Sherry
By Kryss LaBryn
A/N: For the delightful, the delectable, and the oh-so-helpful Biskuits! :D
A warning: This story was written with one purpose, and one purpose only: sex. It isn't PWP, because it does have a plot; but the plot is "They have sex." So the related scenes are rather more forthright than my usual tasteful fades-to-black. So it may not be work-safe.
This is long enough that it probably ought to have more than one chapter but I didn't want to interrupt the flow, so you get the complete story in one go. Enjoy!
Alone in Erik's home in the wall beyond the lake, Christine wandered. Left to her own devices she perused his well-stocked bookcase for diversion, but found herself baffled by books whose spines sported strange, alien alphabets. Even the more recognisable Roman alphabet gave her troubles: the books in what she supposed was Hungarian she couldn't read; in the French she found nothing of interest; and so she continued until one edition finally caught her eye.
The book itself was unremarkable: a simple leather-bound tome, like unto many others in that deep-buried bookcase, save for one thing: The title was in English. Curiosity prodded boredom, and Christine rescued the book from the embrace of its fellows. "The Monk: A Romance," she murmured, reading the title, and blew a thin layer of dust from its bound pages. Opening it, she was delighted to find that it seemed to be a collection of ghost stories: Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power, Witches, and ghosts who rove at midnight hour the first page advertised.
She had loved ghost stories and tales of supernatural things since she was a child; already the book seemed a sudden meeting of an old friend in the strange circumstances in which she found herself. Wandering over to the homely little sofa near the modest gas-fuelled fire in Erik's parlour, she curled up, determined to winkle out at least the gist of the stories, inadequate though her English might be.
One picked a little up, here and there: travelling as a child; in campfire-lit conversations with the Rom, who wandered everywhere and spoke every language; in the cafes and restaurants of sophisticated Paris, well-versed in a dozen languages; from the world-famous singers who travelled to tread the boards of a hundred cities. She had rarely had a chance to read the language, however, and often found she tripped over the pronunciation of the strange spellings when she did; but now, with Erik out and about, seeking supplies somewhere above (and she almost laughed aloud at the vision of that cadaverous figure wandering the markets with a homely basket over its black-clad arm), she felt safe in at least making the attempt. There was little else to do here, five floors below the surface of the earth, when her rather disquieting captor was not at home to entertain and occupy her; and certainly she need not fear being overheard!
"Scarcely had the Abbey Bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the Church of the Capuchins thronged …"
Translating the words of the aunt and her pretty niece did not cause her as much trouble as she half-feared it might; the language was not complicated and the overly-talkative old woman reminded her of her dear Mamma Valerius and made her smile, although she did experience a small pang of disappointment when that good lady's catalogue of the differences between the sexes was suddenly cut short—"Just the sort of information that I should have liked to have had," Christine thought to herself; "Not that I am ever likely to find out first-hand—not now," and she shed a small tear of self-pity.
She smiled, though, at the protestations of affection the young niece, Antonia, gave over the oratory skills of the titular Monk, of her fascination with the power of his voice. "At least I myself am not so naïve—no, not anymore!" And she sighed with deep feeling.
She snuggled deeper into the cushions, absorbed in the tale of the famous—and famously chaste—monk, and his warm friendship with one of the novices. She rather thought she might have liked Rosario; he seemed a kind and thoughtful lad, and utterly devoted to his master, the monk Ambrosio. Indeed, she could hardly imagine a closer relationship between two men. But what was the terrible secret that plagued the poor novice? She read on, gripped by the story.
" '…Throwing himself at the Friar's feet, and pressing his hand to his lips with eagerness while agitation for a moment choked his voice —' the poor man!" Christine absently chewed a thumbnail. " 'Father!' continued he in faltering accents, 'I am a Woman!' –A woman! Good lord, a woman?"
A deep chuckle made her jump. Slamming the book closed, she looked guiltily up, only to see her captor reclining comfortably in the chair opposite. "Found that surprising, then, did you?" he asked, amusement tingeing his voice.
"I—oh, dear; I am sorry for taking the book without asking, Erik…"
"Nonsense." He waved her apologies away. "I have already told you to regard this as your own home. But tell me," and he leaned forward, hands clasped before him in a very casual pose, "What do you think of our little revelation?"
"I—oh! Um… Revelation?"
"Yes, my dear; that our good Rosario is… shall we say, rather lacking in some essential equipment required for monkshood? Damned if I know why they need it, though," he added, leaning back again. "It isn't as though they're permitted to do anything with it."
Christine blinked. "I'm sure that the monastery provides whatever equipment a monk would need. Surely the novices don't provide their own robes?"
Erik made a sound that was almost a chuckle. "I am speaking of equipment that monks keep beneath their robes, not the robes themselves."
Christine frowned a little, still confused. "…Their crucifixes?" she said at last.
Erik regarded her silently for a moment too long before finally saying, "Yes. Their crucifixes. Of course."
"Well, I suppose I should see about—" Christine said, slightly uneasy at his tone, but Erik interrupted.
"It can wait," he said smoothly. "Now. What do you think of our little revelation that Rosario has even more feminine traits than we ever suspected?"
"Oh!" Christine blushed slightly, and chewed the nail again for a moment. "Well, I found it very surprising, of course!"
"Did you indeed?"
"Oh, yes! Because, of course, she could always have simply become a nun! So why pretend to be a man and enter a monastery instead?"
The golden lights shining from the depths of his black mask winked out for a moment as if Erik had blinked. "You truly don't know why she chose to enter the monastery instead of a nunnery?"
