Bread and Oil

for jennyfair07, who got me really into Erik/Mannequin :)

A/N: very explicit sexual content

"Another glass, my love?" he sighed, all politeness, all charm. He raised her cool fingers reverently to his lips, let them slip from his palm and drop again to the floor, adding, "I shall return! Do not go away!"

On the carpet before the hearth Christine Daaé waited with her knees folded neatly beneath her. She bowed her head in elegant modesty as the delicate backs of her two white palms lay flat upon the floor. Her wedding-gown hovered loosely about her smooth, demure shoulders, split open atop her sweetly rounded spine. A hundred little buttons scattered about her, littering the blue ocean of the oriental carpet like so many lovely pearls.

"My Christine!" announced her companion now, bearing two short glasses of deep-burgundy port in his hands. His dressing-gown, a weighty construction of elegant, embroidered silk, fell neatly about his naked legs. He had reordered himself in the kitchen.

"Have you missed your Erik?" he said, thrusting the glasses high before him, such that liquid sloshed about his fingers, "see him return, and with libations!"

Erik dropped lightly to his knees before her. He secured his two glasses upon the brick hearth-front next to an untouched platter of fresh bread and oil. With an exhale characteristic of some mild exertion, he sucked at his wine-stained fingertips and cast his yellow stare upon Christine.

Never leave me again, Erik.

"Ah, my love," he said, lifting her chin with a careful palm, "you mustn't fret so when I am not at your side. I am never very far from you, you know." He took up his drink and downed the bitter syrup in a long sip, and replaced the glass upon the bricks with a hollow clink.

"Oh, dear," Erik tutted, turning. He drew his mucid thumb along the lower lip of her open mouth. Christine looked on, perfect petal pout, gentle doe-eyed stare; the very picture of lovely chastity.

"What a mess you have made of yourself, sweet girl," he added, his hand heavy upon her skin. "Where are your manners?"

He sighed. His skeleton's fingers crept between her parted lips, one, now two, exploring inside as he chewed at the taut gash of his own lip and stared. The back of her hand slid flimsily upon the floor; Erik drew his own away with a soft pop.

"No, no, too dry, I think, Christine," he said raggedly, as his palm dragged atop her porcelain cheek, "Erik will have to remedy that."

He shifted upon his shins, regarding his companion as firelight glittered in her open eyes.

Kiss me.

"Oh? Kiss you?" he breathed, still staring. "Christine, how exquisitely brazen you are tonight!"

Now with both palms on the carpet at either side of her Erik drew himself to his knees. Crawling forward, dipping low to meet her demure pout, he kissed Christine––gently, quickly––then he broke from her, as her head vacillated serenely in his wake.

"You little vixen!" he exclaimed.

I like it when you kiss me. I like your mouth on mine.

On his hands and knees he reached for the second glass, glittering blood-red before the fire and only slightly too warm to the touch. In a gulp he swallowed it all. The empty glass dropped from his grasp as he swiped at his ruined lips with the tremulous flat of his hand, it tipped and rolled from the carpet, directionless and clattering as it went. Erik ignored this, as did Christine, who waited placidly, and so, so, sweetly for her companion to finish his drink.

Kiss me. I like your mouth.

"Yes, yes," he huffed, staring at her lips, "patience, Christine!"

Now he wrapped one hand about the base of her throat to draw her to him, angling her smooth jaw to meet his kiss. Sensing her parted lips––open for Erik! inviting Erik!––he slid the wet worm of his tongue inside to taste her.

Yes. Kiss me.

With a smothered groan he captured her skull to coil his yellow fingers in her curls. Crushing her face to his mouth he drew himself up on his knees, Christine following with slack, wide-eyed enthusiasm, until half-standing, the two lovers pressed together before the fire, as Erik's hands wound arduously about Christine and Christine's dangled limply about her sides.

Yes. Kiss me with your revolting mouth.

Now Erik broke from her, panting. Drool clung like spider's webs upon his swollen lips; glaring and working his jaw, he wiped at the wet gash of his mouth with a feral growl. For a moment more he watched her, his glowing eyes leaden slits upon her nutent face.

With a slow unfurling of his long fingers he released her. Christine collapsed to the floor––oh––overcome, poor dear!––as Erik stared down upon the jumble of her, his distorted lips twisting upwards at the glistening corners.

Then with a weighted exhale Erik retrieved her. He steadied her before him by a firm hand upon her shoulder. One of her flawless legs angled wrongways at the knee; he righted the joint and shook her lighty until she raised her head.

