Ch. 24— The Lore of the Ring

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Fifteen minutes.

A ceremony that had lasted fifteen minutes had irrevocably changed her life.

And it was all a blur.

She had met Nadir's wife, she had been taken to an outer office where she and Erik had wed, she had said vows in front of a judge… she had been given a ring.

She had been kissed.

And her new husband had deposited her here, almost from the moment after they signed the official document declaring them 'man and wife'. He'd barely given her time to say goodbye to Dr. Khan before he'd led her via another secret passageway from his outer office to his suite of rooms.

And there she remained trying hard not to fidget or think about the events of the night to come.

Her throat working, Christine gulped as she looked around the more than opulent surroundings housing the master suite of the Paris Opera, observing this room was the exact antithesis of the pink nightmare she had escaped from.

His Steinway held pride of place at room's center. There was a disheveled mound of sheet music frantically scribbled upon. And if she thought his blind scribbling had been indecipherable, these were Sanskrit.

And they were obviously written at a time when he could see.

As Christine glanced over the score, she realized it was the composition they were working on, but the harmonics and scale of production had changed drastically. What had once been a light-hearted musicale had turned into a sweeping operatic stage production to compare in scope with the likes of Wagner, Verdi, and Puccini.

In fact, if she wasn't so familiar with his score by now, she would think them two completely different works.

She continued exploring the room, noticing every surface bespoke of comfort, of being at ease. Far from being crowded or busy, the room instead focused on clean lines and simple, uncomplicated patterns.

A plush-looking sofa was situated opposite the fireplace. The hearth was cold just now, but the room still looked and felt warm and inviting. A couple of wingback chairs sat in a corner nook to the left of the fireplace and that corner housed a plethora of bookshelves filled to overflowing with everything from expensive leather-bound first editions to almost recent paperback best-sellers.

A book sat face-down on the little table between the chairs, as if its owner were just coming back to it. But that had been months ago, and Christine wondered if its owner would ever be able to finish it himself.

She had yet to work up enough courage to walk from the sitting room into the bedroom, but she had taken a peek inside, and her mouth had opened in shock with what she'd seen.

Far from being a room of comfort, the bedroom was a hedonistic ode to pleasure's pursuits.

Large Persian rugs dotted the parquet wooden floor. The marble fireplace was sculpted in blue-veined stone. The hearth there was also cold, but Christine could easily imagine it lit; the flames making the shadows in the room dance and jump.

And there were large-scale paintings in mythological lore appearing in motif throughout; their subjects seeming to encourage the room's inhabitants to abandon their inhibitions and give chase their desires.

The pièce de résistance, however, was the bed.

An ornately carved oaken headboard literally ran floor to ceiling and was framed at either side by dark blue velvet curtained windows. The acre of bed below it was covered in midnight blue, silver, and cream.

It was an altar to the night.

Christine gulped and backed away slowly, absolutely terrified of the night to come—and that bed. She would have to get undressed. He would see her… well, he wouldn't see her. But some part of him would, and then… It was bound to be a humiliatingly painful exercise, and just thinking of it made her cheeks flood with shame.

She heard a click and turned around.

Another cleverly hidden door beside the corner bookshelves in the sitting room opened, and her new husband came into the room carrying a tray. He walked precisely to the two wingback chairs, and feeling with his hand for the table's surface, removed the book that was there and sat down the tray. He then walked to the fireplace mantle and moved a brass statuary. Immediately, flames sprang to life. And then he turned, holding out his hand for her. "Christine?"

Biting her lip and trying to overcome her nerves, she walked to where he stood and placed her hand in his.

He smiled his crooked smile and brought her hand to his lips. "My wife."

Reaching for her other hand, he took that one in his and kissed it at the exact place where his ring now resided on her finger.

"This ring you now wear is an heirloom, my dear. It has been passed down as a legacy from my great-grandfather—the man for which I'm named— when he took his wife. And by 'took' I mean that literally. Come, I thought we'd eat a bit while I tell you some of the history behind your new home. I'm starved. Aren't you?"

His arm went around her waist to escort her.

