Like Pulling Teeth

for Maze-zen, dental kink queen: Happy (late) Birthday, please don't hate me for this! Thank you for enabling my weird.

A/N: This is a story about consent, both sexual and otherwise––as we know, the source material lends itself exceedingly well to the discussion. What, truly, constitutes consent? Where precisely do we draw the line, in relation to our own behaviors, and those the relationship is defined by? Who determines consent, and how does one know it has been granted? Sometimes consent is inarguably given. Sometimes it is inarguably refused. Sometimes consent is granted even when it is not wanted, sometimes it is denied when it is desired. This story is about the grey areas in-between. In two parts.

TWs for hard dubcon, blood, pain

Please Review :)

"Really, Christine," I spat, as the girl clasped both palms atop her lips, giggling like a mad thing behind them, "compose yourself!"

I had bought the silk air-bags this afternoon as, against my advice, she attended rehearsals in the Garnier up above––surely performing poorly, with her tooth paining her as it was, though those two simpletons who ran my theatre would hardly notice––and now, sitting upon the crudely makeshift operating bench that was formerly my dining-table, Christine let fall from her grasp yet another deflated green sack and let out a decidedly inelegant bark of a laugh. Her eyes widened as I glared, unamused as I was at the discomfiting spectacle before me, my arms crossed about my chest with all manner of threatening instruments protruding from between my bare fingers.

Presently Christine rocked forward upon herself, as if the absurdity of her laugh itself had earned only more absurd laughter. Thankfully the girl managed to keep hold of the table this time, or I might have had to peel her off the floor again. With a feeble attempt at collectedness she gasped out, "give me another silly bag, Erik," as water streamed down her pink cheeks. She pointed cloddishly to the exhausted one upon the floor as her feet dangled above it. "This one, see, has expired ."

Set again to giggling at her own witless humor, Christine kicked her feet about and laughed even more when her shoe, finally shaken free from her stockinged foot, clattered to the floor between us. I snorted in some frustration and pushed my shirtsleeves further past my elbows.

"You will have no more until you settle down, Christine," I said seriously, neatening the rolled fabric and knowing perfectly well that she would require a good deal more of the stuff before I dared take my pliers to her. Performing a small drama of selecting the ideal instrument for the task, I prodded studiously at the tray of silvery dental tools upon the dining-table just beside her plump rear squirming in its rustling skirts, and tried to ignore the girl's failing attempts not to grin at me and the painfully explicit wriggling of her lovely toes in their clean, white stocking.

"Oh, you're a dud," she pouted, twisting about to capture my eye as she chewed her pink lip.

The nitrous oxide had been my idea, and––though I am reticent to concede any sort of failure on my own part––it was beginning to prove a misguided one. I hated to carry the conspicuous silk bags about the streets of Paris should any passing stranger assume that I were the sort of person who might indulge in such a cretinous pastime, and yet, down, down to the Louis-Philippe room beyond the lake I had borne a case of the bloated things, freshly suffused, in service of my little Christine.

I had expected the girl to handle the stuff far more adequately than this. Too often, it seemed, I was made aware of just how incapable, how helpless my sweet girl truly was. Despite my unavoidable impatience with the usual failings of her gender, I must admit this fragility served only to endear her further to me––for some time now, I had come to understand just how desperately the little thing needed me to make her choices for her.

And now, despite her protestations that my prescribed dental surgery was unnecessary––and her insistence that she would not, by any means, allow me anywhere near her mouth––she had found my operating-room prepared and ready almost as soon as she had crossed my threshold, and patiently (because I certainly planned to hear her sing later tonight) I had forced the silk bag to her objecting lips and held it fast against them until she fell, laughing giddily against my chest, and I could lift her up upon the dining-table.

Because the tooth simply had to go. I could no longer abide the pained look on her face as she sang of late, or the obscene curling of her pink tongue about the aching gum with which she had taken to occupying herself when she believed I was not looking. And I had done my part to allow the girl to keep it! To near-exhaustion, I attempted to explain that, despite whatever she might think was wrong with the damnable thing, it was only breaking through the skin as it was meant to do, and if she could just bear with it a short time longer (and quit screwing up her precious face and moaning during our rehearsals in the meantime) the pain would eventually cease, or more likely, the fool would forget all about it. Yet when I told her––very reasonably, I might add––that I would have the damned thing from her if she did not stop her carrying on, she covered her mouth with her tremulous fingers and ran to her bedroom, and would not come out again no matter how long I shouted at the door.

The girl had no tolerance for pain at all.

And though I was loathe to be the cause of any injury to Christine, it had become incontrovertibly clear to me that to remove the offending tooth which had prevented my darling girl from dreaming for three straight nights, whimpering and sighing and clutching a hot hearth-stone to her cheek, would only be in her best interest, whether she approved of it or not. I am no dentist––although I imagine I am far better skilled at the practice than most of those imbeciles in the profession––but I simply could not bear the thought of anyone else putting their fingers in any part of the girl other than myself.

And if the child would only cease making those enticing noises throughout the night, I might, also, sleep again.

Now, after three previous, my dear Christine took the proffered bag from my hands eagerly, graciously, and I congratulated myself on the continued infallibility of my judgement. As she pressed her lips to its neck of green silk, dutifully filling her lungs with the noxious substance, I even allowed myself the small reward of observing the even rising, falling, rising of her smooth, unblemished chest in the prison of the exquisite gown she wore. Her plump flesh pushed unnaturally forward, too forward, straining and nearly spilling over the blue velvet piping of her low neckline, such that I, standing just before her, could witness the suggestive revealing and obscuring of that sensual cavity between them––that smooth, soft, hidden heat that, if I were only to slip a finger within and trace that captivating hollow down, down, down her naked chest––I could very nearly press myself into her little squinting belly button. The darling child has an invert, of course.

This gown had been my own special request, tonight––flatteringly crafted to her exact measurements in dupioni silk of cornflower blue to offset her eyes of the same lovely shade, with a draping neckline and fitted sleeves that culminated about her elbows in a flourish of blue organza, like the half-transparent bell-petals of the gourdon flower in bloom.

As Christine had come to expect whenever she would return to me, I had demanded she remove whatever drab, high-collared walking suit she wore just as soon as she stepped foot in my cottage beyond the lake. She lacked my discernment of taste, preferring modesty to style––I had found it perspicacious that I should dress the girl myself, rather than allow her to do so, poorly. And what of it if all the gowns I provide for her are somewhat modern in cut? Shall a man be denied even the most venial of pleasures?

For I am a man, after all, despite Christine's unwillingness to see me as such.

In the early days of our arrangement the dear girl would protest my dressing of her quite ardently–– now, it would seem, Christine could be convinced to put on almost anything I desired of her, without a word of complaint, and rarely requiring any unpleasant motivation on my part. I must admit I appreciate this submission immodestly, as I truly hate to frighten the child, and even more, to harm her. I have bought her a great many dresses since then, and save for the single bridal gown in raw silk-linen which the girl obstinately refuses to acknowledge, I have enjoyed the sight of her in each one.

For now I will continue to allow the girl this small victory, as I am nothing if not magnanimous. In due time, Christine will wear the thing whether she refuses or not––and though I do anticipate the latter, I am prepared to lace her into it, if I must.

But that will not occur for some time yet. If I planned to bring the child to the altar intact, the offending tooth must come out, and quickly.

She had apparently lost interest in the limp air-bag still dangling between her fingers; I peeled it from her unresisting grasp and tossed it from me to flop among the others, as Christine swayed pendulously on the dining-table, smiling sweetly and humming to herself. She pressed her hands upon the bodice of the blue gown, just atop her chest, and slowly––as she might have done in one of my most lascivious fantasies––dragged them heavily down the front of her to bury her innocent palms between her thighs, all the while purring like a soft little pussy cat and writhing about into her own naive fingers. I stared at this arguably wanton display, frightfully aware of my own riotous pulse throbbing mercilessly like a hard knot in the pit of my throat, as Christine gazed up at me from behind her pale lashes, crumbled uselessly upon herself, and dissolved again into seemingly irresistible spasms of inelegant laughter.

My patience fully expended, it dawned upon me that the girl was not simply going to sit there with her mouth open as I had anticipated, and so in order to do-the-thing, I would have to take hold of her face and force her lips apart with my fingers––a task that, were I a better man, might have been taken on with appropriate, medical indifference. As it were, I let out much too loud of an exhale and squeezed rapidly, rather frantically, at the hinge mechanism of the threatening-looking silver dental pliers I held captive in my skeleton's fist, as on the table-top before me Christine took up the studious occupation of running her flat palms across the blue shimmer of her skirts, smoothing and caressing it between her parted knees such that the fabric outlined every curve of her succulently fat thighs.