"No," Christine confessed. "But my English isn't really all that good; I may have missed something."
"Oh, well then, by all means, you must continue!" Erik regally waved at the book, and settled himself more comfortably against the cushions. "After all, we must solve this mystery, mustn't we?"
"Oh, my English really isn't good enough for this…" Christine demurred nervously, but Erik would have none of it.
"Nonsense! Your English is quite sufficient, from what I heard. Please, read on; if a word gives you trouble I would be happy to translate it for you."
"Oh, do you speak English? Where did you learn?"
"In England, of course. Now. Please…" and he gestured for her to continue.
"Oh, but then you must read it, not me. My English really is terrible." She blushed again, not knowing quite why the idea of reading this story to him was making her so uncomfortable.
"But it is you who need the practice, dear Christine! Wait, perhaps I have something…" He rose and rummaged about at the sideboard behind her; she heard a clink of glass and a gurgle. "Here," he said, handing her a glass. "To take the edge off your nerves."
She did not really feel much like drinking at that moment, but a small sip did settle her somewhat. "It's very sweet!" she exclaimed. "What is it?"
"An English drink, a type of wine called sherry," he gaily replied. "Do you like it?"
"Yes, I think I do," she said, taking a larger drink.
"Excellent. Then please, do read on. I am all agog."
Still faintly blushing, Christine took up the book again. "Now, where was I?" She thumbed through the pages, enjoying the warmth of the sherry in her belly. "I say, this is very warming, isn't it?"
"Yes," he replied; "it's why I keep it. It can get chilly down here."
Christine found this very amusing. "Oh! Here we are," and she bent over the book to hide her smile. "Oh! Oh, dear!"
"Why, whatever is wrong, my dear Christine?" Erik asked smoothly.
"Oh, an adder has bitten the good monk!—What is an 'adder', Erik?"
"La vipère—Very much the type of snake Cleopatra pressed to her bosom when she committed suicide rather than be taken prisoner by the Romans—you remember the opera, surely?"
"Oh! Yes, of course! Adder." Christine rolled the unfamiliar syllables around her mouth for a moment before adding, "It's all very romantic, isn't it?"
"What is, my dear?"
"Well, that he was bitten by an adder moments after she confessed—what did she confess, Erik? I'm afraid I'm getting a bit muddled."
"She confessed her love for the monk, my dear. She said she had fallen in love with him from afar, and that is why she entered the monastery instead of a nunnery—to be closer to him."
"I see." She paused a moment in thought. "That was very naughty of her, wasn't it? I mean, I'm sure she would get in trouble if the other monks found out, wouldn't she?"
"Oh, I rather think that she is about to get even naughtier, my dear."
"Oh, surely not! What could be naughtier than pretending to be a man in order to sneak into a monastery?"
"Well, read on, and perhaps we shall find out, eh, my dear?"
"All right then… Oh, drat; I've gotten ahead of myself. I think… Is this where I stopped? 'Go then, Barbarian! But this resource is still left me.' As She said this, She suddenly drew a poignard: She rent open her garment, and placed the weapon's point against her bosom.' I don't know that word, Erik."
"Which one, my dear?"
" 'Bosom.'"
"Ah, yes. A delightful word. You would say, le sein. Are you quite well, my dear? You are turning a very becoming shade of red…"
"Oh! Um, no, it's just—just that I am so embarrassed by my poor English. I really don't understand very much of this, Erik. Are you sure that—I mean, won't you please—oh, dear…" Christine stuttered to a halt and tried to hide her confusion in a large swallow of sherry. "I, er, that is…"
"Yes?" Erik really did seem to be very patient with her, she thought. Not like when he was tutoring her at all.
"Could I—I mean, would you please…" She raised her glass hopefully. "For my nerves."
"Of course." And the glass was refilled.
"I—I don't suppose…" Christine began hesitantly, as Erik lowered himself once more into his chair. "I don't suppose that… you would join me?"
"I would be delighted to, my dear!" And indeed, thought Christine, he did seem very happy as he once more sprang erect and stepped closer.
"Oh, good! Only I feel rather selfish, drinking up all of your lovely sherry by myself."
"My sherry—Of course. The sherry. Yes. Of course." He paused for a moment before continuing to the sideboard.
He was acting very oddly, she mused, craning around to watch him. Odd even for Erik, I mean. He almost seems… well, quite dejected really. Or disappointed, perhaps? Oh, no! Oh, the poor man—Did he think I meant him to join me on the sofa? Oh, he must have. Oh, poor Erik.
It really was too bad that the poor man was so very extraordinarily ugly, she thought. He really could be very kind and sweet. It really was more the sum of his unfortunate traits, than any one individual feature. Well, aside from the lack of a nose, of course; that was extremely unfortunate. And the tautness of his skin, and his rather jaundiced appearance, and the hollow eye sockets… Still, while he was very skinny, that wasn't so bad in and of itself, she supposed. And his lack of hair was, well, not really a very great matter at all, was it? The uneven distribution of those few locks he did possess was regrettable, of course—and why did he grow them so long, she wondered suddenly? Was he trying to somehow hide his gleaming scalp? That didn't make any sense. Being bald wasn't that bad. Why, look at Étienne, that painter who fashioned such lovely backdrops for the theatre. He'd been shaving his head completely for years, since he started to lose his own hair, and he—why, he was quite attractive, actually. Very attractive, with his piercing blue eyes and well-formed cheekbones…
Christine took a large swallow of sherry to cover her sudden flustered blush, rather larger than she ought to have taken. The vapors quite went up her nose and made her splutter, which made her cough, which unfortunately made her spill her sherry.