"N-not really." Christine didn't think she could eat a bite. And oh, good gracious! She was going to live here! Here, at the opera house—THIS Opera House!

She pursed her lips together, bile rising in her throat. Oh, why hadn't she thought this through? What had she done? Dear God, what had she do—

"Christine. I can feel the tension riddling your little body. You will calm, my dear. Whatever thoughts you're having, whatever doubts have entered your mind, set them aside for tonight. I vow this night is going to be like every other night we enjoyed at the cottage save one exception."

Her panicked mind quickly latched onto his words, dread and fear wanting her to ask just what the exception was even though she already knew.

In desperation, Christine clung to his spoken command, allowing it to suffuse her, to calm her bout of nerves, her buyer's remorse. After all, what was done was done. And she couldn't take it back. A promise sealed with a kiss, she had said her vows before a judge, and she had meant them, and she had signed her name before witnesses.

He led her over to a wingback chair in the corner, but whereas she'd assumed he meant for her to sit, he first sat himself and then drew her until she was seated sideways in his lap. Relieved, she drew comfort from this familiar embrace.

Looking down at her, he said, "We are in my home now, and you wear my ring, but nothing has altered the foundation that months of friendship— of companionship— have formed. Do you agree, little mouse?"

Christine honestly couldn't speak, so overcome with nerves and panic as she was, and so she took his hand in hers and placed it in on her cheek, nodding.

He whispered, "Good girl."

He urged her to relax against him as he settled them back into the chair. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The history of that ring you now wear upon your finger—which by the way I will need to get resized. My, but you are a dainty thing, aren't you? Even smaller than my great-grandmother, and that, my dear, is saying something."

Christine shook her head in automatic refusal; she wasn't 'dainty' in the slightest. She had the build of a peasant meant to plow the fields, and she knew it. She took after her father's side in that respect and had his mother's build. Sturdy, swarthy, and gawky were adjectives applied to her.

Never dainty.

She had small hands, that was all.

"When I said my great-grandfather 'took' his wife, I meant it. He abducted her from the stage, you see. Took her right after the final note for her debut performance was sung. Here, drink some tea and eat a bite of cake, won't you? The story's ever so much better with refreshment. Now, my great-grandfather was the architect for this building. The architect but not the owner. No, the owner was a Duke by the name of Raoul de Chagny, and he was engaged to my great-grandmother, a Lady of British nobility and great wealth.

"So the story goes, while plans for the Populaire were being finalized, Monsieur Duc got into a mess of trouble with his investors. I need not expound on how much money it takes to make such a grand and lavish edifice as this even back then, but the Duc and his investors spared no expense, importing building materials from all over the world, hiring the foremost leading architect of the day, planning to build the theatre itself with the finest and most-lasting of materials, and having the best craftsmen and experienced laborers oversee the entire project.

"In short, the plan was a white elephant almost from its inception. And with all raw materials already purchased, the Duc soon realized he had overextended himself before the project could even get off the ground for he could not afford the workers to build it. Upon the eve of facing complete and utter financial ruin for both himself and his investors, the Duc proceeded to get blindingly, blisteringly drunk and confess all to the barkeep at his gentlemen's club.

"Now, my great-grandfather overheard his plight. For you see, he was there in attendance as a guest of a Marquis for whom he had built a chateau. What you must understand, my dear, is that my great-grandfather had come from very humble beginnings.

"He was an orphan with a background spent toiling in workhouses. And he had raised himself up from the workhouse to errand boy at construction sites to that of a common day laborer. And then from laborer to stone mason's apprentice and then project engineer over-seeing the work. Until finally, he knew enough to become an architect. He had no formal education in architecture, Christine, but he did have a keen mind and an incredible intellect. Just like someone else I know seated right here on my lap." Christine shook her head in refusal of his words and absently opened her mouth for another bite of chicken he held at her lips.

She bit off a piece and watched as he ate the rest of it, licking his fingers, chewing and swallowing thickly as he continued, "And he was very curious, having in his salad days, traveled the world in pursuit of his layman's education. However, trust me when I say that besides his occupation, there was absolutely nothing common about my great-grandfather.