"I do like my new dress," she said to her lap, enraptured, and I stared at the place as well.

"You look exceedingly well in it, my dear," I said honestly, forcing my nervous hands to still, and adding in an afterthought, "and you are very welcome," despite the fact that the girl had, once again, not thanked me––Christine had very poor manners in such respects, but I have plans to ensure she learn them. She fluffed out the skirts to fan about her, somewhat obscuring the stack of clean rags I had prepared at her side and an adjacent decanter of very potent brandy––the evening's roborance––long past unstoppered and now only halfway-filled.

Of this, I took another long sip.

I returned the bottle to the table with an unsteady clatter as Christine raised her lovely chin to look expectantly up at me, fine blue silk bunched in two small fists. "Erik, do look at this. Have you seen it? You must feel how nice it is!" she said earnestly, pressing the fabric toward me.

"Ah, it would seem we have finally found a gown Christine actually approves of!" I quipped sardonically, somewhat hoarsely, and without touching the offered garment––best to avoid that particular torture for some time yet––as I fixed my gaze to anything other than the clear v like a damned arrow the child had unwittingly crafted between her parted legs, with me standing there like a fool at the head of it.

Cursing internally, I became painfully sensitive to the insistent heat which had, inopportunely, resolved to flood my groin at that particular moment, and was now pleasantly stinging and twitching about beneath my trousers. Normally, when the prurient little temptress incensed me so, I would wander off to someplace she could not easily recognize my shape in the dark, and usually, sometimes––well, a few times at least––I even did the thing far enough away from her to not be considered that terribly obscene for the doing.

The girl was nearsighted, to my credit. But I digress.

Perhaps my only consolation for this series of frustrations was that Christine was simply much too delightfully, deliciously high to ever note the bulging depravity between my legs despite the steadily tenting wool at my crotch, as my shameful cock strained toward that hot little house, that halidon between the girl's thighs. My sweet Christine had, fortuitously, dropped her wire-framed spectacles some time ago.

In any case, not a minute could be spared to postpone. The wretched task had to be completed if I wanted to hear her sing––without interruption––any time soon, and preferably this evening. Although I had once tried in earnest to resist it, the child's voice, and my exclusive control of it, I could not do without.

I attempted to ignore this new, albeit not all-together unexpected development as I gazed upon her quivery form, sighing, "dear girl––I do not have all night. Let us get on with it, please."

"Oh, but do feel this first," Christine demanded, lifting the wads of her own clothing closer towards me, and revealing her stockinged knees in the process. Beneath the gossamer silk––for I had insisted she change her underthings as well, as the oft-darned wool socks the child wore were simply undeserving of such fine legs––I could see the reddened flesh of her kneecaps, as if the girl were feverish, or, even more enticingly, had only just risen from her knees. She let the fabric slip between her fingers, then raised it higher before me, adding breathily, "this is just so nice ."

I admit, watching this, I wanted desperately to touch the damned skirts, and far more than simply that; the vitiating promise of all that lay underneath now threatened, searingly, achingly, to consume me, as did the understanding that in this moment––should I have deigned to put it there–– Christine would not object to my hand upon her. I had rarely seen her so amenable before, save for when the sweet thing had believed she communicated with an invisible, supernatural being, but those days were––for better or worse––long past. As the girl had since developed a frustrating habit of slinking with her back pressed against the wall when circumstance required she move past me, I knew better than to expect her to invite my touch, though certainly this behavior would have to change before the wedding. But now, right now––Christine pulled her dress up all on her own, knowing full well who stood before her.

I coughed and hastily forced her skirts from her startled fingers to press them flat upon the table, and then in an afterthought, settled the fabric securely about her half-naked legs, to the girl's synchronous giggles.

"I will have to hold you still, Christine, if you cannot manage it yourself," I warned her, as if my saying so might steady her somehow, but she simply started up again at her skirts, periodically lifting a palm to stroke at it with the other, as if she were attempting to determine whether it was the fabric or her fingers themselves that gave her such a pleasurable sensation; I could very nearly see the goose flesh rising upon her white skin. "I feel certain you would not prefer that," I added, eyeing her carefully for any indication of whether the words were true or not; Christine gave none, though she did moan and flutter her yellow eyelashes as she draped blue silk over a wrist.

Putting my hands on the poor girl's clothing would never have been enough, naturally––and I had touched it all before, besides. What I wanted was to tear the skirts from the giggling idiot and bury my revolting face between her thighs, to hold her legs open as far as they could go, to stretch her wide and naked and powerless beneath me as I chewed the dirty pink bead of her clit and her hot cunt spasmed around my appalling mouth. I wanted to free the cruel joke of my insistent erection and take her, take her, fucking take the damned child already––to fuck her tight little hole until she said my name, screamed my name, screamed my actual, fucking name, to fuck her tight little lovely little god-damned-fuck-hole until she bled. To wrap my fingers around her smooth, unblemished throat just as I would around my own miserably throbbing cock, just as I could around the throat of that insufferable halfwit, that foppish shit, that boy–– to squeeze and smother and feel the veins go rigid, to bask in the hard soft hard and watch the skin go ruddy, red, then purple, until gasping, sputtering, weeping, forever and forever mine, sweet Christine would die her little death in my hands––

Forever, my wife.

A steady, stinging pain at my hip alerted me to the sharp nose of the silver dental pliers, gripped in my white fist and held rigid against my skin. Once, twice, as I glared at the wriggling thing in front of me, I jammed the nose into the meat of my upper leg, feeling the blood rise in hot release beneath the heavy wool of my trousers.

Fuck those skirts. Fuck the whorish gown the child wore. Tonight, I would take the damned tooth, and it would be enough.

Between her laughing fits and strange fascination with her own clothing, and perhaps additionally, as a result of her initial reticent struggle, enticing little Christine had managed to lose all but one or two of the delicate beaded pins that bound her extraordinary hair––hair like yellow cornsilk, like dandelion fleece, like warm, sunlit wheat upon the earthy, sloping nape of her fine neck, and just as pleasing in fragrance; unbound, the dense braid she often wore twisted and tucked in a knot to contain its mass spilled across one shoulder and down her chest in a golden rope that would rival anything Midas himself could produce. Flinching somewhat at the odd sensation the cord around the girl's throat inspired in the pit of me, I took care to bypass that appealing flesh entirely as, cautiously, I tucked a loose strand behind her ear––did she sigh?––and brought my palm to her jaw to angle her smiling face to my shrouded one.

"Oh, Erik," she whined, her lips carnally close to the sweating flesh of my hand, "it doesn't hurt anymore at all, not at all, do not be angry––couldn't you please forget about the tooth? I won't even talk about it again, I swear I won't..." Tipping her head sluggishly into my palm she locked her gaze on mine and dissolved into another bout of mystifying laughter, such that I was forced to tighten my grip upon her or else risk losing her entirely to the floor. "Let me sing for you instead," she offered breathily, steadying in my grasp, "we could try your Aminta's duet––oh, yes, Erik, you would prefer that, wouldn't you?"

I swallowed, loudly; certainly I would. I had not yet dared to ask her to perform any piece of my own composition––least of all that Don Juan depravity––though I had caught the little vixen poking about the draft libretto some evenings ago, but she was thoroughly punished for her presumption. "No, sweet girl," I assured her, though it did pain me to do so, "not tonight. The tooth must come out right away, for your own good. You simply cannot sing with that damaged molar if even the blind old women in the rear boxes can see you are in pain––and it is a useless tooth, besides." I had begun to stroke absently at her cheek with my thumb, as softly, I added, "now stay still, my love, and let me have you."

Shit. " It . Have it ," I stammered, "the tooth."

Thankfully the girl made no notice of my––shall I say–– Freudian blunder, and fixed a gravely theatrical eye upon me, though she has never been a strong actress. "Listen, Erik, Erik," she said, "clearly, it would like to stay, inside me where it's hot and wet and very good for a tooth. It doesn't even hurt at all, see?" She wet her mouth with the tip of her deliciously pink tongue, repeating in an urgent whisper a delightful word she had not so far addressed me with, "darling, darling––Erik, listen." Now her fingertips padded atop my waistcoat about the ivory buttons as she added conspiratorially, "shall we not just let him do as he pleases? Who are we to deny him his home? Let him stay, Erik, please––say you will––"

Why must the ignorant thing speak so? I shook my head. "You will not change my mind, dear girl. The tooth will come out, as I have told you. I will hear no more on it."