Long fingers deftly plucked the glass from her shaky grasp, and offered her a cloth. "Are you all right?" he asked solicitously.
She held up a trembling hand as she coughed the last of the golden liquid out. "Yes, I—I think so," she gasped.
"Here," he offered the glass again. "Have a sip—a small sip—to wash the tickle down."
"Thank you." It did help a bit. "Oh, dear…" She looked at her dress in dismay. "Now I'm all sticky. At least I didn't get the book." She sighed. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue this another time, Erik. I need to—to wash." She felt rather daring, being so explicit before him, but really, the circumstances of their relationship were so extraordinarily beyond the bounds of convention that she suddenly felt rather devil-may-care. It was probably the sherry.
"No, I'll wait," he said. "I'm quite enjoying our evening; I am loath for it to end. Besides," he added jocularly, "You should probably have a morsel before you retire. It will make the sherry more agreeable."
"I suppose it would be an idea." Christine rose carefully, trying to avoid touching the sofa with sticky fingers, and finding it more difficult than she had anticipated. "I shall endeavour to—I'll be quick." She swayed gently, before heading to her room.
"Take your time," Erik called after her. "I'll prepare us a pleasant little something."
By the time Christine had washed her hands, removed her outer dress and bustle, and donned the lovely dressing gown Erik had left for her—a pretty, feminine confection of yards and yards of silk and ruffles that was nevertheless comfortingly modest in its long sleeves and high neck—she found that Erik had moved a small side table closer to the sofa, and set out a tempting array of cheeses, small slices of bread, and fruit. He had also refilled her glass.
"Thank you, Erik; this looks wonderful," she said, sinking gracefully (if a trifle bonelessly) onto the sofa. "I'm—I'm not quite sure if I ought to have any more sherry, though…"
"Nonsense, my dear." Erik resumed his own seat. "All you need is some food. Please, try some."
"Thank you," she repeated, touched anew by his solicitous manner. Indeed, nibbling a bit of bread spread with a lovely creamy brie did seem to help, and complemented the sweetness of the sherry beautifully. "Will you not join me?"
"Oh, I had a little something already," he said, glancing away.
"But surely you don't mean to simply sit and watch me eat?"
"Simply sitting and watching you eat would be a pleasure, my dear," he said politely, but shortly.
"But if you do, I will feel quite awkward," she smiled.
Erik sighed heavily and finally faced her. "In order to eat, I will have to remove my mask."
"Oh! Oh, I—I see. Well, never mind, then." Erik nodded and looked down until she added, "Just take the silly thing off and come and eat, then. This brie is too lovely not to share. To not share, I mean." She smiled and patted the sofa invitingly.
"Are—are you quite sure?" he asked. He half-rose, hesitant.
"Of course! Really, you can't just watch me eat; that would be quite ridiculous. I would choke from embarrassment, and then where would you be? Besides, I've seen you before—plenty of times, I mean." She didn't want him to think she was referring to the unfortunate unmasking incident. That really had been too bad of her, although she still thought it was a bit silly of him to have kidnapped her and then expected her to not do so. Still, he had such a lovely voice, that if she had never seen him… She took another bite, unaccountably flustered again.
"Well, if you're sure…" He came over and carefully lowered himself into the further corner, watching her out of the corner of his eye, it seemed, almost as if he expected her to suddenly jerk the sofa out from under him.
Poor man, he really does expect the worst from people, doesn't he? I suppose it's understandable, but still—Poor Erik!
"Come on," she coaxed, as she would a frightened animal. "Here…" and she held out a grape.
Slowly, hesitantly, his hands rose and he stripped off the black silk mask, leaving his hair slightly mussed as he did so. She found the sight oddly endearing, and was happy to have something besides his poor face to focus on—although focus of any kind seemed increasingly difficult.
"Come on," she repeated, waving the grape slightly. She expected him to grasp it; she was surprised when he shifted closer and bent his head, his eyes never leaving hers, to carefully take it between his teeth. Her hand trembled, and an odd thrill ran down her arm (leaving it feeling oddly exposed despite the modest sleeve) and into her tummy. He had been so deft that his lips (such as they were) had never touched her; she rather thought that he had even held his breath. He hadn't touched her at all; why was that strangely disappointing?
She broke his intent gaze as the grape disappeared behind his teeth. "Um. I think I will have some more sherry after all," she said faintly, reaching for her glass. Her hands trembled so that she had to use both to steady the glass as she raised it to her lips.
"Do be careful, Christine," came his low, delicious baritone from behind her, "Or you'll spill it again."
She managed not to choke a second time, but it was close. "Yes, thank you, Erik," she replied weakly. "I do think this sherry must be rather a strong drink…"
"It can be," he said, his voice stirring the small thrill in her tummy anew. She was suddenly intently aware that she had no dress on—no real clothes at all, really; nothing separated them but the yards of dressing gown, her petticoats, camisole, corset, chemise, drawers, and stockings, and her high laced boots. And several feet of sofa. Suddenly, it wasn't nearly enough.
"Have some more," he said. She wished he would stop talking; his voice was making the sherry do a funny little dance all through her veins. It was rather deliciously frightening. Perhaps he would read to her…
She opened her eyes, not realizing until then that she had closed them, and saw him offering a strawberry. She still clutched the glass in both desperate hands; she was afraid if she let go with one hand the tension in the other would cause her to fling the glass across the room. Letting go with both hands didn't seem an option. She cast him a rather frantic look.