"He proposed he could build the Populaire with the raw materials already purchased on hand and persuade the laborers building it to wait for payment until after the job was completed, and the first proceeds of opening night taken. And what was more, he would have it completed in time for the start of the next season if he was given full creative license to build and staff it as he saw fit. Now, my great-grandfather was a very charismatic man, and very convincing; some might say enthralling."

Christine cleared her throat, and asked, "Did he have your ability for vocal mesmerism and your interest in music? Is that where you inherited it?"

She felt him stiffen beneath her as his expression tightened. "As far as I know, he did not. Someday soon, little mouse, I will have to tell you how I came by that particular talent of mine, hmm? But that is another story for another meal. No, my great-grandfather's power lay solely in his charismatic charm.

"And as for his interest in music, well, the man himself was not a musician. Although once he met my great-grandmother, he developed a keen appreciation where the musical arts were concerned. His fits of pique were the stuff of legend and will also have to be fodder for another meal. Here, take your soup; it's getting cold." Christine absently took the small bowl he handed her and began to sip some of the warm broth, leaning back into his embrace, once more becoming engrossed in the tale he was weaving.

"The Duc, after hearing the glowing testimonial of the Marquis— and in drunken desperation— instantly agreed to my great-grandfather's somewhat ludicrous proposal, and papers were drawn up that very night, my dear. For you see a solicitor also just happened to be in the club. Signed, sealed, and authorized by a notary, it was a fait accompli."

"The contract was binding, and the very next day, my great-grandfather showed up to relieve the current architect his post, the currently employed laborers their jobs, and to take inventory of all the newly-purchased materials. As family lore suggests, it took only a week for my great-grandfather to have his plans drawn up for the opera house. But again, this is family lore, and as such is subject to artistic interpretation. The facts, however, remain he kept to his word and used all the materials purchased without incurring a single sou more in building costs.

"And using his much-lauded charismatic charm, he proceeded to convince the men he knew from his construction days, in addition to the boys and men he could find in the workhouses, to come work for him. That was if they all took turns working around the clock and sleeping in shifts. Many of these men had families, some had other jobs, other obligations, but my great-grandfather convinced them to leave those jobs and come work for him… for delayed payment until after the job was completed. The year was 1860, my dear; the construction begun in March. By March thirteenth of the following year, the start of the season, the Populaire was complete."

"But… how?!" Christine shook her head at the piece of bread he held to her lips, "No, thank you. I'm full. How'd he do it? The strictures of daylight alone should have made it impossible… at least at first. Men cannot work in the dark. Neither can they feed their families with a promise of payment later. And surely the cost of that much gas to light the workspaces must have been astronomical even back then." Absently, she registered him taking the bowl from her hands and setting it aside. His hand took the bowl's place, cradling hers, and running his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand.

"Excellent questions one and all, and that's where my great-grandfather's genius truly comes into play. He used mirrors and limelights, Christine. Mirrors, lime lights and hollow passageways strategically placed throughout the Populaire. You see one limelight could illuminate an entire corridor or room in a straight, blinding shot. But use mirrors to refract and displace some of the light, and if those mirrors were placed 'just so'..." Caught up in the telling of his tale, he sat up and moved her as if to illustrate his point, and she giggled as she found herself facing forward, situated more firmly in his lap with her back to him.

Her legs were now dangling over his knees, and he wrapped his arms around her, using his hands to relate as much as his words when he animatedly explained, "Well, he started small at first, from the ground up, cellar by cellar. Using mirrors, my great-grandfather found it was easy to illuminate such a monumental workspace with very little resource consumption. And incorporating that many mirrors using lime lights and numerous hollow secret passageways, he found he could illuminate multiple rooms.

"You know there are still one or two mirrored passageways left over as remnants of construction; I will have to show them to you sometime." He nuzzled her neck, and she shivered; that tingling feeling in her lower belly stirring to life.