Christine spread her lips wide and gave an intoxicatingly vulgar moan of what might have been dismay but certainly could be mistaken for something far more appealing, as I resisted the urge to clap my fingers over her mouth and shut the slut up. Instead, misguidedly, I let my thumb glide across her slack lower lip, and sampled the smooth ridges of her bottom teeth upon its calloused tip.

"I don't want it to hurt," she complained upon my finger, her lovely blue eyes like glass beneath me.

"I won't allow it," I promised.

The dear girl sighed and smiled sweetly up at me.

Now, remarkably––and entirely without my demanding it of her!––Christine spread her legs wide to receive me, wriggling her bottom forward atop the dining-table; I advanced on her, trying, impossibly, both to minimize my contact with any inessential part of her and get closer at the same time. I could not permit myself the damning distraction; first, I had to remove her tooth.

When finally I lifted the pliers on a dry, "open, now," her pink tongue darted forward to childishly strike my bare palm; I barely managed to restrain the immodest sound that growled from deep within, as I stumbled forward and nearly dropped bodily onto her. Between us, the rigid crux of my groin made the slightest contact with her knee––that same red knee I had seen half-bare only moments ago––and the sensation nearly finished me right then.

" Christine–– " I warned, raggedly, as she fell to giggling once more.

On my second attempt I made a performance of gazing studiously into the open hole of her mouth when admittedly I simply hoped to steady myself; Christine followed my movements with a somewhat frantic eye, and I was uncannily reminded of a horse that has come to slaughter. With as much measured detachment as I could manage, I took a firmer, procedural hold of her jaw–– damnable girl, to whine against me then!––and slid my bare thumb into that quivering red cunt of her mouth, pressing the pad hard into the slick gum beneath the girl's bottom teeth and curling the rest of my skeleton's fingers about her jaw to hold her steady before me. Giggling throatily, Christine slid her tongue over my defilement.

The tooth was far simpler to extract as concerns any of this. I might have done better to sedate her fully––ah, but no, for that would involve far more temptations, and easier ones to get away with!

Besides, I had made that damnable promise to the child, and more than that, I had foolishly sworn never to drug her again.

"Wider, Christine," I demanded, meeting her enticingly powerless stare; straining her jaw such that her lips slid back from her teeth and a confused web of her saliva stretched and popped in her distorted mouth, the dear thing obliged me readily.

As I inhaled the intoxicatingly sweet flavor of her hot breath, savoring the intimate moisture of it upon my bare throat and exposed chin, it occurred to me that this was the closest my mouth had, in some time, been to hers, and that if I only bent toward her in the slightest, our mouths could touch, and I could slip my tongue into the delicious wet hole of hers, enter her pink mouth just as my silver pliers did now, and she might curl her tongue about me as she did them. With her face held fast between my two hands, mouth defenselessly open, I could even––easily, too easily––make the girl kiss me.

Now as I worked, her tongue moved curiously about her open mouth, wriggling against my fingers and carelessly teasing my invading flesh. The forbidden sight of the wetly erotic, pulsating corridor of her throat set my skin to all manner of sensuous bristling, and the steady pressure of her warm, spread thighs against my wooden ones served only to make me doubt my ability to remain upright, or somewhat more alarmingly, to remain a gentleman at all.

"Are you ready, love?" I managed, though I most certainly was not. I believe she did say yes, for all her salivary sputtering.

I wished Christine would close her eyes but she seemed determined not to; instead she watched me unabashedly even as I captured the offending tooth in my silver pliers and pulled, rocking her bodily upon the table-top and torturously, lewdly, into myself. In its cloth prison, my cock twitched and pulsed and grew, seeking the softness of the girl's shape with every thrust. Her warm hands shot forward to steady herself upon me; I snorted, faltered and stabbed at the numb flesh inside her cheek as Christine gave a soft moan.

"Shit," I muttered, "shit, shit," as a bead of red blood formed within her cheek to erupt against my skin. Around my fingers the girl giggled thoughtlessly, as her pink lips pressed upon the back of my hand and her open throat pulsed and panted beneath me.

As the urgency of the situation had somewhat increased, I returned to my task with new vigor. Now, with her fingers clutching at the back of my thighs, just beneath my rear––really, the foolish girl, of all places––my erection had swollen to the maximum size my straining trousers could hope to retain, and if she pressed upon me any closer, surely the dripping tip of it would crudely, gladly, violate her stomach. " Now ," I managed to grunt at her, my manner inexcusably boorish, as I ground the pliers about the tooth and thrust in upon it with a good deal of my strength, thoroughly, painfully aware of how sensuously my cock brushed her pleasantly squirming form.

Now the vile instrument between my legs began again to sing, softly, sweetly to the relentless percussion of my pulse––even as I grappled with the child's laughing mouth I pictured myself holding not the pliers between her lips, not these miserable lifeless pliers but my insistent, pulsating cock, hard and hot and huge and wanted , as I forced it into her smiling mouth like a tool, a drill, as I fucked her laughing mouth until she could not breathe for how much I filled her! Christine was choking on my cock and not on these cold pliers because she wanted it, she asked for it, she asked for it! For only an instant I closed my eyes, I said her name to the vision of spending myself in this open mouth, upon this cheek just like the tear that overflowed from her open eye––

Like a little animal my sweet Christine groaned, carnally, enticingly upon the lifeless tool, just as I, with an embarrassingly demonstrative grunt finally wrenched the offending tooth from its inflamed seat to hold the blood soaked thing strangely aloft like a trophy, like the dripping head of an Arthurian beast, like the child's bloody maidenhood; panting beneath me as I did the same above, the brave girl dug her fingernails into my trouser-legs and nearly dropped her full weight against me.

Oh––it was just another passing thought and yet it controlled me entirely, as I stared into Christine's naked throat. With my fingers still hooked inside her cheek I forced her head backward such that her neck formed a perfectly straight line from heaving chest to chin, and her lips made a lovely O beneath me; to her accompanying sputterings I dragged my capturing fingers from that red cunt and allowed myself the pleasure of stroking the girl's cheek, trailing my wet thumb down the line of her straining throat and into her hair, to curl my fingers loosely around that yellow rope of her braid which hung from the back of the child's scalp like a marionette's string. Watching the quivering throat-nodules as she laboriously swallowed her bubbling spit and steadily oozing blood, I traded my cold instrument from one hand to the other and placed it silently upon the dining-table at Christine's side, her bloodied tooth still captured within its silvery jaws.

It was harmless, I determined. It would not damage the girl at all!

As if all sense had abandoned me––a sensation I am not all-together unfamiliar with, unfortunately––and taking full advantage of the drug's intriguing ability to numb the throat's instinctive retching response, I tightened my grip on the girl's yellow braid to force her head back further, ever-so-slightly, and again I slid my fingers into that wet, damning mire. I pressed the cursed things forward, my old, cold fingers into her living, breathing wet, slowly, slowly into the prurient corridor of her whimpering pink throat, deeper, deeper as her hot tongue flailed and curled about my violation. To the ragged indecency of my breath hissing between my dry lips as I stared into the girl's hole like a surgeon, I pinched at the vulgar pink bell of the girl's quivering uvula, stroked at the suggestive thing, relished in her resultant tensing and shuddering beneath me, at the short gasping sounds, the wet slopping as I added another finger, another, then the pad of my thumb, forcing them together like a weapon, like a cock, then further, further, slip, slip, until the girl gagged upon my fingers and groped for my thigh, slapping it hard, sensually, erotically over and over and over and over and still I entered her to the fat of my palm, staring at the beautiful blood and spit and salt mess I made of my Christine.

Her fingers crept between my thighs from behind, the nails hard against my flesh in a thrilling agony as I had her over and over and over with the whole of my hand, as I forced myself into her deeper, deeper, penetrating her, depredating her in a steadily hypnotic rhythm, smothering the fascinating sounds she made, capturing, claiming the red canal of her throat as her blood colored my skeleton's fingers, blackened my dead-stinking hand, until I could stroke the vibrating mouth of her vocal cavity, slide myself into that perfect instrument and finally fuck it, finally fuck her, claim her, own her as no other man ever could––

Christine was mine.

The sensation of the thrashing muscle of her larynx about my fingers as she groaned into my assault jogged my abandoned senses and I became aware of the girl's alarmingly limp, convulsive weight against me, despite her needled grasp on my thighs; jolted, anxious, I tore my plunderous hand from her mouth. As soon as I released her Christine lurched forward upon herself, clutching white-knuckled at the table's edge, coughing and retching red wet into her blue silk lap.