He seemed to understand, for he gave a small smile and held it closer. "Turn and turn about, then, I suppose," he murmured.
She had no choice; she couldn't free a hand to take it, and she certainly couldn't turn her head away! She truly didn't wish to hurt his feelings, however uncomfortable she felt. Aiming carefully, she leant forward. She would have to bite it; it was too large to fit easily, otherwise. So she bit, the juice making her slurp slightly.
He laughed, a bit breathlessly, she thought. He had the over-bright eyes and giddy grin of a child who has just persuaded a wild bird to alight on his outstretched hand. It was touching, and disconcerting. She took another sip of sherry to cover her confusion.
"Shall—shall we read a bit more?"
"If you like." His gaze was very intense, she thought.
"Is—Is there something on my face?" she asked, laughing nervously.
"There is, yes." He leant forward and, so carefully and gently that he barely touched her, wiped away a small trickle of juice from the corner of her mouth with the very tips of his fingers.
She sat frozen in shock, her mouth slightly agape. He had touched her! She had not expected that, not at all. He was always so careful to avoid direct physical contact! Her hand flew to cover the trail left by his, which still burned on her skin. She shut her mouth with a snap, but couldn't seem to stop staring. A trickle of perspiration traced its way down her breast; her lap felt damp.
"You've spilled your sherry again," came his voice through the pounding in her ears. "You'll run out of dry things at this rate…"
It took her a moment to make sense of his words. She blinked several times and looked down. As he said, her glass was tipped onto its side, the last traces of a puddle soaking between her—into her lap. And down her front, she noticed with dismay. At least she wasn't sweating after all…
"Oh, dear," she said weakly, and with great concentration maneuvered the glass, still clutched tightly in her hand, onto the table. I knew I shouldn't have let go…
"I—I have to—Excuse me," she stammered; but as she rose to flee to the safety of her room, the floor did a curious tilt, naughtily and unceremoniously depositing her back onto the sofa. "Oh, drat!"
"Never mind," he soothed, the gleam in his eyes not matching the concern in his voice. "You'd never manage those buttons in this state, anyways. Here, let me help…"
Why was he so close? Why was he so close? She had all but landed in his lap! She couldn't think; he was much too close; his voice, his magical, enchanted, ensnaring voice was right in her ear; and her legs felt too rubbery to hold her. Drat that sherry!
She couldn't move; she was too shocked by his sudden boldness. She felt his fingers at the buttons of her dressing gown. She managed looked down at them. She expected clumsy fumbling, but while he trembled, his fingers were slow and careful. She watched him undo each button in agony.
"There," he breathed at last. She jerked her head up at the sound of his voice—too close! —and found herself staring at his mouth. How could such a ravaged visage produce such enchanting tones? She wondered suddenly if he could kiss, with no lips… She was rather afraid that she might find out.
"There," he said again. "Now we can get to the sherry. Oh dear, I don't seem to have a towel handy…"
"N-neither do I," she managed to choke out. I'll just go and fetch one, shall I? she was about to add, but he gave her no chance.
"I suppose we'll have to make do, then," he murmured, a predatory gleam in his eye, and so suddenly that she gave a small shriek, he bent forwards and licked at the trickle of sherry. "Delicious," he murmured, tracing the rivulet along her collarbone.
Christine barely heard him. Her eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of his tongue—Erik's tongue!—sliding against her flesh. She could feel little warmth from his body, but his breath was hot against her damp skin. She desperately wished he would stop on his own, because she truly didn't know how to stop him herself.
She desperately hoped that he wouldn't…
I might find out the differences between men and women after all, she thought suddenly. Oh, dear…
"Oh, dear," Erik echoed, his voice strained. "Your corset is all soaked with sherry, too. We'd better have it off, then…"
She didn't know what to do with her hands. She tried to pull his hands away, but her strength had left her. Weakly she grasped his fingers, but could do no more than clutch them convulsively as he found the busk of her corset beneath her camisole. She couldn't tell who was guiding whom as he slipped the two sides apart. "Don't … stop," she murmured as he gently pulled down the tops of her camisole and chemise and bent his head to trace his tongue along her exposed cleavage. She didn't know if it was in protest or encouragement.
This was wrong, all wrong! Her head was swimming so that she could barely tell which way was up. This was Erik! Erik caressing his noseless face against the lawn of her camisole, Erik who had lied to her, kidnapped her—she could feel the bones of his shoulder and hips right through his suit as he pressed against her. This was Erik—oh, God—Erik closing his lipless mouth over her nipple—she could feel the moist heat of his mouth right through the cotton as he caressed her with his tongue.
"Oh God—Erik!" she cried as he suddenly suckled her, arching against him and clutching at his back.
He moaned against her and frantically pulled her chemise up over her belly to slide his hand down under the waistbands of her petticoats and drawers. She gasped as his fingers slid between her legs, and instinctively spread her knees and pushed against him. Dimly she realized that he was shaking like a leaf and gasping so loudly she feared he might pass out. –Or was that her..?
With sudden violence he sat up and threw her over sideways to lie sprawled along the sofa. He tore off her drawers with one convulsive movement and knelt between her spread and trembling legs, fumbling desperately to undo the buttons of his trousers. He gave up after a moment and simply yanked open his belt, jerking his trousers down in almost the same motion.
She raised her head to see but before she could glimpse anything past his dangling shirt tails he was over her, his weight pinning her as his hand fumbled down between them, between her legs.