He continued on, "And as for the families of the workers, they were invited to take part as well. The women did the cooking, laundering, and cleaning of the workspaces—some even picked up a hammer and helped to build. And the children ran errands and did small, odd jobs. The Populaire quite literally became their home for that year, and my great-grandfather even employed a teacher to teach rudimentary math as well as reading and writing to these unwashed masses—both young and old."

"It sounds like Utopia," Christine mused quietly.

He took a curl at her nape and began running it back and forth along his fingers. "Oh, in many respects, my great-grandfather was a man before his time. You see, while he was training these 'commoners'—remember many of them were from the workhouses—he was also training them to be cast and crew for the Opera as well. Who better to deal with the rigging than the man that had installed it into ceiling in the first place? What better seamstress could there be than the woman who already darns her husband's shirts and those of her neighbors so expertly? Well, you get the idea. My great-grandfather had plans of keeping it all in-house, and so, had his construction crew build in such a manner. It was a labor of love, you see, for them and their families."

He leaned forward, and Christine nodded into his neck to show him she understood.

He continued speaking, "He had been very wily when he phrased the initial contract, and it stated he could employ anyone to staff the theatre as he saw fit. And to make certain the company and cast as well as the theatre staff were prepared for the start of the season, my great-grandfather began holding auditions and practicing in the auditorium almost from the first day the stage was erected.

"Now, if you can imagine it, hammering going on all hours of the day and night, lime lights burning non-stop, workmen absolutely strung out on nerves, coffee, and nicotine, newly-trained chorus-girls and freshly-trained ballet rats abounding. And my great-grandfather presiding o'er all.

"The first time he saw my great-grandmother, she was being escorted through the building on the arm of her intended, the Duc de Chagny. So family lore suggests, great-grandfather was in the flies, and had just finished the final placement and installation of the grand chandelier. It was a momentous occasion, as you can imagine, and all the theatre cast and construction crew as well as a good majority of their families, friends, and theatre patrons were gathered in attendance to witness its first illumination. You feel warm, my dear. Would you like to remove your overcoat, hmm?" His hand was pressed at her cheek, and now that he mentioned it, she was somewhat warm.

And so, she began undoing the little buttons at her bodice down to her navel, and he helped her wriggle out of it and then lifted her from him so she could remove it and lay it on the other chair.

He re-adjusted his position so he was lounging with both feet extended, and drew her once more to sit in his lap with her legs parallel to his, encouraging her to lean back again and relax as he continued in his tale. "It is no exaggeration to say that my great-grandfather fell head over heels in love with my great-grandmother the moment he heard her sing. For you see the Duc de Chagny had met his intended at a garden party.

"Now, that sounds like a non sequitur, but stick with me for a moment. Back then, women—especially of the upper class—had to be accomplished ladies, attending finishing school, and learning the fine art of needlepoint, playing the piano forte, and learning, of all things, archery, and singing."

"I've read The Age of Innocence and Sense and Sensibility, sir." Christine interrupted him gently. "I'm familiar with the concept of 'finishing schools'."

"Right," his lips brushed her temple in a quick kiss. "I quite forgot my audience, didn't I? My apologies. I'm used to explaining the intricacies of the— well, at any rate, Lady Day, the Duc de Chagny's fiancé, was a very accomplished songbird, and she was requested to sing by one and all at each fête and garden party she attended. Of course, she was asked to 'christen' this inaugural event by her fiancé; the only trouble was, my great-grandfather hadn't known it.

"Now try to picture it, Christine. My great-grandfather perched from above in the flies, using an extended torch to light the chandelier, and the moment it was lit, my great-grandmother bursting forth in joyous song. Well, it shocked him so much, he fell from his perch, and surely would have tumbled to his death but for a bit of rope and some quick-thinking stagehands who provided leverage to the sandbag that housed the rope and were able to lower him to the stage.

"That was the beginning of their romance. Not that either of them knew it at the time. I'm not boring you, am I, little mouse? I'm afraid I could wax poetic for days about this old building and the ingenuity and history behind it."