As I stood there considering the girl spitting and bleeding on her skirts, I must have stuffed all the blood and spit-sodden fingers of my left hand into my panting mouth; now, tasting the copper tang of her still-hot blood and the sweet syrup of her saliva on my tongue, I realized the vulgarity of the action, and with as much self-possession as I could muster I slid the offensive fingers, still stained, from between my parted lips.

Before me Christine had ceased her coughing; she watched me now with painted lips and hands, as shallow pools of red darkened her lap and gown and highlighted the white perfection of her glistening chest. Working her tongue curiously about her stained teeth, spit-frothed blood began again to drip, then steadily flow from the corner of her open mouth and down her white chin. She sputtered my name, still laughing hoarsely, into her stained palms; collecting myself over this uncanny vision of her I hastily pressed one from the pile of waiting cotton rags into her hands.

"Here––hold it to your mouth, like this––" I stammered, guiding the rag and her obliging fingers to her serenely smiling, bloodied lips, as my own hands trembled upon hers, "press it down, yes––like that." Curling her hands around the fabric until she took hold of it, I added, likely more for my personal benefit, "settle down, now, Christine––I still have to put a stitch in."

I groped for the open decanter beside her gently vacillating form to splash brandy on my ruinous hands, heedless of where the excess liquor spilled upon the carpet, and wiped them––properly––on a clean cotton rag as Christine watched me steadily from behind her own. Deep crimson seeped from the center of her cloth like a rose unfurling its fragrant petals––furiously, I wanted to press my leather nose to its bloom, to sample its heady perfume and pick the wet bud. The child's pink tongue trailed that of her mouth I could see behind the rag, reddening as it captured the overflowing blood; I swiped once again for the decanter, and without taking my eyes from her, swallowed a loud, sloshing, ungentlemanly mouthful.

"Do you feel any pain?" I asked her, as I wiped the flat of my hand across my lips and replaced the bottle on the table with only slightly more care than I had managed to take it up with. Suddenly, shamefully, I remembered the raging, wet obscenity between my legs, which had doubtlessly left an eager stain upon the dark wool, and hastily gathered several more rags to amass before my groin in a poorly-contrived barrier as if I intended the things for some great medical purpose––though thankfully, for she would normally chastise me for such a display, Christine appeared to think nothing of it. Or for my fingers in her throat, for that matter––though I was certain I could have invented something the girl would have believed, had she asked. I certainly enjoyed to think on what her complaisance in this might further entail.

Perhaps Christine understood me better than I had imagined? She is a very good girl, after all.

"It is sore, somewhat," the indecent thing admitted after several moments, frowning, her breathless speech nearly as sloppy as her red visage, "it all feels very strange." Behind her bloodied rag I could see her tongue poking about against the side of her cheek, distorting and stretching the pink flesh outward as if it were filled with something alive, something pounding and pushing and threatening––

"Stop touching it," I snapped at her, balling the pile of rags in my fists and thrusting the crushed mass to the ground, then instantly regretting the action. Staring at the rags at my feet, the bulge of my erection a distortion down the front of me, I added quietly, and much more composedly, "the pain will certainly come later."

There was blood in the girl's yellow hair, I noted. Blood that had charted the plush curve of her cheek and buried itself in the feathery tendrils about her ears, painting the pale silk and carving dark trails upon her skull and behind her throat, like a long, deep slit from lip to jaw.

Considering this delphic vision, I added, "I can give you some more, Christine, to ease the pain… if you would like," as before me, Christine nodded with enthusiasm.

For one having begun the evening in such ardent opposition to it, the girl had truly embraced the bag, or so it would seem. As soon as I unwound the string of catgut around its neck––always a welcome sight, that, though I could have done without its reminder––Christine pressed her mouth eagerly to the wet-silk lips of the green sack and shut her unbelievably blue eyes, to inhale exhale inhale again, as her deliciously plump breasts in their blue and red-spattered prison shuddered beneath my lowered gaze.

"Finish the whole thing, love," I said softly, tipping the bag to her lips with my fingertips as my erection throbbed explicitly between us. "Yes––yes. That's good, Christine."

See, the unfortunate thing was this. It had already occurred to me, of course, that in this particular circumstance, Christine (normally more than combative regarding the subject) would most certainly not refuse any other parts of me, should I so desire it––God forgive me, but she might even give herself quite uncharacteristically cheerfully, if I could only manage to form the damned words to convince her, now, and then more importantly, those to explain myself later––and yet I could not deny that the child was not at all herself. As it were, I knew already, my sweet, somber, serious little Christine would feel foolish enough regarding her silliness in my presence at all––albeit such lovely, delectable, lascivious silliness––because assuredly, she would remember it all tomorrow, and possibly even within a few hours, if not less. If I allowed her, under the influence of the intriguing air-sack, to behave in an altogether un-Christine sort of way, she would quite possibly never recover from it––or forgive me, her almost-fiance, for whatever I might do as a result.

Unfortunately, the drug was not that powerful. And yet, it was not without its benefits.

No pain, for one, at least temporarily. Heightened physical sensation, and with it, a delightful abandoning of inhibitions. Uncharacteristic affability. And most enticingly, a certain submissive willingness to obey commands, very much unlike the girl's natural inclinations, and very much by myself prized––and the bit about the gag reflex had certainly proven true.

I took another sip of the brandy as Christine continued to eye me dreamily, searchingly from behind her soiled rag; I waggled the bottle at her in something of a preoccupied shrug and the dear thing began again to giggle. A steady stream of blood had escaped the capture of her cloth, charted her precious chin and eased its way down her white throat to catch upon her collarbone, then trace its way between her hot, shuddering, uncommonly appealing breasts; I followed its path with an eye and thrust my thumb into the wet mouth of the decanter.

To do-the-thing would certainly be easy enough; the problem, of course, came after .

It was true that from the very start of my courtship of the girl I had proposed marriage, and all that accompanies the tradition. I am not such an animal that I would ever have considered doing anything otherwise, at least, to one I would make my wife , though I cannot speak so highly of the girl's preferred suitor. Despite my most valiant efforts, Christine had so far cooly, and quite injudiciously, refused my overtures.

That she would not love me was entirely the other one's fault. The blond boy, the useless usurper, that pretty Vicomte––my sweet little girl wanted his handsome, youthful shape just as much as he wanted hers. Christine's repugnant and obvious lust for the boy––though she denied it thoroughly––aggravated me like nothing else, and my impatience with the object of her affection, unavoidably, was often abominably projected upon the dear girl herself, to my great shame after . Did she not understand that if she only sent him away, I could have no reason to be angry with her?

The stupid child frustrated me to no end.

That boy would use her and tire of her, and leave her alone, or perhaps worse, take her and make a whore of her as soon as he found his Vicomtess. I could smell his perverse obsession with her hymen from five cellars below––I knew it fascinated him as much as I, and yet, he was not the man who deserved it. Still, the girl's brainless regard for him had surely made him think the thing was his. But if I took it away from him, if I claimed it––if I simply removed the obstacle ––what more could keep him? Let him open her legs and hate the girl. Ah, but see, I would have killed him just for looking, and dear Christine would not thank me for that, even if she should.

My gaze sought the silver tray of tools beside the girl's delightfully-vacillating bottom––the host of fearsome dental implements that, honestly, I had hardly any reason for owning at all beyond a morbid curiosity, and were now somewhat disordered by Christine's constant fidgeting. Swigging again from the brandy––little more potent than cold tea, at that point, and a sinful discredit to the vintage––an unwelcome thought occurred to me; yes––such a simple solution, I wondered how it escaped me before––and despite the odd nauseation the fancy inspired, what I now considered seemed unavoidably necessary...

Was it not in her own best interest to save her from him ? To save her from herself, and the inevitable ruin that would follow any indiscretion between them? When the thing was done, see, I could––and this, I admit, appealed to me deliciously––I could tell the boy in a note signed in Christine's virgins-blood.

Anything I did, I did for her.

The decanter toppled onto its side on the table with the force of my release, its scant remains gently sloshing about inside the overturned basin as the bottle made a slow roll across the table-top; I groped for the sharp iron hook from my kit, and stroked the heavy wooden handle in the cup of my palm, as the unbearable, two-timing whore I desperately loved tipped her head, smiled mildly behind her bag and fluttered her yellow eyelashes at me.

Just a cut, a single cut. A surgery, really... and surely Christine was in need of it. Over in an instant of ecstatic pain. Just like pulling a tooth.

Turning the hook in my palm I watched the girl throw her disheveled head back to suck suck suck at her air-bag and wondered what the inside of her cunt might feel like. What it might look like, broken, torn, ready for me...no, pink, soft, eager for me...

