christine ventured to say.

“He did? So that is what precipitated this evening’s events!” Madame’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

Christine told her, leaving out the fact that her body seemed to respond to the
comte’s
assault, and the fact that Erik made love to her before leaving her in a whiff of anger. “Why does Philippe hate Erik?”

“I am not certain how it began, only that it was long ago, and there is some rivalry between them related to events that happened in their youth. Philippe has threatened to destroy Erik for some secret he knows about him, so Erik remains hidden in the Opera House underground. This is why the legend of the ghost has been created. I do not believe Philippe realized that Erik had become the Opera Ghost until recent events.” Her stare pinpointed Christine, and she realized that Madame was speaking of her own interaction with the Angel of Music. “Erik has become careless since he has fallen in love with you, and now that Philippe knows who and where he is…it will not be long before he seeks to destroy him.”