"No. Don't stop," Christine said earnestly as she looked over her shoulder. "I'm enjoying it truly." Reaching, he felt for her face and tapped her on the nose and then had her face back around and his knees lifted and fell apart thereby forcing hers to part as well as he adjusted his position. His legs stayed splayed, and so did hers.

It made her feel slightly wanton.

She noticed as he continued to speak, his lips were quite near her ear now, and his voice softened because of it. He murmured, "Now, as I've stated, my great-grandfather was a very persuasive man, able to talk nearly anyone into doing anything. The moment he heard Lady Day sing, he knew she had to be the lead for opening night. And since you are so well-versed on 'finishing schools', 'Wharton', and 'Austen', I need not expound on how scandalous that was a proposition to make. Needless to say, her fiance's initial reaction was a resounding 'no'.

"But my great-grandfather was nothing if not persistent, and he had the opera management and cast on his side as well. One performance, he said. One performance: the inaugural performance. A special event the Duc could charge three times the standard price of admission for just to hear Lady Day sing. Well, money often talks where reason and good sense does not, and it was this that influenced the Duc more than anything else, thinking he could pocket the extra.

"And so, for the bargain price of an arm, one could buy a seat in the upper section known as the 'nose bleeds' of the theatre." Christine giggled as, leaning forward, he drew her arm back in his and began kissing it from her hand all the way up until he reached her neck, where he gave her a lengthy, protracted kiss that left her short of breath and made her softly moan.

He settled them back and said, "For an arm and a leg," he wiggled his leg and hers too since hers was on top of his, and it caused her to giggle again, "you just might, if you were lucky, wink a seat on the floor," he readjusted their positions until she was reclined atop him, his voice turned low, "And for the price of an arm," he jiggled hers, "a leg," he wriggled theirs, "and your first born," he felt her lower belly where her womb lay, his hand remaining there, "you and your family, albeit much smaller due to all the missing members and limbs, could be offered the veritable honor of purchasing a box seat for the premier and Lady Day's one and only performance.

"Now, I had begun this entirely too-long explanation by telling you about that ring residing on your finger, and its significance." He reached for her hand and held it in his, his finger turning the simple gold band with an oval-shaped emerald surrounded by a circlet of yellow diamonds with more emeralds in between. It was beautifully crafted. …and looked very old… and very expensive.

Studying it between their joined hands as it glimmered and gleamed in the firelight, Christine asked, "And how could an orphan stone-mason's apprentice-cum-architect afford such a ring?"

He held their hands still and leaned in closer to her ear, nudging her head until she turned her ear more towards his lips, and he whispered, "That's easy. He didn't." Christine felt tingles run from her neck down to her thighs and trembled.

"Cold, my dear?"

"N-no."

"Ah. Could my words be affecting you then, hmm? The thought this might be a purloined ring too horrible to contemplate, hmm? Gives you chills?"

Christine shook her head and gulped. Oh, he honestly didn't think she was frightened of his words. She bit her lip and squirmed, thinking she'd die from embarrassment rather than admit that his words, his voice spoken into her ear… tickled.

He continued on, his voice softer still, and she felt his arms wrap around her waist holding her fastened to him as he once more changed positions; this time letting his knees go slack and part wider which made hers part wider as well. His hands began to gently knead her waist where he held her wrapped to him. "That ring belonged originally to the Duc de Chagny. It was in his safe, and the only thing of his my great-grandfather took for himself."

"Besides the Duc's fiancé," Christine asserted quietly as she squirmed in his lap.

"Besides that, clever little mouse," he whispered, nuzzling the flesh behind her ear, kissing her there lingeringly. Christine's breath hitched and she shivered again, closing her eyes to feel him using suction and pressure quite effectively. His hand left her waist, and she felt it at the collar of her blouse, undoing the row of pearl buttons until the crook of her shoulder was able to be bared to him. And his lips fastened there and suckled lightly as well.

A low moan was ripped from her before she even knew she'd made the sound, and a full-body tremor coursed through her. His hand returned to her waist, and Christine breathed out.

Had she just made that noise? That primitive, animalistic sound?!