There were kinder methods than the blade.

Christine would not thank me for raping her, if a favor such as I intended could be spoken of with a base word. And yet, the thing must be done. Despite her general, oft-stated unwillingness, the girl would surely prefer my cock to the knife, would she not? As I aimed to marry her anyway, where, truly, was the harm? And she would certainly be marrying me. If anything objectionable should come of–– it ––it could only serve to ensure her glad reception of my offer. That , though never a great desire of mine––though not heretofore unimaginable––may even prove to be for the best, in this instance.

"Will you do as I say, my love?" I breathed, gripping the hook in my fist, as the child rolled her hips upon the table-top, no doubt delighting in the lascivious secret shiver the action inspired between her fat, succulent thighs. Wrapping the fingers of both hands around the bag's silk throat, Christine held it just before her bloodied lips, gave a long, low sigh that dissolved into a breathless, tinkling thing and nodded. I expect beneath the straining blue silk of her bodice, the girls pink nipples were hard as little rocks.

As the righteousness of my intentions became perfectly clear, I pressed on, "do you trust your Erik? Will you heed my advice?"

Christine blinked her blue eyes like a little coquette. "Erik, Erik," she gasped out, laughing still, "you know as well as I that I do not...and yet you must know the answer, so why do you ask me?" Then she sighed, adding lightly, "I am sure, dear , that I will not be offered the choice!"

My slut incited me so, intentionally! I captured her frail wrist in the same fist that grasped the iron hook, and in my sudden vehemence wrenched her close, such that the bag fell from her startled fingers and flopped to the table. "You are a temptress––a devil, dear Christine," I growled, meeting her eyes, "you will learn not to question me, for all I that I have done for you!"

Now I released her; she toppled to her back on the table-top, giggling madly and rolling about as she clutched herself around her red-spattered belly, and her lovely feet kicked out at either side of my still-shuddering thighs. Her scrambling fingers touched upon the fallen air-bag with an utterance of pleasant surprise; she grasped it again between her palms and sucked the limp throat of it like a babe on a bottle.

I had groped for my groin just as soon as Christine had fallen, stroking viciously at the hated thing through the hot wool even as I held the pointed weapon like another hard cock in my shaking fist. In the madness of that doomed instant, the moment the girl landed flat on her back, I imagine I did intend to take her right then, one way or another––admittedly, how jumbled these mad passions have the tendency to get in my head is the sort of thing I prefer not to concede even to myself, and yet, as my dear, sweet, beloved Christine, my beautiful, forbidden, hated Christine––twisted up to her hip, still giggling quietly, and resting back on one palm as her other hand still clutched the limp bag to her red lips, gradually brought herself again to sitting before me, I still could not determine whether I desired to fuck the girl or kill her.

I must try not to kill her.

As if repulsed by its meaningful weight in my palm, I flung the dental hook from me, and wiped my sweating palms down my trouser-fronts.

Now Christine dangled the limp gas-bag from a rigidly extended arm as she stared, steadily, down her nose at me; I captured it from her and presently flung it off to follow that hateful hook. I did not care to note the wet flop of it wherever the thing might have landed, for again right in front of me, the whorish thing fluttered her pale lashes over her blue eyes and stroked lazily at her plump breasts with the backs of her fingers, arching her spine into that provocative caress, as I, blindly, took up the tools with which to close the girl's bloody gash.

My fingers trembled as I threaded the long, silver surgeon's needle.

Why must she make it so easy? Was it my fault she failed to control herself under the barest influence of a medical drug? Was it my fault that her buried desire for me could not be repressed; that she shuddered in such an amatory way whenever I now touched her? I wanted to marry Christine, impure or otherwise. What other man would offer her this? By God, I should be canonized, not reviled for the thought! I was the only one doing right by her!

"Be still, dear," I said raggedly, attempting to collect myself despite the needle held aloft in one hand, "and open your mouth wide for me." Now my good girl did exactly as I requested with no more inelegant retorts, pleasing me greatly and as such, steadying my hand. I admit that as I readied myself to make that torturous final stitch I pressed myself much too close to her than necessary, but as I was currently, quite vehemently, debating simply climbing atop the child and ravishing her as she bled out beneath me, this harmless violation seemed a sensible compromise.

Again I stared into that red cunt of her face, thankful for the smooth shroud of my mask as it guarded dear Christine from the disgrace of my current expression. With the barest tip of her wet, bloodied tongue, the mad thing darted forward, clutching at the table-edge and giggling, to play her girlish game once more and lick at the black leather of my mask––which I could not feel, per se , but I could smell the metallic sweetness of her open mouth so very nearly upon my face and the heady chemical scent of her breath that lingered after.

I surprised myself by laughing, hoarsely, into the child's sweet face; utterly unprepared for this blatant invitation, I captured her jaw much too roughly in one hand and huffed a noisy exhale. I am sure the innocent thing thought me mad as well, frozen as I now was before her with the silver needle erect in my rigid grasp and my fingertips hard upon her cheek––and when I had managed to collect myself, I noted that now her fat tongue wet her bottom lip as she smiled red-toothily up at me.

There could be no doubt. Surely the girl was asking it of me!

" Erik! " she cried thickly, laughing into my hold. She fussed with her scrambling fingers in her lap between us, clutching and twisting at her soiled skirts as if she found it difficult not to bring the silk up to her lips, to beg me to tear the fabric from her, to spread her hot thighs and show me her wet winking cunt between them; I resisted the maddening urge to bend her over and lick her lecherously in return.

"Settle down!" I shouted, far louder than intended and in a voice uncontrollably fierce. I did not like to see the pout my tone cast upon her sweet face, but in all honesty, I was thinking so intently of burying myself beneath her much-too-close skirts––that shivered torturously against my thighs as she giggled again before me––that I am surprised I managed any kind of language at all. How quickly, how eagerly I might have devolved into carnality then!

Ah, but first the god-damned tooth . One task at a time––I am nothing if not responsible.

"You will not move again until I tell you so," I said, probably gnashing my teeth at the poor thing, as she shuddered out a sigh between my fingers. My cock prodded at her ignorant stomach and ever so carefully, I rolled my hips against her silk-draped flesh, nearly relieving myself on that entrancing sensation alone.

"Swallow," I told her, and feebly battling my grasp, my obedient girl did. As if she knew what was coming, she clutched again at my thighs before her, clawing her teasing fingertips into my trousers.

Now the lovely little slut groaned weakly for me as I pushed the needle through her broken flesh, collapsing forward against me; insanely, deplorably––for I had very much lost hold of myself––I hissed at her, "put your hands between my legs," and the stupid girl did. She slid her palms up the inner thighs of my sweat-sodden trousers as I pressed the needle in again, then again; she let crawl her weightless fingers beneath and around and beside, in a frenzy of stroking me everywhere but where I needed, everywhere but where I knew she knew I needed––

"Touch it, you damned child!" I roared into the girl's open mouth, and thrust myself against her scrabbling fingers; beneath my gnashing teeth she whimpered and shut her eyes tight as I worked the needle through and through again, and fresh red burbled and splattered about my fingers to spill from the corners of her captivatingly straining mouth.

And then! The temptress's fingers were blindly sliding between our bodies, padding at my smothered, straining shaft as if she found the shape of it curious, as if she could not identify what it was she held in her hand, as if she wanted to know! Oh––and who am I not to teach the dear thing, to deny a request as sweet as this! With complete, ruinous abandon I pressed myself bodily into her palm and felt her grip tighten on me, as helplessly panting above her I forced my shaking fingers to tie up and trim the final stitch.

The silver needle fell from my grasp and to the floor. Still with both hands Christine stroked at the taut wool covering my rigid groin, slipping and squeezing her weightless fingers between my legs and beneath my rear, circling and cupping and rubbing the animal parts of me like a slut, like the whore I always knew she was, like the damned Devil herself, Heaven help me, how had I resisted fucking the child for so long? I grabbed her scalp with my two fists and thrust my tongue into her bleeding mouth.

Her arms fell slack between us as I twisted my fingers in her golden hair, loosing the yellow feathers of her braid as I directed her head against mine to overwhelm her fine lips with my wasted ones. With soft, tender whimpers the little thing rewarded me now, rewarded my patience, my prudence––as I chased her tongue with mine and tasted the backs of her bloodied teeth.

I pulled her from me just enough to drag my tongue over her lips, chewing and sucking at the coppery flesh, flattening the fat muscle upon her cheek and her chin and the lovely dip beneath her pointed nose as I groaned against her. Directing her head to the side revealed her white throat to my lips, and I took it too, biting and licking and sucking as I followed the same path of the blood I had so envied, replacing its moisture with my own hot spit until sweet Christine stank only of me.

