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; now the woman flitted deliberately about the gauzy trim across her shoulders, fluffing and perfecting. 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. "M. 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'd feel better about it tomorrow at any rate––all women 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, m'lady––I am sorry––let me close that...it's just those old balcony doors––always opening––" she began. Christine's satin fingers flew forward to grasp the maid's shocked wrist.

"No––" she 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 Vicomtess is meant to sound. "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––don't you think you look beautiful?"

"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.

"Yes, m'lady––but remember, you have just over an hour." The maid eyed the clock above the mantle meaningfully. "Shall I come and fetch you then, m'lady?"

"No, no––I will make it in time."

With a courteous nod, the maid crossed to the door and shut it behind her.

For several moments Christine listened––to the gentle whispering sussurus of the wind upon the curtain, to the sputtering dance of the lamps in their glass domes, to her own shallow heartbeat in the ivory cavern of her chest. Her fingers trembled; she made controlled fists upon the vanity to quiet them.

"Erik," she breathed finally, to her own reflection in the vanity mirror. "Erik––I know you are here––"

Now like a demon in a fairy-story he stood behind her in the mirror, as if summoned from the leaden dark at the utterance of his cursed name.

"How did you know?" he said mildly.

"I didn't," she admitted. "I thought I felt––" she lowered her eyes as heat tickled her throat. "I thought you might come."

For all the madness, the demented passion of their last encounter, Erik looked almost disarmingly composed. He stood behind her in full evening dress as he regarded her reflection with interest. His eyes made dark stars in the plumbeous caverns of the mask; now his thin lips curled below the leather shield as he tilted his head curiously to say, "had you hoped to see me, then, Christine?"

"Oh, Erik," she exhaled wearily and spun in the little stool to face him, "you must know I am to be married in an hour––less––"

"Yes, and you look very fine, my dear," he countered. With deliberate motions he was taking off his calfskin gloves, loosing one long ivory finger after another as he stared down at Christine; he gathered the empty leather shells in a bare hand and tossed them casually upon the vanity. Christine watched the hypnotic gesture absently; she gasped when the gloves struck the table beside her.

The baronial chamber felt close, the air still; its many candles burned steadily in their yellow halos. Despite the open window, the room held a sort of sickly heat; Christine struggled to fill her lungs as each wearying breath came shallow between her parted lips.

Erik dropped to his knees before her with a sudden impetuousness that caused Christine to grasp excitedly at the little stool with her satin fingers.

"Erik, you mustn't," she breathed, her eyes wide. "I lack the strength for this, I beg you––not again––I don't think I can bear it––"

His ennervating presence unhinged her––she could not confront him again. "I have done only as you commanded of me. You were the one to send me away… Please, Erik––what can you hope to gain from me now?"

The silent muscles worked in his jaw as she watched, tensing and relaxing upon the translucent flesh, as if he intended to speak but could not summon the words. His eyes narrowed behind the mask as his this thin lips formed a white line.

He raised a marble palm before her––and hesitated, regarding her––then with a soft exhale his long finger extended to trace the arc of the glittering stones upon her throat.

Christine's breath quickened. She met his stare as he came toward her––an animal advancing upon his prey. Her tremulous heart betrayed her; crimson heat bloomed upon her chest. Now she exhaled, a ragged whimper as the calloused pad of his thumb trailed over the mounding tops of her fleshy breasts. She shut her eyes tightly; the hand withdrew.

"I sent you away because you wanted it, Christine," said Erik finally. Though Christine could not see his hands beneath the sprawl of her gown he must have clasped the legs of the little stool, for he jerked the seat towards him––an inch, less––forcing her hips forward; she strangled her surprised cry and shifted her grasp upon her seat to brace her straining back as she leaned away.

"You have not returned to visit me…I wondered if you might."

"Erik––" she breathed, "you did not want me…you told me to go…"

His expression darkened.

"Sweet Christine…thoughtless girl…did you at all consider that your poor, wretched Erik might like to give you away before your wedding?" he said silkily.

"He may be ugly, but you are very dear to him, you know…"

It was torment to hear him again. But that hypnotic voice, like a potion, a drug––canorous and clear it filled her ears with unfathomable beauty, it filled her mind until there was nothing left but it, nothing left of her but it––it was irresistible, infinite––whatever words he spoke it mattered little. She was bound to the awesome power of that cursed voice––

Why must he have such a voice!