"Erik—Please!" she gasped. This was all too sudden—she could feel him rubbing something soft and firm against her folds, spreading slickness as he pressed against her, and then, without warning, something large slid right inside her, piercing her to her core.
It hurt! Something tore inside, she was sure. Frightened, she clung to him for comfort even as he thrust against her, his face buried against her neck.
The pain receded, but washed passion away with its wake. She felt ill. She was lying naked, exposed, her petticoats flung up over her naked belly, her drawers dangling from an ankle, wetness soaking beneath her as he fucked her.
Fucking. That's all this was. She had heard the term and thought it vulgar; but now she understood. It was not merely a coarse synonym for making love, for sex. Absent passion and affection, absent love, this was nothing more than brutish, animalistic rutting.
"Please, Erik!" she whimpered, pushing against him even as he gave several last, sharp thrusts and convulsed against her with a guttural cry. He lay motionless for what seemed an eternity, as his breathing slowed and she silently wept against his shoulder, before he shifted to take his slight weight off her.
He was silent a long moment, his face still buried in her hair, before he softly spoke. "Are you crying, Christine?"
She couldn't answer; the concern in his voice only made her cry harder. He raised his head and looked at her. "Oh, Christine… Oh, my dear, I am sorry. I should have taken more time, but you… you feel so… Did it hurt?"
She nodded mutely, unable to meet his gaze.
"Oh, Christine, my dear, sweet Christine… Please, let me make it better." He raised a finger and gently wiped her cheeks. "I know—I know I am not a very handsome fellow, but it doesn't have to be—You can enjoy it too, Christine. Please, let me show you." He cradled her face in his hand, gently turning her to face him. "Please?"
She still could not, or would not, speak; but whatever he saw in her eyes as he studied her tear-stained face he seemed to read as assent, for he sighed as if in relief and shifted against her. "No, please don't!" she said sharply, twisting away from him, but he chuckled slightly.
"My dear, I am spent. I will not be able to perform again until morning. But there are other things I can do…"He lowered his head until she thought he would kiss her, lips or no, but after gazing at her for a moment, he simply shifted again. "My leg is falling asleep," he explained, and lifted a finger and gently stroked her cheek.
She tensed, but he simply stroked, back along her cheekbone, down along her jaw to her chin, and back again, until she started to relax slightly. She felt a strange vibration from his chest and realized he was humming, so quietly she could barely hear, a simple, repetitive tune such as one might sing to soothe a child.
She began to calm down, her eyes drifting closed as he stroked her cheek, up, over, down, over, up… She was all but asleep when she realized that he had included her ear and her throat in his ministrations. She tensed for a moment again, opening her eyes; but really, it did feel nice, and he wasn't doing anything… untoward.
He met her gaze for a moment, wordlessly, then, ever so slowly, lowered his mouth to her cheek. He had scant lips to press to her skin; instead he exhaled against her for a moment, warm and moist, and gave her temple a slight lick.
His touch awoke an echo of that strange thrill in her again. Her tummy fluttered as he traced the same route with his tongue, even as his fingers kept stroking her other cheek. Slowly, slowly, he traced the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw, the column of her neck, the contours of her collar bone. She trembled, remembering the sensation of his mouth on her breast…
"Christine, beautiful Christine," he murmured against her skin, before pausing and saying carefully, "My dear, I am sure you think me a horrid old letch, but you really are still soaked in sherry. You really should disrobe." When she made no reply he added, "I am not saying that solely for the chance to enjoy the sight of your beauty unveiled. Come now; sit up." He took her hand and helped her upright.
She felt cold without his body and the sofa against her; she shivered, wrapping her arms about herself. "Please, Erik," she said; "I do appreciate what you're doing for me, but it's late and I'm cold, and—I think I would just like to go to bed. I'm sorry." She bent her head.
There was only silence for a moment; then a heavy weight was draped about her. "Here," he said. "Stay here for a moment. Eat if you wish; I will return in a few minutes.
She snuggled deeper into the heavy blanket but did not look up, waiting until his footsteps receded into the distance and she heard water splashing before peeping cautiously out. She glanced at the remains of their small meal, but the thought of food made her stomach heave, so instead she simply wrapped the blanket about her, lay down again, curled onto her side, and waited.
True to his word, he returned a short while later. He stood over her a moment as she gazed into the fire, then bent and gathered her up in his arms, blanket and all. "Shhh," he murmured against her hair as she squeaked a protest, and carefully carried her into her room, and the bath beyond.
He had filled the tub; the water steamed gently, invitingly. "Stand now," he murmured, and set her upright. Carefully he unwrapped the blanket and tossed it into the bedroom, closing the door behind him as he turned to face her again.
"Um…" Christine stood helplessly. She didn't know what to do with him there. Was he expecting her to disrobe before his very eyes?
He gestured, slightly awkwardly. "You've had a lot of sherry. A bath will warm you and clean you, but I don't want to risk you slipping or falling asleep in it."
"Turn your back then, at least," she said tartly, too cold to argue. As he complied she slipped out of the remains of her clothing as quickly as she could, kicking the lot into an untidy heap in the corner, and slipped into the tub. She hunkered down as far as she could, painfully aware that the clear water hid nothing.
"Are you in?" he asked.
"Yes, but—" but before she could continue he turned, reaching for the soap.
"Erik!" she squeaked, even as a part of her wondered why she was still shocked by anything at all.
"I refuse to leave you alone, so I may as well be of some use while I'm here," he said calmly. "Lean forward; let me do your back."