He continued speaking normally as if what had happened had never occurred, "The Opera's take was stored in that safe. That first night while everyone was watching the show, waiting for Lady Day to take the stage for the finale, my great-grandfather broke into the safe, stole the house take and the ring, and then donning a black half mask that covered all but the lowest portion of his jaw, proceeded to climb into the flies and swoop down from the chandelier onto the stage, sweeping the just-debuted Diva in his arms and disappearing through a trap door hidden in the floor."

Christine whispered softly turning her face towards him, "He sounds quite the scoundrel."

"Oh, he was more a forward-thinking 'Robin Hood'." He kissed her on the cheek. "It turns out the Duc was a bit of a villain." He nudged a curl away from her ear with his nose, and continued to speak lowly, "While finishing up the plaster seam within one of the passageways, my great-grandfather overheard the Duc de Chagny explain that upon completion of the work and the opening night's performance, he planned on having the workers and performers evicted and then barring their re-entry to the building."

She gasped and looked behind her. "But, what about all those people?! Their home, their payment?!"

His honey-hued eyes crinkled at the corners, and he smiled softly. "Yes, the Duc was a bit of a dastard, was he not? But recall that ring on your finger, madam."

He held out his hand, and Christine placed her left hand in his.

"The Duc was giving a tour of the Opera to one of the Chancellors who happened to know of the existing contract between my great-grandfather and himself. After discussing plans for his upcoming nuptials—the wedding ceremony was to occur the day after opening night in the Opera gardens, he told the judge of his plan; thereby keeping all the proceeds for the night's performance for himself.

"The judge—with a promise of a generous donation to his next campaign— instantly agreed to facilitate this plan, and of course, should there happened to be any legal redress from the 'completely arbitrary and by no means binding' agreement the Duc had entered into with the self-taught architect, well, the judge agreed to have the case thrown out. And so, the nefarious plot was hatched." His eyes widened dramatically, and his golden gaze stared blankly at her lips.

Christine moistened her lips, and shifting her hips back and forth to try and get a more comfortable seat, asked, "But what about your great-grandfather, did he ever get caught?"

His hands tightened at her waist, and absently Christine noticed he began gently moving his legs up and down as he spoke in metered rhythm with his words, "All of the cast, crew, and staff were in on the 'joke' as it were, and all of them met my great-grandfather in the fifth cellar while chaos reigned above.

"He distributed the wealth he stole from the safe, paying each man, woman, and child every sou owed them, and in some cases, even doling out bonuses. He then took the once and future Diva to the house by the underground lake and proposed to her. They were married the following day. And wouldn't you know it, but exactly eight months, twenty-nine days later, my grandfather was born." She looked behind her to see he was grinning his pirate's grin.

She shook her head, not understanding the cause for it. "But wasn't it obvious who had abducted her? Especially after they showed up married."

It was his turn to shake his head, and he kissed her on the temple, mumbling, "No. Afraid not. Several of the stagehands swore they saw my great-grandfather rushing to the stage to render aid to Lady Day as she was whisked away in the Phantom's clutches. Why, it was my great-grandfather that found her after all. Tied up but perfectly unharmed in a room off the third cellar. It was assumed by the muck-raking newspapers my great-grandmother, so overcome with gratitude after her encounter with that fearsome Specter, agreed to marry her rescuer on the spot and thus rid herself the unwanted attentions of one Opera Ghost. And this is how the legend of the Opera Ghost got its start."

His rocking paced increased, and Christine squirmed again on his lap, trying to find a comfortable seat. "But the dastardly Duc, what of him?" Her new husband adjusted his position as well, and Christine sighed contented, leaning her head back against him.

He spoke lowly, the vibrations of his voice reverberating through her, "That next week, the Duc de Chagny—so overcome with grief at the loss of both his money and his fiancé—promptly ate a bullet to dull the pain."

Christine gasped, and his arms came around to envelop her, his hands cradled her on either side of her waist. He muttered into her ear, "I do hope, my dear, you are not feeling sorry for the Duc?"