She had thought herself free of it…no, no––she would never be free of it––

She chewed her lip; her eyes darted to the clock on the mantle, and back to the man kneeling before her. She drew a hand across her brow and over her lips.

With an effort she steadied her voice.

"But now, Erik? Now? Please––I am in such a state––you cannot understand––you give me no chance for rational thought! Oh––is my life but a game to you?"

So often the Angel had worshipped at her feet, his skeleton's fingers clutched to the hems of her gown in piteous supplication. His deranged passion had mortified her, terrified her, enraptured her; the chaos of emotions she felt for him had no name. No definition could constrain it. So often he had pressed his ruined lips to her boots and agonized over his love for her––but not like this––not like this––

Darkly he smiled at her across the downy heap of her skirts and brushed a careful palm atop the ivory silk.

"I only want what is best for you, dear Christine," he said. She could feel the insistent pressure of his body against her knees, her shins––he was much too close––

Her earrings threw blue fractals about the room as Christine shook her head and breathed, "Erik, you should not be in this house––you mustn't be here, now!"

"Will you send me away?" he countered. Christine lowered her gaze.

Again Erik dragged her stool forward with a convulsive tug. Christine bit her tongue to silence the little whimper that escaped her lips as her body rocked with the motion.

He made no attempt to hold her there; nothing prevented her standing––

"No…" he began slowly, "interesting, Christine––very interesting. You do surprise me…You are a capricious thing, truly. Surely the boy does not give you credit for it––"

An orphic heat had crept in her core to storm about the blood with an unknowable urgency. The shiver roiled from deep within and up her spine, tracing the paths of her boiling blood to her hot fingers, and knees, and ears––

She was frozen, cemented to this little stool, in the rapture of that voice––

Erik gave her a bemused look. Then he spread his fingers in an existential gesture and brought the palms to the hem of her gown.

She lost sight of his hands amid the formless mass of silken ivory but knew they worked there in the layers of fabric, carelessly shoving her skirts and petticoats aside. Now he pushed her gown about her waist. Christine stared and swallowed; there was her knee, bare save for the fine silk stocking––there was her thigh, naked to his eye––

Her fingers clutched at the back of the little stool. She shifted forward as her senseless thighs inched apart for his touch––

"Erik––" she started, and was quickly shamed by the breathless trembling in her voice, "you told me to marry… you told me to––"

"Ah, yes, Christine," he said conversationally, though his tone betrayed a certain gruffness Christine had never before heard from him, "but my dear…why should you think I have changed my mind?" He met her eye as his hands paused in their motion upon her thighs, clasping gossamer fistfuls of white to the naked flesh.

"You must marry the de Chagny boy, and so you will," he continued. He met her gaze with a curious expression, as candlelight danced impishly in the dark mirrors of his eyes. Christine followed his hand as he traced the shuddering curve of her leg from ankle to knee. "But you will not marry him just yet," he breathed. "For now––you are still mine."

Now his arms searched beneath the mounding fabric and were lost within her skirts.

"Lift your bottom, Christine," he said softly.

Obediently, she did; it did not occur to her to do otherwise. The breath caught in her throat as she felt him grasp her cotton panty at either side of her hips and tear it from beneath her stays––she whimpered––when his hands emerged from her dress, he dragged her panty with him and guided it over her bent knees to the floor.

Erik grasped her flesh inside each knee and eased her unresisting thighs apart. Her satin wedding-slippers slid across the floor under his steady pressure; Christine made a strangled sound as the gesture unbalanced her upon the little stool and clenched the cushion tight.

Shifting forward on his knees he placed himself between her open legs, hands leaden upon her thighs.

"God, Erik––now?" she managed, "you come to me now? Like this? For what purpose, possibly…" Her heart beat a feverish rhythm within her chest. Christine's tongue darted out across her dry lip; she chewed the red flesh. Her tone took a manic lilt. "Oh––does it please you to torment me thus? Have you changed your mind after all?"

The searing look he gave her burned her flesh and heated her belly until her core roiled with agonizing frisson. Erik brought his face to her silk knee to brush his leather nose about the bone with calculated reserve; Christine shivered helplessly at the delicate caress of the unyielding alien flesh.