She glared at him a moment, suspicious, before reluctantly complying. As he said, he might as well be of some use, especially considering that it was his fault that she was covered with sherry in the first place!
He lathered his hands and gently, carefully washed her neck and shoulders as she rinsed off the stickiness elsewhere. He worked his way a little further down, then said, "Up on your knees now, please."
She protested; he sighed. "I can't very well wash what's underwater, can I? And your back is to me… Not that I can't see your lovely bottom anyway," he added, not quite under his breath.
Up on her knees it was, then, the water now lapping gently at the tops of her thighs. It was oddly thrilling, feeling him caressing her naked back as the water teased her naked… bits. It felt deliciously naughty, she realized, being washed by him this way, naked before him, yet most of her charms hidden from his gaze…
From his gaze, but not his touch, she realized with a shiver. He was scooping water in his hands to rinse her off, chasing the rivulets with his fingers as he wiped away the soap from her shoulders, her back, her sides… The sensation of his calloused fingers lightly skimming down the sides of her breasts was frighteningly erotic. When he reached her hips he paused for a moment, his hands splayed against her skin as she knelt, frozen.
All pretense of washing gone, he slowly slid his hands back and down until he was cupping each cheek. He squeezed, gently, then slid one hand around to her waist to brace her as he slowly reached beneath her with his other, his fingers parting her folds to slide against her. She tensed, half expecting him to throw her over again, but he kept his movements slow, tantalizingly slow, as he lightly traced his way, so lightly that it almost tickled; so lightly that she quivered.
Lightly, oh so lightly, the rough pads of his fingertips caressed her, edging now forward, now back, until, reaching just a little further, he found a sensitive nub of tissue that Christine hadn't even dreamed existed. The tantalizing, delicate quiver in her tummy was completely overthrown by a violent wash of sensation. She gasped in shock and unwilling pleasure; she almost collapsed.
"Oh, Christine," Erik groaned in answer. "Stand up; brace yourself against the other side," he commanded.
Barely able to think, she stood and bent forward to tightly clutch the rounded enamel of the edge of the tub. She was thoroughly exposed, he could see everything, and she didn't think she'd ever felt more vulnerable or naked; but she just didn't care so long as he didn't stop..!
Her head was spinning; she could barely make out what he was doing; she could feel everything. He was pinching the nub, pinching it, stroking it, tugging at it, while his other hand—where was his other hand? It wasn't on her waist anymore—Oh, God! His fingers slid right inside her! They were moving in and out, twisting inside her, rubbing at her, until she could hardly breathe. Something was building inside her but she didn't know what. It felt massive—it felt—oh God—"Erik!" she cried, pleading for something she didn't understand, couldn't articulate.
It was so hard to hold still, but she was so afraid she'd slip if she moved. She wanted to thrust, to grind back against him… Whimpering with need, she curled her fingers under the iron edge of the tub and pushed back against his fingers, those long, calloused, musician's fingers. She was so close, so close to something… He gasped her name as she did her best to buck against him, her knees weak and rubbery. So close...!
Oh, God. There was something—something pushing against her anus. She was too tight, instinctively squeezing shut against the intrusion—what was it? Both hands were busy on her, in her—It must be his thumb, she realized. She didn't—didn't want—but what if I trust him? Just this once? With her last coherent thought she tried to relax. It was hard, but he was determined. His fingers writhed inside her, pinched and pulled the now-swollen nub mercilessly—and his thumb slipped inside.
It was enough. She came. Screaming, gasping his name, she came, falling to her knees with a splash, biting her forearm in an agony of release, she came.
It triggered an aftershock of sensation when he finally let her go, pulling out to allow her to sink the rest of the way down, leaning boneless and exhausted against the side, but she was so wrung out that she could only moan. I ought to thank him, she thought; and I ought to get out; it's getting cool. But she didn't have the energy to move.
After a time, half asleep, she heard a gurgle and realized the water was retreating. He'd pulled the plug. A soft towel enveloped her, as with a quiet, "Come, my dear," he lifted her from the tub. "Stand for a moment," he commanded gently, and she somehow managed to comply as he carefully and thoroughly dried her. Wrapping her in another towel, he carried her out and laid her on the bed.
She managed to sit up, and began to pull the pins out of her hair. "Thank you," she said shyly, peeking out from behind the escaping wisps, but somehow, even now, not quite able to meet his eyes. "That was… lovely."
"Do you—may I please..?" His hesitancy, after his prior boldness, surprised her. She looked at him blankly for a moment, not understanding until he gestured to her hair.
"Oh! Oh, um, yes, if you like…"
"Thank you, Christine," he said sincerely. He carefully removed the rest of the pins and brushed the gleaming, golden mass of her hair back over her naked shoulders as he added, "You don't know how many dreams you've fulfilled for me tonight…"
It was odd, she suddenly realized, sitting naked before her horrifically deformed captor, but, perhaps because of all that had happened, even if it was only for this moment… suddenly, he wasn't very ugly after all. Or rather, he was, but it had somehow ceased to matter.
He sighed, reluctantly withdrawing his lingering hands from her hair, and with something akin to surprise, reacting almost instinctively, without thought, Christine reached up to cradle his face in her palms. She smiled at him as he gaped at her, and carefully, gently, she leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth.
It was… nice, she decided. She hadn't expected that, but his skin was soft, and he tasted sweetly of sherry. The poor man was trembling against her, his eyes squeezed shut as he leant forward and lightly rested his forehead against hers. "Oh, Christine…" he breathed. "My love… Thank you so much."