She shrugged and again wriggled upon him. "Perhaps a little," she said in a small voice.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile, and she thought she heard him murmur, 'tender-hearted girl' before continuing, "Because of the deal made that night between my great-grandfather and the Duc, the Duc's patrons and investors believed the money from the inaugural opening was going towards the laborers. And these men were gracious enough in agreeing to wait until the following week before beginning to draw their profits; profits which the Duc de Chagny had oversold by a margin of three to one."

Christine gasped at the man's greed.

"Oh, yes. It seemed the Duc was in arrears even deeper than anyone knew; had a bit of a problem in the gambling hells he did. And he was relying on his marriage to Lady Day as well as the Opera's initial take to help restore him to solvency. It's alleged he planned to take the money from the Opera and the money from his marriage scheduled that following day to Lady Day and run with no one the wiser save the duplicitous judge who'd also conveniently agreed to marry them.

"Upon the Duc's death, the de Chagny line disappeared into obscurity, for he left no remaining heir, and the ownership of the Populaire reverted back to its investors. Unanimously, they agreed to withhold the original contract keeping my great-grandfather Steward and manager of the Populaire, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Christine smiled wistfully and said, "It sounds almost like a fairy tale."

"They were both quite remarkable that's for sure; I believe I have her diary around here… some place if you're ever interested?"

"Yes, that would be quite lovely." Christine sighed happily and looked down.

His hands were on her breasts, massaging tenderly, but as she watched they moved down her waist to where her knees were spread on top of his, and carefully, he began raising her skirt a little bit more. It was already hoisted high above her garters, and so, he had been doing this for a while, and she had been distracted, oblivious to all as she listened to his tale.

And Christine also realized in that panic-filled moment she could feel him beneath her—the heavy, hard length of him—beneath where she sat. And what's more, he was rocking them up and down and had been for quite some time with her squirming and writhing in his lap.

She stopped moving, her posture suddenly rigid as her cheeks flamed red.

"Little mouse." His pace did not alter in the slightest although his hands did stay cupped to her breasts on their next pass upward.

Pursing her lips, she turned her face away wanting to bury herself in his embrace and hide. "Christine, nothing has changed between us. Nothing. Only your awareness. Embarrassment and shame have no place in my arms or in my bed. But you do, little mouse." He lifted her slightly, and Christine felt a tugging pull as her panties were lowered around her knees. He settled her back on him, her skirt now hoisted above her thighs, draping around her front modestly, but baring her all to him from behind.

His hands were underneath her, caressing the bare flesh of her backside, massaging the rounded flesh in time with his metronomic grinding of his clothed length against her. Christine began to instinctively rock against him once more.

"Oh, my girl. That's right," he crooned his encouragement in her ear, "That's just as it should be, my dear, my wife." His hands moved underneath the back of her blouse to unclasp her brassiere. And then they moved towards the front, and he was palming and caressing her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers without a barrier of clothing between them.

She whimpered, leaning into his hands, wanting…

"Oh, Christine," he said her name, and she shivered against him as he kissed her neck and nuzzled her ear.

His hands left her, and she felt him fumbling behind her with his belt buckle and then heard the snick of his trouser zip as it was pulled down and then he raised them, and she saw his trousers fall below his knees. She gulped as he settled them back, once more adjusting her skirt so it still belled around her front and sides modestly, but now there was a meeting of flesh to flesh between them.

And Christine closed her eyes at the sensation of him beneath her, the strange, foreign feeling of his skin meeting hers, his hardness jutting against her soft warmth.

She focused on his warmth, on the solid strength of him beneath and behind her, holding her cradled to him in his embrace. And then his length was butting against her feminine folds, seeking entrance. "Lean back further against me, my dear," he mumbled into her ear, urging her.

Holding her breath, she tremulously did as he instructed as he drew her even closer to him. Then he was parting her thighs, and reaching between them, and Christine gasped as he fit his rigid flesh shallowly into her depths and held there—motionless.

And her breath quickened as she quivered there.

Waiting. Tense and expectant.

"Relax, little mouse," he suggested softly. "Lean back once more against me."