Through half-closed lids she stared at him between her parted thighs, beneath mounds of voluminous white. "Is that your intention, then, coming here, now––it is, it must be––Erik––are you taking me back?" she breathed.

"I will not carry you off tonight, Christine," he said. "I have come only to give you away."

Now he trailed a long finger up the tremulous inside of her thigh. Christine followed its torturous path with her eyes, horrorstruck, ignited––

"Did you want me to?" he mused, breath moist against her thigh, "Is that what you wished for, my dear, when you imagined me here in the dark corners of your Bridal Chamber?

"Erik, don't ask me––please, I can't say––"

His face wore an unreadable expression––she could not place it.

"Do you want to come back with me, Christine? To marry me, as you once said…"

A pause, as his grip slackened upon her flesh. "No…it could never do, for you to stay with me––no––no, no––it has to be thus…the boy is good and Erik, is not––" This last he spoke with a solemn introspection almost as if he had not intended it aloud, and lowered his gaze.

Then his palms pressed her wide as the black eyes met hers with fire in their ominous depths.

"But, my Christine––sweet, good Christine––"

It was a trembling, delicious torment, how he held her gown in bruising fists just high enough upon her thighs to shame her, but covered her just enough to allow no relief. Now he bent low––God––she was sure he could smell her––

"I imagine you will not object to your promise––"

He teased the whispering silk with his breath; she could feel the ghost of it hot upon her flesh and she writhed against his hold, her fingers white on the stool edge.

"To let poor Erik kiss the bride before the wedding."

Christine strangled a crying moan as his ruined lips found her cunt beneath the mounds of milk-white fabric. Her hand flew to her mouth––she wavered on the stool––but Erik caught her, grasping her bare thighs to crush her weight upon his face.

He slid his tongue over the hot, red flesh as her thighs shuddered into his grasp. He kissed her cunt as he would have kissed a lover, had he one––he kissed her cunt as he had kissed her sweet mouth, just once––

Kissing is what lovers do––

Christine bit her hand. "Christ, Erik––God in Heaven!"

Now he bit at her, taking her clit between his teeth, sucking, sucking––his fingers chewed her thighs as he pushed them apart––her flailing legs strained against his back, kicking him, shoving him, surrendering––

"God––you mustn't!" she breathed, "you mustn't!" But she grasped his dark hair in her fingers and forced his face deeper between her legs, twisting her fingers in it such that Erik groaned into her sex.

With a wetly-vulgar exhale he surfaced, staring at her from beneath the crumpled silk, as his lewd fingers dug into the flesh at the crux of her thighs and teased the pink skin. Christine felt a cold finger slip, sticky, along the hot valley––she whimpered as he watched eagerly––and dragged her own moisture under the cleft of her rear.

His hair sat chaotic upon his scalp, as Christine still tousled her fingers in it, though her hold had weakened. The black mask sat at a confused angle; she had never seen him so disordered. She nearly giggled but bit her lip, and whined instead, and shifted her impatient hips toward him.

The black flesh of the mask shown silver above his thin lips , greasy with the wetness of her. As she panted above him Christine could see the angry red welts low in the hollows of his cheeks where the leather rubbed burns into the white skin.

He was waiting for something, regarding her curiously––a thumb skirted her clit as he tilted his rumpled head, not blinking––he ran a meaningful finger along his leather jaw––

He wanted to take off the mask, she knew. He was asking her permission.

Still staring, again he thumbed her clit. She groaned; his hesitation was maddening. Meeting his eyes she nodded, just slightly––and when he released her gaze she dropped her lids and crushed her cheek to her shoulder.

He exhaled raggedly; the thin lips twisted in the barest curl. Then his skeleton's fingers were upon his scalp––Christine lifted her own, her fingers spread and tense about his head––as he worked the leather cords. He removed the mask carefully, slowly, with a flat palm; he bent his head low to place the thing gingerly upon the floor.

Through her eyelashes she peered at him––she gasped––for there was no face on Earth that rivaled his for horror.

And oh, what horror!––for the skin of that deaths-head was but crumpled parchment, shapeless upon the bone, and no flesh or fat to cushion its placement. God––how could she forget what laid beneath that shroud?

It was a demon's face, that aberration; it was the fascinating nightmare-stuff of irrational fear. It haunted her, it hunted her, it loved her so, so desperately––how was it that the malformed flesh could portend such terrifying emotion?