He had satisfied his own needs with her, she thought, and he had satisfied hers—but what might it be like to satisfy each other's? I can always blame it on the sherry, she thought wryly, and smiled. Really, the worst had already happened, hadn't it, and it hadn't been so bad after all. Why could they not, just this once, each assuage a little of their loneliness in each other, together? She could see no harm in it, and she was already undressed, and in bed…
Tilting her face, she kissed him again, the other side of his mouth, and lightly flicked the tip of her tongue against his skin, tasting him. Salt and sherry. He froze again, before raising trembling hands to gently grasp her shoulders. Salt and sherry and wet… tears?
He was silently weeping, all-to-human tears appearing disconcertingly over the edge of his cavernous eye sockets before running in a perfectly ordinary manner down over his cheeks and her hands. He fell to his knees before her, and she had to release him as he pressed his face into her lap with gasping sobs. "Oh, Christine—Christine! You are so good, much too good to me, poor wretch that I am! Such delights I've sampled tonight, and now you've given me the greatest gift I—" He stopped, choking. Christine felt like crying herself. To think, after all that he had done tonight, that such a simple thing as a kiss should so completely undo him!
"Erik, I'm sorry—it's all right," she crooned, gently stroking his head.
They sat like that for what must have been several minutes, until he at last stood and turned his back to her to collect himself. "Thank you," he said again, finally, not quite glancing back at her. He seemed about to say more, but stopped and simply stood a moment longer, staring at the floor.
In a moment he's going to leave, she realized. He'll leave, and we won't speak of it in the morning, and I can pretend that the sherry has quite made me forget—if I wish. But, oh, I don't want to forget! Dear God, this must be a sin, to feel such things, and to want to feel them with him, but God help me, I want more!
"Erik," she said, as he took a step away. He paused and she rose, pressing herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him. "Turn around?" she quietly pleaded.
Slowly, as if in disbelief, he did so, until finally she stood, naked, her hair cascading down her back to brush against her bottom, pressed against him, the Phantom, her tutor. My lover, she realized, as he raised a wondering hand to her cheek. That too, now. Even if he leaves this moment, that too.
In the low light from the single lamp by her bedside it was impossible to make out his eyes themselves, even this close, even as he bent his great height nearer; but the golden reflections seemed uncertain as they searched her own eyes. She didn't quite know what to say, how to explain, so she simply reached up to pull his head closer as she strained on tiptoe to reach him again. Closing her eyes with a delighted shiver as his shirt front abraded her already-sensitive nipples, she once more found his mouth with her own.
He turned into it, surprising her, gently pulling at her lower lip with his teeth before flicking his own tongue out to lick at her lips as he pressed what little lips he had to hers. It was charming; it was delightful; it was intoxicating. Pressing harder against him she opened her mouth to his, seeking his tongue with hers. He returned her licks and nibbles for a minute, stroking and sucking at her tongue, before suddenly, in a move that left her breathless and giggling, he bent down to seize her by her thighs, lifting her high against him. Instinctively she clutched at him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he groaned against her neck.
His own knees must be giving way, she thought with a giggle as he staggered to the bed. He threw her down but was on her in a moment himself, not giving her time to rise. "No, wait—" he gasped. "Lie back…"
She obeyed, lying back against the bolster, but to her surprise, rather than ravishing her upon the instant, he simply and gently lay his head upon her bosom. He gave a deep sigh and softly stroked her breast for a moment, before saying wonderingly, "I never thought I would ever know the simple pleasure of touching a woman's naked breast."
"Do—do you mean that you have never—that this is—I am your… "
He gave a low, sad chuckle. "You flatter me, my dear; but yes."
"But you seem to know—"
"I have a varied collection of educational books with exquisite illustrations. And, of course, this is a theatre; one stumbles across little trysts all over the place, especially in the quieter regions. But this?" A calloused finger traced her aureole, making it pucker. He sighed again, in pleasure. "I never thought I'd see a naked woman any closer than a distant glimpse over some indiscrete stage-hand's shoulder. And that the naked woman is you…"
He paused a moment before adding, hesitantly, "I know that I am not a handsome fellow, Christine—but if I were, if—if things were different, would you ever have…" He trailed off.
She sighed, and thought for a moment. "If things had been different, if your face… With your voice, you would have had women falling at your feet. You wouldn't have even noticed a timid little chorus girl like me. You'd have had princesses on your arm."
"No," he said quietly, idly caressing her nipple, "No, I would have noticed you. You are… you give yourself too little credit, my dear."
She blushed, not knowing what to say. Besides, it was distracting, what he was doing. And where he was lying, nestled as he was between her legs…
Her nipple peaked under his ministrations. "Do you like that?" he asked.
"It's… it's very nice," she replied politely.
He grinned devilishly at her for a moment before giving her nipple a sudden pinch. "And this? Is this nice?"
She inhaled, feeling the trembling awaken anew in her belly. "Oh, yes, very nice," she breathed.
"And this?" His tongue darted out to lick and tease her. "Nice?"
"Very nice," she gasped.
He chuckled, the low vibrations making her press her hips more firmly to his. "Oh, yes; now that is an idea, my dear. How good of you to suggest it…"
"I—I didn't suggest—"
"Modest as always, my dear! We must see what we can do about that." With another throaty chuckle he licked and nibbled his way to her other breast, as his fingers once again took over at the first, pinching and twisting as they had in the bath.
"Nice?" he breathed, his breath warm against her wet nipple.