"See, my love," he said wetly, with considerable effort. Christine stared at the ceiling. "Still you kiss your beloved Erik so very sweetly––" He coughed, sputtering, as spittle moistened the ruddy ruin of his chin; held fast upon the end of his arm Christine shuddered sinuously with him. Her chin dropped forward to her chest; ever coy, his lovely companion fixed her wide eyes upon the carpet.

With a sweating palm atop his dressing gown Erik nudged at the rigid heat between his thighs. Sticky moisture stained the elegant silk upon his lap.

"What's this!" Erik said suddenly, regarding her downcast gaze.

"You have spilled your drink!" he chided. His fingers danced atop the crushed lace neckline of her wedding-gown, pure and clean and virginal and white, with yellow stains of frightened sweat and salted tears marring its silken front. His palm lingered upon her breast atop a splattering of violent crimson.

Be gentle. Erik.

"Sweet Christine, what a mess you have made tonight––"

I am your nervous bride. This is our wedding night. I am frightened, but not of you.

"Do not be afraid, my love––let your Erik help you––" The words slipped, slow, quiet from his panting mouth. His hot tongue dragged his malformed lip. Again he swiped at the straining silk between his parted thighs, wetting his palm upon the dark stain there.

"I'll help you, dear, beloved, lovely Christine," he repeated.

Be good to me.

Christine's white dress hung loose about her collarbone, its rows of tiny buttons already––and how conveniently!––unfastened over the full length of her spine. Dragging his palm across her throat to grasp the gauzy fabric, Erik slid the gown from her smooth shoulders and down her arms. It bunched and collected about her waist, its stiff bodice ballooning between them before her naked front.

His bride wore nothing underneath.

He pushed the fabric lower, lower against her white belly to reveal the supple curve of a pair of perfectly smooth, pale breasts, with pink, round, even centers––he shuddered a breath through his teeth and guardedly, stroked her pointed nipple with one finger. Knees parting beneath his robe, Erik shifted forward upon the carpet to straddle her legs.

"Christine––you tempt me––" he breathed, curling his fingers about her firm breast. "If we continue this, I am afraid I will not be able to stop myself––"

Take me. Right here on the floor, husband.

"I am a gentleman, Christine––"

Shame me for how I have wronged you. Take me on the floor.

"I would never do such a thing––"

Take what you deserve.

His palm dragged the length of her torso as Christine followed its movements with her downcast stare. For a contemplative moment Erik stroked the crumpled waist of her white dress; then, with the billowing fabric crushed in his fists he tugged it from her pliant hips. As he worked Christine wriggled nervously beneath his hand and stilled only as he flung the empty mound of prurient whiteness to his side.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his stare devouring her bare flesh as if he saw it for the first time, "so very, very beautiful."

I think you are beautiful, too, husband.

Ardently he kissed her; he groaned upon her lips as he held her to him by her throat. He slid his palm low, low down her belly, lower, her flesh beneath his hand cool and white and perfect like marble, like a statue, a monument. With his tongue deep in the open cavern of her mouth he buried his corpse's fingers between her naked thighs, stuffed his fingers deep inside of her, deep into the dark hollow of her, piercing her, claiming her, taking the secret inside of her, gasping, sighing, oh, oh, you like this, you want this, you want me, Christine––

I do.

His erection pulsed, hard, hot, angry between his thighs even as he lowered her to the carpet––gently, so gently––between them.

Atop her he shrugged out of his dressing-gown and thew the soiled thing from him; it fell tangled and ignored about Christine. Again he bent and kissed his bride as pliantly she accepted his kiss, beneath him waiting, timid, nervous, virginal, for her husband to claim her.

"Christine," he groaned, taking up his eager cock in a trembling fist. He arranged her legs about him; open, spread, knees bent––ready. Her arms he drew above her head, gathering them at the wrists to press to the carpet. One perfectly-formed elbow bent weirdly into the floor; temperate as ever, his sweet Christine made no complaint. Her head slumped to her side as she touched a blushing cheek to the carpet and gazed intently upon the hearth.

But Erik released his grasp upon her wrists. He dropped the throbbing vehemence of his sticking cock to pulse between the hot crush of their bodies: his, clammy, shuddering, sweat-slick; his beloved, cool, enticing, pleasant. Frowning, Erik folded Christine's twisted arm in the proper direction.