The open maw of his not-a-nose, that hellish pit where a nose should be––God, oh, God––he pressed it to her now, he crushed the freakish thing to her sex, sniffing and tasting. She writhed upon his face; wet terror pooled between her legs.

He breathed into her cunt, the sound ravenous and terrible. So cold––as if from the grave––his dead fingers crept across her flesh and entered her, sending shockwaves of shivering ice up her core to escape from her throat in a gasping hiss––no––no––she was afraid! She did not want to die!

Her breath came quick and shallow through her parted lips, her full, red, living lips! She could not follow him and live, she knew. She must not follow Death!

A shudder roiled in her stomach, but it was no numbing frission of pleasure. She shifted in his grasp, she struggled upon his hand; the skeleton fingers bit into her flesh and held her fast. Curiously the demon traced the little squinting mouth of her cunt, slipping around and inside as his other hand crushed her to him; it was unbearable––God, protect her––it was revolting––

"No!" she cried, suddenly, "you will not have me! I am free of you!"

He raised his chin but did not relent in his grip; still she shuddered in relief.

"Please––you sent me away––"

Again the thing was looking at her from between her thighs, studying her––its black eyes seared like hot coals, like embers in his corpse's face––oh, she could not look! They burned! She shut them out, she turned away, she threw her head back and moaned––

But then the corpse began to sing. Softy, so quietly, the sirenic voice called to her, surrounding her––she exhaled, she shut her eyes––that blessed sound, the salvific voice of the Angel––

Her muscles slackened in his grasp. Now the song vibrated between her thighs; his breath came hot and moist upon the red flesh. She was immured in that orphic melody, drowning in an ocean of it. She was soaked to her skin––surrendering––surrendering––

His fingers moved inside her in rhythm with his song––the music was everywhere, from the nidus of her sex it filled her, it caressed her, it enveloped her in ecstatic wings as she thrust her hips toward it. Open me, she begged the music, fill me––

Wet and soft and entrancing, his tongue, his fingers––this orchestra from the pit. As only a master could he played her; this was his symphony and she his instrument––she whined, she moaned––Christine, his ingenue––

Now his fingers had gone but his hot tongue filled her; it pushed inside as he buried his face against her; as he shifted his weight upon the floor, pressing harder and harder against her––She clutched at her cushion. The song was inside her––listen!––it throbbed a delirious rhythm as she rode its spellbinding measures––now, how strange––the Voice was shrugging out of his evening jacket; it was throwing the thing to the floor; it was working at its groin as it sucked at her cunt––

Christine threw her head back, she groaned––her perfect earrings shook upon her perfect ears as she tossed her head from one side to the next––her eyes were shut; she could not see––but still the music poured from deep within. An ocean of sound crashed upon her, in wave upon wave of entrancing music! That music! How the Angel sang his song upon her red clit––how she shivered now with its divine force!

Oh, it is too easy to submit––to pretend––how could one resist that awesome power?

And the Angel had always been persuasive––

She heard a slick, slapping sound as Erik groaned suddenly into her cunt. He struggled on his knees––one leg thrust out far and straining, the other shin hard upon the floor. The fingers of one white hand clung fast to her thigh. Christine could not see the other, but the muscles danced madly upon his back as his arm drummed a relentless beat––

But now she was crying, screaming her ecstacy into the music––screaming it with her pounding heart, her humming blood. She convulsed upon him as he growled into her flesh; she bit her satin fingers; she choked on her cry––

And she breathed his name. Over and over, it slid from her lips like a prayer, barely audible, barely a language at all––

But Erik heard. The ruined face surfaced, and through her lashes it looked less fearsome somehow––the crepe-yellow skin flushed red and shiny upon his hollow cheeks; the thin lips swollen wet and inviting. He stared and now it did not repulse her; he looked ordinary, almost–– For a moment Erik considered her, open and dripping his spit and her milk from her cunt. Then he grasped her with both hands beneath her rear, as her head lolled wearily upon her shoulders, and lifted her to sit upon the low vanity-table, just perched at its edge.

He stood before her. Christine panted in her white dress; she grasped her falling skirts and lifted them senselessly––for he held his cock in one hand, and it wept eager milk between his fingers as he pumped its rigid length slowly in his fist.