Her fingers stroked his head of their own accord. "Yes," she managed. Her nether regions were beginning to throb with need. She wished he would use his fingers there, as he had earlier, but didn't know how to ask for it. She dared to simply push against him again. "More—Please?" she gasped.
"More, indeed," he agreed. He trailed his fingers down her side and across her belly, leaving shivers with their passing, and gently stroked the down between her legs. "Enough?" he asked playfully.
"Please, Erik!" She thrust against his hand.
He made a curious noise, between a groan and a purr, she thought, and slid his fingers between her folds. The brief contact with her throbbing nub almost made her bite his shoulder out of sheer need. She thrust against him again, trembling, needing him, something, inside her.
"Nice?" he growled, his voice hoarse. She bit him in reply, moaning; he laughed and dipped his head to trace his way down her belly. "No teeth, now," he warned; "or I might use them myself." Sliding his hands beneath her thighs, he raised her knees as he settled lower still. "Oh, Christine…" he breathed, and seemed about to speak again; but instead he bent his head and bushed his cheek against her curls before gently parting her folds to trace her cleft with his tongue.
Christine had never imagined such a sensation. How was it possible to feel so wanton, and so unashamed of it? Up and down, now pausing to gently nibble and suckle her swollen bud; now dipping lower to thrust his tongue inside her. The pleasure was so exquisite it was almost painful. Her head swam and she clutched his shoulders, his hair; she couldn't speak, consumed as she was with the mindless need for more…!
She keened her need as his fingers joined his tongue and teeth to once again press inside her to her core, the sensation of their thrusting bringing a rush of wetness; but still it wasn't enough. "Pl—please…" she managed to gasp.
"Christine," he moaned in reply, abandoning his ministrations to rise to his knees, once more struggling to free himself.
She was too weak to raise herself, so simply murmured, "Thought… spent… until morning…"
"As did I," he replied breathlessly, leaning forward to cover her again.
Her eyes widened in alarm as she realized what he was about to do. "Erik—"
"Shhh."
"But it hurt—"
"Only the first time, my dear…" Once again she felt his smooth hardness against her, but then she felt his fingers upon her again. "Is this nice?" he asked, breathless again.
"Yes…"
"And this—" and his fingers thrust into her, "Nice? Does it—does it hurt?"
"No—No, I mean it's—it's nice—" She was beginning to find it difficult to speak again.
"And this?" And he pressed into her, longer, wider than his fingers. She felt stretched, but in a nice way, somehow. And to her deep relief, it didn't hurt. "Nice?" he gasped.
"Oh—oh, yes—Oh, Erik!" She clutched at his back, wriggling desperately beneath him, frantic for more.
He obliged, thrusting into her, slowly at first, but with increasing vigor as she clenched her legs around him and met him thrust for thrust. This was… this was indescribable. It was overwhelming… It was better than applause…
She could feel that mysterious pressure building within her again as her muscles tightened around him, drawing him in. Her fists tightened convulsively in his shirt as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. Abandoning thought she slipped over the edge…
When she finally came back to herself, it was to find Erik snuggled against her and the blankets drawn close. She thought he was asleep, but as she shifted slightly he opened his eyes. She could see them, actually see his eyes for the very first time, the lamplight shining full onto his face as he lay with his head pillowed beside hers. His eyes were a warm amber; she hadn't expected that. They glowed with love. She looked away.
"I don't have words to describe what you have done for me," he said quietly. "I love you so much, Christine…"
She looked down, her eyes damp.
"I know you don't love me in return," he continued. "But—dare I hope that perhaps—perhaps you care for me? Just a bit?"
She sniffed and nodded, unable to speak.
He sighed deeply. "Thank you. Even if it is a lie, thank you."
She finally turned to him to protest, but he silenced her with a gentle finger. "No. No, my dear, it is impossible to love one who holds you prisoner, isn't it?" He sighed again, and removed his finger with a last caress. "You are free to go. Only—Only, would you please wait until morning? I will escort you out then, I promise. Only please—please permit me this one night by your side."
She nodded again, and cradled his cheek in her palm, touching her forehead to his. "Of course, Erik," she said softly.
He closed his eyes, hesitated, and then simply said, "Good night."
Finis
Author's Note: "The Monk: A Romance" is a real book and can be read online at Project Gutenberg.
And for those who are interested in such things, a portion of this work was written under the influence of Merlot and Fukumen. Go to YouTube and search for "Fukumen Meltdown" to see a wonderful modern-day Erik. Oh, those hands..! Oh, and there's a free plot bunny for you: Modern!Erik, interacting with the world solely via his computer (not a new idea, I know) puts videos of himself, masked, playing his music on YouTube (which I don't think has been done as a concept before. But with the examples of Fukumen, Usako, and MadV, it's one place where his masked genius would be accepted and gloried in…).
I have a hard time writing smut, let alone outright pr0n. Apparently romantic comedy and horror are my forte, and while I deeply enjoyed writing this, it was hard. All of which is by way of saying I'd love to write more (although it won't be anything to do with this particular fic; this is a stand-alone piece) but it's likely to be a while as it really was tough! If I hadn't owed it to Biskuits (may she rock forever) I probably would have abandoned it in a few different places; but I had an obligation so I soldiered on. So I may need to owe her more smut before I can manage another one, haha. Reviews are very inspiring, though… ;-)
I hope I've entertained you! Loved it? Hated it? Think I'm a disgusting perv? XD Let me know, and thanks for reading! :-D
~Kryss