"Never want to hurt Christine," he mumbled, "never...never," rearranging her such that her distorted limb fanned elegantly, sensually about her side. Like an artist with his masterwork, he curled and re-curled her posable fingers into the plush woolen pile of the carpet. He folded her other arm gracefully about her head––yes, perfect, exactly right––just as he had seen her do, so naturally, so easily as she slept. With a palm beneath her chin he steadied her head upon the carpet. He smoothed her tangled curls from her face, neatening the sable cascade about her like a halo, and, heart pounding in his chest, cock throbbing at his core, he admired the near-perfection of his divine tableau.

Only you get to see me like this. This is only for you.

Erik huffed an exhale and groped again for his cock as it pressed obscenely upon the firm purity of her belly.

"Tell me how you want me, Christine," he growled, dark eyes devouring. Again he started up the ravenous pumping of his length between his crouching thighs. The silk of his discarded robe, the gossamer plush of her wedding-gown, fanned out from either side of his bride like wrinkled wings.

"Tell me I am your choice––the right choice––not that pretty fool, that stupid boy––"

I choose you. I do not even like him. I would never let him have me like this.

"Lies! Always! Beg me, Christine––beg me to take you back––"

Please! Punish me, take me on the floor like a whore!

"You were wrong to go! Wrong to leave me, tell me!"

Yes. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong––

"You regret it! You wanted Erik, to stay with him and love him! To be his wife and want him!"

I want you. I belong to you. Take what is yours!

With a growl he crushed his shaft to her opening. "Shit!" Erik hissed, as his sticking cock dragged at her rubber flesh, "shit, shit––shit––" His eyes searched the carpet beneath them. With an elbow like a dagger he propped himself upon her indifferent chest; he rummaged impatiently in the pockets of his dressing-gown, tearing their silk linings out like two ears, tearing Christine's wings from his holy image of her. "Fuck!" he spat, with a guttural sound, as his searching fingers crawled the carpet within his reach. In his distraction he struck her thigh violently with his knee; Christine shivered, jerked angularly beneath him, and dropped her gaze again to the fire.

He would have fucked me by now. If I went with him.

Erik shut his eyes. "Don't––"

We would be doing it right now, in our own marriage bed. We are.

"Shut up, Christine," he hissed.

We didn't even wait. He fucked me in your boat. He fucked me on the shore of your lake. He fucked me as we laughed at you––

"Shut up, Christine!"

With a crazed grunt Erik lunged for the platter upon the hearth, scattering its untouched contents atop the bricks. The little porcelain bowl of dipping-oil lay half-toppled, teetering pendulously before the fire; he swiped for the thing and slid three fingers into the oily vessel.

Crushed beneath his floundering weight Christine gazed blankly at his mess of bread and oil, taunting him with her open eyes.

He fucked me long before. He did everything you wanted to do, only first. I lied to you when I said I was pure.

"Oh?" Erik spat, throwing Christine an acrid glance before returning to the toppled cup. "Shut up, wife. Stop distracting me. You are mine. You will have me now, at any rate."

With salad oil? The Vicomte de Chagny knows how to make me wet for him. Just looking at him, I am dripping. I soak myself for his beautiful face. When I am with you, I think of him.

Pausing in his work, Erik ground his teeth, jaws shuddering with tension. He huffed a growling, wordless sound from between his shock of spit-spattered lips.

I lied about a lot of things, to get what I wanted out of you. You are a fool. I wanted fame, but I couldn't bear for you to touch me. The thought of your revolting hands on my body makes me feel sick.

"Too bad!" he roared, setting the little dish spinning again upon the hearth. Oil splattered the bricks and stained the carpet as Erik again crawled atop her, thrusting a slick hand between Christine's indifferent thighs.

With his oily fingers he groped at her, stuffing them inside the secret o shaped hollow at her core, swiping them about the neat, perfect gash of her sex as her disordered limbs tumbled aimlessly beneath him.

How pathetic you are, monster, that you must take me with oil, when his lovely cock slides in to me with ease!

"Ah, aha" Erik spat, with a growling laugh, "look, wife! Ease indeed!" He slapped his fingertips upon her gash, splattering her naked belly with grease. "You detest me and still you get so wet for me, Christine!" he hissed, "she is Erik's slippery little slut now, even if she did fuck the lovely cock first!" Then he was frowning, muttering, as he padded uselessly at her turned-away face, "sorry––no––sorry love––I know you would never, never––"

He stained the white flesh of her abdomen with his slick palm as he steadied himself upon it, the pointed bones of his yellow chest heaving raggedly above her. Christine made no complaint even as the sharp weight of her blundering husband carved a smooth dent in her chest.