The black eyes devoured her hungrily, inhumanly; her still-hot blood pounded a warning in her ears––but her cunt was thrumming with an electric heartbeat of its own. She whined, and twisted her fingers deeper within the ivory silk.

Now she was kissing him––kissing his obscene mouth and she could not remember ever not kissing him––

She kissed him and ate the sour honey taste of her upon his lips.

Erik broke from her mouth; he stood. Something dangerous shown in his expression, something unreadable, urgent in his gaze as if the thought had just occurred to him. His breath came ragged from his throat as he released his cock to hang rigid between his legs. He kicked the little stool aside; Christine flinched and watched it skitter away across the vast room.

His hands on her shoulders forced her from the dressing-table and to her knees amid the gossamer mound of her surrounding skirts; now he curled his fingers about her throat to grasp at the base of her neck––she swallowed her breath––and forced her head forward. She whimpered; she shook her head silently; she parted her lips––

When had he stopped singing?

He groaned as he directed her head over his cock, as he buried his length in her open throat; Christine gagged, she sputtered––but the working muscles only heightened whatever sensation he was seeking and he crushed himself deeper inside.

He pulled out, slowly, as her spit trailed from his shaft to her lips––she coughed, she buckled forward, no, no, she breathed––but he took her chin in his white fingers and drew her face to him, and staring down at her with half-closed black eyes he slid into her again, and groaned, "damn you––Christine––"

Now he gripped her throat and rocked his hips against her, once, twice, as her satin fingers clawed at the soft wool of his trousers. He held her there, as her throat convulsed about his length and water overflowed from her open, glass stare. She whined, her confused tongue hot upon his shaft. Something traitorous was building in her, she could hear it singing its shuddering notes upon her spine––no, not now, not like this––she clenched the muscles of her thighs, she begged it to stop––

And then he wrenched her head back and tore himself from her mouth, such that she retched and spit upon the floor––

"Up," he growled, with a tense gesture toward the dressing-table, "or bend over––"

She was frozen to the ground on aching knees; she wiped spit from her cheek with the satin-covered flat of her hand. She shook her head, quickly, barely––his weeping cock bobbed before her face, its veins angry and swollen––

"Hurry. Now, Christine!" Erik gripped her by her arms and tore her upright; and took up his purple cock in a hand. She stumbled backward to the dressing-table and gripped the edge with her fingers; again she bunched her skirts in her hands and pulled them to her waist, again she spread her thighs––

He was upon her. With an animal groan he entered her; driving his full length within her red cunt. She screamed but his hand found her mouth, strangling the sound––she bit at the stony flesh and he released her, then circled his fingers about her throat and squeezed just enough to deaden any sound––

Her hands flailed about as he gripped him to her; now she coiled her fingers in his hair and pulled, as her mouth opened in unwanted ecstasy––

And then he groaned before her lips as his body shuddered against hers and filled her with something hot and wet, more and more with every enervating tremor.

Erik collapsed against her as she strained under his weight. His fingers fell from about her throat; with a wet sound he broke from her and stepped back; Christine straightened and smoothed her palms down her front. The white dress was wrinkled but it was clean; her skirts billowed about her ankles as they fell into place.

As she neatened her gown Erik must have reached for the mask, for he wore it again when she met his gaze. He stepped toward her; he considered her and her skin prickled beneath his black stare––

"Sweet Christine––" he breathed, and trailed a long finger down her cheek.

She glanced at the floor, then Erik, then the clock on the mantle.

His hot seed had spilled from her cunt; it dripped down her thigh beneath the wedding-dress. She bent before the mirror and neatened her hair. She arranged Raoul's necklace about her throat.

"You make a beautiful bride," Erik said, softly.

A knock on the door: "M'lady? It is time."

"Just a moment," called Christine, though she looked only at Erik.

"Will you let me go, then?" she asked, "Is this it?––Erik, am I free?"

He was putting on his calfskin gloves, one finger at a time. He said nothing, and finished the task, and flexed his leather fingers before him. Then he sighed.

"I don't know, Christine." A pause. "I'm sorry."

She nodded and took another look in the mirror.

"You know I love you," said Erik, when her hand was on the door. She looked at him in his black mask and gentleman's clothes; all fire and music.

"Yes," she said sadly, "I imagine you think you do."