Her throat working from nerves, she gulped and did as bid, giving herself over to the suggestion, the power of his voice, and relaxing as he compelled she do.

He kissed her neck, and she felt his lips once more at her ear as he spoke, "I vowed to honor and cherish you, Christine. And I meant every word. I vowed to give you my devotion and my protection. And for the rest of my days, they are yours." His hands held her secured to him by the waist as he lifted his hips. She gasped, her eyes widening and her mouth opening on a soundless 'oh' as he filled her completely.

"Just as you are now mine, my dear. Until death do us part."

.

.

.

There had been pain.

But it was lessening. With every moment that passed between them, it was lessening. One of his hands moved from her breast to cup her cheek as he commanded her, "Nod or shake your head, Christine, to let me know you're alright."

Swallowing thickly, Christine nodded and nuzzled into his palm, releasing the pent-up breath she had been holding.

She heard him give a shuddering exhale as well—as if he, too, had been holding his breath—and then she felt him begin to move his hips slowly up and down—just as he had been doing before they were joined.

Breathing shallowly, almost panting, Christine squeezed her eyes closed as he worked himself inside her. Finally, he stopped moving as he was embedded to the hilt.

She was shaking from the ordeal, but he held her securely fastened to him, his lips behind her ear, crooning his encouragement. One of his hands moved underneath her blouse and the undone brassiere to again cup her breast, the other continued to cradle her cheek, periodically reading her expression.

Once he could go no further within her, he voiced lowly in her ear, making her quiver, "We are going to take this nice and slow, you and I, for I do not want to hurt you any more than I already have. And I'm so sorry for it, my dear. Are you alright, comfortable?"

She was hardly comfortable.

He was inside her, and she was quite literally impaled upon him.

It was a strange invasion.

In answer, she squirmed and wriggled where she sat trying to adjust, and it caused him to inhale sharply.

Immediately, she stopped moving and blushed. "D-did I do s-something w-wrong?" she whispered, mortified she had embarrassed herself in some way.

"Oh, no, my dear. Not at all." His compelling voice was rife with wonder and tension. He nuzzled the side of her neck, and Christine shivered and again squirmed where she sat, and he made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat as his hand tightened at her breast.

She moved again—it was a curious sensation to be sure—and his hips thrust upward into her.

Christine gasped, holding still.

His hand was instantly there at her face, reading her expression. "Have I hurt you, little mouse?" His voice sounded strained, almost pained. "I can't see, and you're so quiet! Please, Christine, you have to let me know."

She couldn't find her voice, and so, bringing both her hands to his, she cupped the hand that was cradling her cheek and shook her head in a definitive 'no'.

She felt his posture relax slightly, and he patted her cheek.

He moved until his lips were right beside the shell of her ear, and he spoke lowly, "Do you find this pleasurable, little mouse?" In illustration, he began thrusting his hips in shallow penetration into her, and she shivered, that swooping feeling returning full-force in her lower belly.

She nodded into his hand for a certainty.

With every moment that passed between them, the swooping sensation in her lower belly continued to grow making her want to squirm and wriggle atop his lap.

"Put your arms over mine and hold onto me," he ordered tightly as both his hands abandoned her breast and cheek respectively, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, locking her to him.

She did so, holding tightly as he sat them forward in the chair.

Christine gasped at the sudden change; he moved them so his feet were more firmly planted on the ground, his knees at a more upright angle.

He nuzzled the spot below her ear, and when she turned her head to look up at him, he gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. That's when she noticed there was perspiration lining his upper lip and sweat beading his brow.

His voice trembled, but he spoke softly, patiently encouraging her as he said, "You are doing so well, my girl. So very well. Do you think you can stand a bit more?"

Biting her lip, she swallowed thickly, and gathering her courage, whispered, "Y-yes."

"Thank God," he whispered before he hunched his shoulders, and then with his hands around her, he began to bounce her up and down on his knees, his hips thrusting into her. And Christine closed her eyes, her mouth opening in an 'oh' of wonder as that breathtaking swooping sensation threatened to overtake her.

And then it did.

.

.

.