So far the girl had denied me nothing, though she moaned and whimpered against my lips, and pressed her pretty eyelashes together when I tasted the crepe flesh of the lid; still, surrendering completely to my handling of her, she lurched and swayed beneath my hands as if she were only a doll, or a dead thing.

But Christine lived, and tasted like it.

Now the sensuous thing began to titter above me. "Erik, Erik," she whispered, "what are you doing?"

"Kissing you, my love," I told her throat, as I pulled the white skin between my teeth.

As I sucked at her flesh I bound her closer to me with my fingers coiled around the yellow braid at the base of her skull, stilling and steadying the girl against me by that erotic rope, as her red mouth stained my shirtfront. Tasting and licking and groaning I pushed myself further between her parted thighs, straining her bloodied gown across her legs, until the aching torment of my imprisoned cock pressed urgently to the soft warmth at the core of her, against that wet treasure still hidden from me beneath the dark ocean of wrinkled silk between us. I stared at the child and she at me; then with a crude groan I thrust myself against her, madly, senselessly, in a clothed mockery of the forbidden thing I so desperately needed from her but must not do, should not do, had to do to protect her! I held her to my chest and rubbed the wet, stained, sticking wool of myself between Christine's fat thighs, gripping her by the rear and grinding her roughly against me, yes, like a rutting animal, like a dog on the street, until I could very nearly feel the soft hole of her winking and spreading beneath the crushed layers of the gown I had bought for her, the gown that she wore only for me as she moved her sweet hips against mine like she wanted me, like she wanted me; and her fat hips and mine rustled the barrier of blue silk between us in the most erotic of melodies, the most carnal of songs until I was so close, so close to the core of her that I could almost penetrate the wriggling child with the tip of my cock as it forced all of the layers of the skirts I had bought for her inside her little wet cunt alongside it, and it was almost enough, it was almost enough, it might have been enough––

I would finish before I ever touched the girl if I carried on as such. Groaning, I shoved Christine from me, forcing her disheveled, seated form backward upon the table-top such that there was just enough space between us that my hurting, screaming cock was not pressed against her; she sighed and gave a sweet, shuddering moan as soon as she had broken from me, and swiped at her mouth with the stained flat of her hand.

Because if I had abandoned myself to the having of her, I would have it all.

Bending somewhat to reach her––the girl always managed to slump unattractively as she sat, despite the instruction I had given her to do otherwise––I brought my mouth again to her heaving chest, mentally noting my intention to soon resolve this problem of posture, whilst enjoying very much the frantic pace of her hummingbird's heartbeat and the shallow song of her audible breaths. Grinding my teeth upon the fat, overflowing flesh of her bosom I groped blindly next to her rump, and disordering and scattering what silver instruments still remained in their tray, I scrambled for the sharpest that my mad furor could identify, determining it as such by the wet, stinging gash the tool opened upon my fingertip.

Wordlessly, with the scalpel held aloft in my bleeding fist I slid my free hand beneath the girl's bodice, to tauten the fabric between my hands. Christine gasped as I brought the instrument to her chest but did not struggle against me, though I could feel her heartbeat quicken and see the lovely scarlet flush the sight ignited there. With the blade I rent the garment apart from the velvet trim just at the midpoint of the girl's shivering breasts, hacking and slashing, tearing, then slashing again at the layers of slippery, blood-spattered blue silk, rigid cotton coutil and warm batiste compressed upon her sweating skin, as Christine, silent, submitted limply to my grunting ministrations. As I tore the girl's clothing from her I ignored all her lovely hidden hurts, those black-blue and green stains on her breastbone, her ribs, no––I did not see them––and I would be better now, after this, would I not? It was only another reason to go through with it! Instead I followed the ragged, fraying split of the ruined garment with my eager mouth upon her bare skin––perfect, unblemished skin!––drunk on that intimate muskiness, the sour sweetness of her hot flesh and worn underthings, thrusting my tongue into the passage between her small, lush breasts, drinking every drop of her escaped blood and glistening sweat until I had exposed the entire front of her and sampled it all between my devouring lips.

Absently I slid my palm over my straining cock as I took in the effects of my frenzy. Her skirts remained intact, though wrinkled and tangled about her spread legs and mine––but from heaving chest to narrow waist, the blue silk gown hung entirely open, split apart along with everything else she had on beneath in a ragged line down the center atop the girls bare chest, yet fit snugly just as it had moments previous across her back and down her arms to the elbows. Now, clearly, I could watch the steady rise and fall of her rapid, anxious breath, as her pink nipples––surprisingly large for her slender form––tightened to firm, wrinkling points beneath my doubtlessly explicit gaze.

The strange expression the child wore only served to sweeten the effect of it all, but in my consuming determination I ignored her as she whispered my name, breathlessly, as if it were a question, and turned my attention again to the plush impossibility of her perfect, naked breasts. I had seen them before, no doubt––the girl's poor vision made all sorts of things easier than they had any right to be, and that's without addressing some of my more indelicate behaviors. I likely knew their inimitable shape well enough to craft a decent model in clay or wax, a somewhat-shameful experiment I admit I had once considered.

But there was no need for that, as now Christine was bare and open to me, and still the girl did not demur! Advancing toward her, pushing myself between her legs such that I could see the naked muscles of her abdomen trembling with the strain of keeping herself upright––I took a breast in each hand to squeeze and pinch and press, manipulating the flesh as if it were not that of a living girl beneath my hand but something else, something only I could touch and feel and know, as sweet, delicious Christine, red-chinned and sighing softly, vacillated against me; when I took a nipple between my teeth the child gasped for her elbow gave out beneath her, but my arm was there to capture her, and as I teased the wrinkled skin with my tongue it was snaking up behind her to hold her to me by her narrow waist. Sitting up on the table-top in my arms, Christine let her yellow head drop back, let fall her arms to drape limply at her sides, as indifferent to the quiet words she spoke above me, I ate at her––groaning, shuddering, in complete abandon, I sucked the girl's fat tit.

And she never even screamed.

Again the whore slid her hot fingers between my parted thighs to stroke at the foulest parts of me–– as she sought the return of my cock, no doubt––though as I ground myself urgently into that caress the maddening child pulled away, panting invitingly in my ear, to brace herself again upon the dining-table with both palms. I growled against her soft flesh and, pulling her inflamed nipple between my teeth even as I broke from her, I tore myself from the wretched temptation of her warmth and met the girl's open-mouthed stare; then with a groan I dragged my palms up her pale chest, her collarbone to her bloodied neck, disheveling the frayed edges of her torn bodice as I went, until my fingers found each other about the girl's fragile throat. Like a man possessed I watched her red lips as I squeezed, lightly, ever-so-lightly, not enough to even alarm the child, no, barely more than an embrace, oh, and tighter, tighter––but Christine was mouthing something, she was saying something, she was trying to turn her head and I could feel that familiar distortion of her muscles beneath my tensed palms––and I released her, splayed fingers suspended about the blue-blooming skin for no more than an instant as the girl gasped and sputtered and brought one sweet ruby palm to her throat. Around us had echoed a feral din and I realized the sound was borne of my own panting mouth, a symphony of breath and spit and unsaid things that the girl must have seen the primal meaning of in the depths of my stare; and now without my willing it my traitorous hands sought her heat again, dragged lower, down her red throat, down her smooth naked flesh and across her pink tits like two roses, over the milky curve of her softly tremulous belly, down over the silken crush of her ruined skirts between us and then, down, down, between her wriggling legs to hook my fingers beneath her, right there at the hot crux of Christine. Despite the bloodied silk in my palm I could feel the burn of her, I shut my eyes and now, much too roughly, I forced them within; I pressed my fingers inside her just enough, just barely enough, to enter her with her skirts and petticoats and everything beneath.

And so the deed was done.

My invasion must have jolted the girl; or was it the odd growling laugh I senselessly uttered as I pushed myself inside, again, again, and once more after that? Now with a sweet, furious excitement she freed her hips from my grasp and stared at me, all wide-eyes and wet nipples, her swollen tits like ripe apples rising and falling and rising again, ready to eat as I tore my fingers from her, and brought my fist down on the table with a crash that rattled all the silvery instruments and sent several clamoring to the floor like piercing bells.

"You are a vile slut, to incense me so, Christine!" I roared at her, gripping the table-top beside either of her fat, fleshy thighs with both hands, "see what you have made me do?" Hating her, loving her, I glared at the child's bloody face, until thoughtlessly, shamefully, with all the fire of my blood throbbing between my shaking legs, I struck her hard across the mouth.