"My love," he said to her perfectly expressionless face, gazing down at her from his panting perch, "I seem to have behaved as an unforgivable boor."

It is all right, dear husband. I deserve your anger, for hurting you.

"Yes," Erik said, after a moment's pensive consideration, "I imagine that is rightly so, Christine."

He shuffled up upon his elbow to drag from between the tangle of their bodies the crumpled skirts of Christine's wedding-dress, gathered up somehow in his frenzy of movement. He took up his shaft in the still-oily cup of his palm to carelessly smear the mess upon its pulsating, swollen length. As his shining cock again met the tacky slickness of Christine's flesh beneath him he groaned, saying, "you have learned your lesson now, haven't you, my dear..."

Erik fixed his yellow eyes upon his docile companion. With a dragging, wet hand he shoved her unresisting legs apart, adding silkily, "and this shall be another."

Already dripping stickily in anticipation, he pressed himself to her entrance, slithering against her greasy hole with the hot tip of his cock; he plunged inside with an agonized growl as Christine––glad! willing! as she'd never been, before!––received him.

Buried inside his bride, Erik crumpled. His legs splayed weirdly about Christine's own as he fell slack atop her with a grunt. He panted into her curls; he felt the firm curves of her shape beneath him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her belly soft on his.

He touched her lip, made the red flesh oil-slick and pressed his mouth to hers again. He left her dark curls heavy and stringy from his long fingers tangled in her hair.

"Christine," he huffed, as he began to move against her, sloughing into the hole of her, "this is what you wanted––this is what you always wanted––"

Yes, Erik. This is what I always wanted.

Like a serpent he slithered atop her, inside her, all moiling hips and floundering limbs, as he clutched at her shoulders and bit at her curls, and her staring eyes watched the dying flames behind the waste of bread and oil upon the hearth. Beneath him Christine writhed to the frantic rhythm of his ragged, grunting thrusts, as he gathered her up inside himself, gathered the tangle of her in the crush of his arms and legs and pounding, drumming hips––fucking her, fucking her, like he'd always wanted to fuck her, and she'd always wanted him, him fucking her––

Numb, enraptured, he chanted into the cushion of her, "always wanted––always wanted––"

And then he turned––all the while thrusting, thrusting, so deep inside his loving bride beneath him––for a cacophony rang out from across the Louis-Philippe room, from the giant organ as if a weight had crashed upon its many teeth, and his senseless eyes took in the sight of her, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, living, breathing stare, her trembling lips forming the terrible syllables of his cursed name––

"Shut up, Christine!" he roared at her mirage, "get out! Get out!" And she ran––

But she was beneath him too, and atop her, inside her, he was groaning her name, calling Christine! Christine! Christine! Christine!

And he was sweating, shuddering, screaming, soaking:

And fat tears were sliding down his cheeks, splattering upon her waxen chest to glisten like sweat she would never sweat, and his rasping breaths fogged upon her painted face, hot, just like breath she would never breathe––foul, foul! she was a doll, body, a dead, lifeless thing beneath him!

She was no Christine!

When his pounding heartbeat had stilled and his ragged sobs subsided, Erik rose, and stared down upon the repulsive tangle of limbs and hair and clothing beneath him. Slick oil shone obscenely against the matte perfection of white porcelain and molded wax. Sticky moisture like milk-white molasses wept steadily from the hard hollow between the too-wide spread of the thing's thighs, to ooze in pools of shameful sap upon the carpeting.

Christine's open eyes, dead, lifeless, perfect eyes, gazed up at him from behind the weird angle of her impossibly folded neck.

Is this what you wanted?

He left the thing before the fire. He would dispose of it later, cast it away in the deepest cellar, lock it in the communard's prison to rot with his stinking seed inside its lifeless belly. In spent, sticking nakedness he moved now, like an aimless spectre across the Louis-Philippe room. His shaking legs compelled him to the same place his shame forever brought him.

Naked upon the organ bench, Erik stared detachedly at the neat, soothingly regular rows of keys, keys like so many rotting teeth, in plumbeous ebony and yellowed ivory the same shade as Christine's soiled wedding-dress––

And there, there atop the instrument's shining mahogany veneer, there, where it had not been before––its reflection a perfect double beneath it as if the two completed a glittering set––lay the little gold ring that he had given her, that he had forced again upon her finger––the little gold ring Christine had still worn, as in the arms of her beautiful lover she had fled from him––

Christine had brought the little ring back.

A/N: It's the restaged version ending!