This happened in such a frenzy of minutes that I could hardly register its having occurred at all. It had not been the first time I had hit the child and I knew it would not be the last, and yet the action had erupted from me in the familiar confusion, and quite unlike how she had responded previously, cowering enticingly as she was wont to do with her mouth contorted in that infuriating expression as if she hated me, hated me, hated me––the girl simply ignored the thing entirely. It occurred to me that she may not have felt this injury at all.

I gave an anguished, wordless sort of groan, and chest heaving wildly, groped for my sweating cock to stroke atop my trousers at the throbbing torment her fingers had abandoned, this bestial thing I wanted and needed and feared for her to touch. She watched me steadily for some moments as I met her eye, as I begged her, silently, pleaded with her to scream or cry or tell me no, to laugh, call me inhuman, a monster, obscene––as she herself has so often berated me, and as others had done long before her––to fight me or hit me or kick me or lock herself in her room for me to sate my repulsive desire in violence instead of lust as I threatened to break down her door––

And I have a way of getting through doors.

Still Christine said nothing. I hated her for it; I hated that it was I who had to make the decision, that the stupid child had given me thiz opportunity to ruin her, to betray her, and that I so easily had surrendered to it. I hated the steady way she held my eye even as her pale cheek went ruddy and dark blood began to collect in the corner of her mouth to spill again down her chin, and most of all, I hated the sweet lovely smile she plastered to her face, that lie, that pretense we both knew was as much a mask as mine.

"I am doing right by you!" I swore to the girl's relentless silence, "as I have always done! I love you, Christine, and I would never harm you!"

"I know," she said, and I hated her for that too.

I lunged again for the toppled brandy as it rolled about beside the girl's hip. Downing all that was left of the bitter liquid in a sloshing gulp, I said between gnashed teeth, "oh––you are a bitch, Christine, a whore––you have never deserved what I have offered you!" and shook the empty decanter before me as alcohol stung at my exposed mouth and chin. With another violence I flung the thing off somewhere––Christine, her bare chest painted with my sour spit and the marks of my teeth, still bloody at the corners of her lips, sighed quietly before me, as her white fingertips curled about the table's edge.

"Damn you, you stupid child!" I hissed, "damn you, for this!"

I believe I managed another curse or a sorry or a please––or more likely––a terribly wretched sob, but then my traitorous fingers were tearing blindly at the ivory buttons of my trousers, as pressed close against me Christine shifted her fat bottom on the table and steadied herself again upon her palms, as if she readied herself for me.

One yellow brow delicately furrowed, all red and blue and spit-smeared, the doomed little thing licked the blood from her swollen lip; I faltered in my half-dressed fury as ugly sounds, senseless, meaningless noise spilled from my open mouth. Glaring at the child, I struck myself upon the tender inside of my thigh; with a second hit I nearly smashed my aching scrotum and falling, groaning, I clutched the table beside the girl.

"Forgive me," I told her, my words rasping in recovery, "please forgive me––I do not want to, not like––but I cannot lose you. I cannot let you go. I cannot keep the promise I am bound to! Don't you see? It is the only way, Christine."

She nodded.

A moment passed in electric silence until I managed to bring myself again to standing, steadying my breath to the distracting pulse of this new ache, and returned my hands to my groin. I met the girl's eye as she met mine; then on a long exhale I slowly unfastened the remaining buttons of my fly, and carefully freed the purple, throbbing demon of my now-irrevocably damned cock to grasp it in my desperate, abhorrent fist, as Christine lowered her gaze to regard it.

I am not sure what I expected, in truth, presenting myself to her in such a manic display. The things I do rarely make much sense. Did I expect her to take up the disgusting thing in her bloody fingers, to stroke me as I had so often done to the fantasy of her, to guide me to the hole-of-her as she sighed my name so sweetly in my ear? The child before me only stared, wearing the same unbearable expression as she had worn when she saw my naked face.

"Christine," I tried to say the words and failed; instead I managed, with a cretinous waggling of my cock in my palm, "if you just let me...you might enjoy it, if you only tried..."

It was not meant to go like this, of course. I had always planned to marry Christine, from nearly the first moment I had laid eyes on the girl––for better or worse––to marry her and then naturally, to fuck her straightaway. In the chapel perhaps, before the priest, if we even made it to one. I would have fucked her on the stage of the Garnier with my mask on fire if that was how she would take me, that is how desperately I wanted Christine. I could have been convinced, easily, to raze the entire opera house if she might have let me stick my cock in her for it, though I highly doubt the child would have gone for that.

I wanted her to want me. To love me. I had tried so hard to make her see.

It was only the boy's fault she did not.

"Please," I heard myself muttering, to her unbearable, continued silence, "please, Christine."

So far I had kept her down below for eleven days, with increasingly short recesses in the world above, and her generally caustic manner had so far prevented any true attempt at conjugal intimacy on my part, although I had earlier sustained a mad hope that, maybe, maybe, she was actually a little slut, and would fall to her pink knees and beg me to fuck her as soon as she learned I was a man with a real, real, actually real, God-damned real cock, and not the sexless Angel the child had imagined me to be, and continued to regard me as since.

Perhaps Christine would never want me as I did her. In all my life, none had before her, and I would not delude myself into thinking that might change now. But I knew what was best for the child, and what was best for her, was me. I would protect her, better her, inspire her––and she could return my favors. I could save her from the life that boy would surely push her into, the life of a whore, a mistress, a slave! I could bring the girl fame and glory and triumph––protect her from him, from him, oh, and damn her, for also, from me––if the girl would only do as I asked, she would be safe! If I only had her, then I would not need her––and I would not hurt her. No more bruises, no more teeth. I knew it must be so. Could she not see? It could be so easy, between us, if she would––

It was the only way to save her, and myself, and her from myself. But I digress.

The girl had ceased her childish fidgeting; now Christine sat rigidly before me, hardly breathing for the stillness of her naked chest. Just before her I stood with my ugly shame held out and dripping lustily onto her skirts as I offered it to her in shame, in utter desperation––for what felt like an eternity I glared at her, as the entirety of my pulse throbbed unbearably in my fist, and all the rest of me was numb from lack of blood.

I was still waiting for the girl to scream.

"Erik," she started, finally, as every cell in my body thrummed in anticipation of her next words, as if I were only a body about to be pushed over a precipice––pushed over, or spared––"do not be angry, but I do not feel quite right… I do not think I can sing, tonight. Please, do not be angry. May I go to bed?"

"To bed?" I growled, returning to myself much as a flood breaks a dam, "to bed, little Christine?" Curling my fingers tight around the disgusting thing, I squeezed at my cock as I advanced, only a step, towards her. "So that you might dream of your darling Vicomte instead of your Erik?"

She had begun to pad at her bottom lip with the tips of her fingers; now Christine frowned to find them stained red and wet, as squinting, she brought the hands before her eyes. "Raoul?" she whispered, still furrowing her lovely brow at her ruddy fingertips; watching this, hearing that , I pumped myself roughly in my fist.

"I gave you a chance, my love," I said, "I have given you nothing but chances."

"Oh," said the child, staring down her naked front, as she wiped her red fingers across the table-top. "Do as I say, Christine," I said, softly, still stroking myself in my fist, "and nothing will hurt."

She raised her blue gaze to meet my eye. "Erik," she breathed; Christine was beautiful and I deserved her, she was saying my name and no one else's, she would never say his again! She was mine! Was she not?

She would be.

"Yes, now––open your legs." As soon as I had asked it of her, my good girl spread them for me as far as they could go––surprisingly far, the little vixen––and flattened her palms to her knees.

"Show me, underneath," I said, stroking, still stroking; too slow and too lightly to finish and yet I could not tear my hands from myself even as the girl, having taken up again her own senseless caressing of the blue silk upon her knees, watched me do the foul thing. "Pull up your skirts, Christine––now––and show me."

Now Christine whispered to me, "I could sing, Erik, after all, I can––wouldn't you prefer to sing?" which served only to incense me further, unfortunately––and so, inexplicably, I slapped my cock against her silken thigh and groaned obscenely at the contact.

"Pull them up or I will tear them from you!" I shouted at her, thoroughly abandoned to my insanity––for now as the woman I loved more than anything I could have ever dreamed or invented hastily pulled her piles of skirts up about her hips, balling the mass of fabric around her waist and under her rear, preparing to take me inside of her, actually inside of her ––I wanted nothing more than to wrap my fingers about her trembling throat or again, to kiss her and strike her beautiful, blood-stained, pain-swollen face with this repulsive weapon deep inside her––to choke her, hurt her, fuck her, kill her––no, not kill, not kill––but I could not worry about this, now, not at this point, as it was much too late for that sort of concern, and what must happen, will, as it always, always does.

I was fairly certain I could resist further violence if I only took her quickly.

Very quickly. Before me Christine was very nearly bare, tucking away her skirts about her hips such that I could clearly see the bare flesh of her thigh above her stocking ribbons, and the white cotton of her panties above them. Now, with my cock in one fist I groped for her leg with the other, capturing it about that strip of bare flesh, and wrenching the poor thing towards me such that her palms slid out from underneath her and she collapsed bodily onto the table-top with a cry. Still the obedient thing held her skirts up even as she writhed on her back against the wood; they fanned out around her as I dragged her ever closer, until her fat bottom hung off the table's edge, and I could see the open mouth of her pink cunt, slick and stinking and spread wide between the split of her panties. With my fingers still curled around my hated, pounding instrument I tore at the split with my free hand, as sweet Christine said something beneath me I could not hear and cared nothing for besides––and then, grabbing the insufferable, inciting thing by the back of her upper thigh and groaning revoltingly, I eased the head of my cock inside her.

The girl was pleasantly slick, thankfully (if astonishingly), though as I attempted to fuck her there at the table's edge I felt her tight little virgin's body resist me; I found I could not bury my full length inside. I opened my eyes, having closed them upon sampling the unbelievable tightness of Christine upon the tip of me, drunk on the sensation that was so much more exciting than any amount of brandy, and drunker still on my own vicious abandon to the brutal task. On her back beneath me, the sweet child would not look up at me; she had raised her dangling feet––one still in its evening-shoe and stocking, the other tantalizingly underdressed––to press against the table's edge at either side of my thighs as if to prevent my entering her fully, and wound her scrambling fingers in the blue silk of her skirts, tautening and straining the fabric between her rigid arms even as her delicious tits bounced appetizingly beneath my gaze. As I groaned her name she squeezed her eyelids tightly shut, her shallow breath hissing loudly from between her parted lips; I felt all the twitching muscles of her cunt against me and I knew, I knew that no matter how much she fought me, no matter how many tears she would spill tomorrow, Christine wanted whatever I did to her.

"Open your eyes," I told her, as I gripped her leg behind the knee and tossed it up over my shoulder. She did––obedient still!––and watched me as I took up her other leg, peeling her curled toes from the table's edge to sling it efficiently around my waist, as I enjoyed the resultant sensation of her hot knee hooking my back. Her sweet brow furrowed as I captured her beneath her skirts, about her rear; I realized it was likely no one had fully explained what I now, inescapably intended to do to her, and felt a sudden parental need to warn the poor girl.

"How is the tooth, Christine?" I asked her, impressed at the medical indifference with which I managed the words, as I held her still form almost-skewered upon me. I will admit it took a great deal of my strength not to simply finish in what depth of her I had so far entered, but alas, I wanted to claim the child entirely, and so I would. "Do you feel any pain?"

"I don't think so," she said quietly, if raggedly, "some––a small amount, maybe." She swirled her tongue again about her mouth; on the table-top beside her I noticed a shallow pool of frothy blood, as if she had spit or drooled it.

"The drug is likely wearing off, my love. It does not last for long." I pressed my lips to the inside of her stockinged knee, slung conveniently over my shoulder; I dragged a palm up the length of her leg, rolling away the silk to gather around her ankle and suck at the newly-bare, sticking flesh, then slid my hand back down again to grip her beneath her rear. "I will work quickly, Christine, and––well, we can go from there."

"Oh," breathed the little thing, as I felt her frail leg tense around my waist.

Then, tightening my grasp on her, I said, "I am afraid this still may hurt."

Now as the girl sucked in a long breath, I thrust myself again within her, groaning obscenely as I buried myself to the hilt against the slick, sticking flesh of her fat cunt and the rumpled, damp cotton of her torn panty, and felt the accompanying release of tension upon the drill of my cock- head as I broke through that final, forbidden barrier of her girlhood.

She said nothing of it, made no sound or complaint, even as I began to move against her, slowly, steadily, then faster, deeper––my devouring anger had stilled somewhat at the unbelievably enthralling, fascinating embrace of Christine's cunt––just as I had known it would––and as I pushed inside her I barely wanted to hurt the lovely thing at all!

I had anticipated that I would finish quickly, and now nearly as soon as I had taken the girl's virginity, I felt that repulsive ecstasy building within me; groaning, I folded over her, groping for her flailing arms and gripping both by her forearms. Pinned by my hands to the table and with nowhere else to writhe about, her back began to arch toward me even as she clearly resisted it; her darkened teeth closed in a red grimace as she turned her lovely head and squeezed her eyelids shut as I, grunting with each damning thrust, continued in her surgery.

The table shifted beneath us in a grating clamor upon the slab floors, erratically sliding out from under me with each stumbling thrust and disordering the dining chairs in the process. I could sense her body's resistance to me––the girl certainly was not enjoying herself, but that I would remedy in time––and as I pushed inside her she moved fitfully on the table despite my hold, jerking against me and back again, singing soft little noises for me and chewing her bottom lip, as her delicious little tits bounced upon her sweating chest. A chair fell to the floor in an echoing clatter, the pile of rags toppled over the side; Christine's wooden arms stretched and flailed about her, one scrabbling upon the tabletop as the other curled tightly around its edge. As I watched her there beneath me––oh, God––as I fucked her there beneath me, new blood pooled about her teeth to bubble through the gaps and in the pouting corners of her mouth, and when my lovely girl spread her lips to cry out for me, to groan for me, she painted her chin and cheeks and throat with fresh, red, steaming blood; and now there was blood in her nose and her eyes and her mouth, blood spilling into the holes of her ears and dying the yellow of her hair, blood on the table-top that made a painting beneath her as I pushed and pushed her over the canvas, blood that I had made even without even hurting her, blood that bound the girl to me––and lower, lower, there was blood, blood in red and brown and white, squish, squish between the girl's trembling thighs, slip, slip between the steaming crush of our tangled flesh I saw the dark stain of her on the wet shaft of me as I took her and took her and took her again––blood, red blood, as it slid down between us to darken my trousers and color my white shirttails; blood like a rose unfurling its petals, blood like horrible proof, staining, damning, terrible proof that the child was no longer a child, but Christine, and now Christine was mine, mine, mine––

I pushed into her harder, faster now, wrapping my fingers about her thin, sweating limbs and yanking her up against me, dragging her slack form up again to press her bare, sweating red apple- tits to my bloodied waistcoat, enfolding her in my sticking skin; freed, she flung her arms about my shoulders. I clasped her bottom beneath her tangle of skirts and drove her again against me as her legs flailed wildly about my sides and she panted into my ear. In my madness I dragged my tongue across her red teeth, and as the little thing complained in my grasp I bit at her bloody chin, wet her cheeks and her eyes and her throat with me, me, wet, repulsive me, and dragging my palms up her sides I pinned her arms to her by her delicate biceps; and now, crushing her slight form against me, my groaning, ruinous mouth open wide against her blood and spit sodden cheek, I spent myself within her––in spasming ecstasy, in hot, throbbing release I filled her, as each convulsion thrust me forward and against her limp form even as I shook her with the effort. Sweat stank from my damp shirtsleeves as, groaning raggedly, I wrapped my arms around her slight, quivery form, hugging the lovely woman , my precious woman , my sweet womanly Christine tightly as my fingers bruised her fragile arms and her bare legs dangled at either side of my shuddering hips, and I kissed her, hard, hard upon her unresisting red mouth––I kissed her with my eyes closed tight and felt the pressure of her cheek against the hot leather shroud I wore, I felt all the delicate mouth-muscles moving beneath mine as the sweet thing pursed her lips together and angled them to meet me, so sweetly, so lovingly surrendering them to mine––and then gasping, we broke apart and I stared into her laughing eye, laughing even though the girl was silent, laughing even as she furrowed her sweet, sweat glistening brow, laughing as the steady stream of blood stained her white chin red––laughing––oh, Christine––laughing even as she stared at me and whispered, so close against me that I could feel her breath upon my dry lips, "Erik, Erik, what have you done––"

A/N: This story will be published in three parts, stay tuned. Shoutout to larissabernstein who beta'd part one while on vacation, and assured me that throat fisting is hot.

*Some slight edits to the text have been made since the original date of publication.

Thank you for reading. If you read until the end, please leave a review and let me know what you think! Comments of all sorts are very much appreciated, at any time.

-Cat