Disclaimer: I own it… … I really do.

Rating: 'M' for sexual situations as well as language.

Summary: Even opera divas can get the blues every now and again. What is Erik's response to Christine's doldrums? One-shot follow-up to 'Oh Sweet Mystery of Life'. Pure Fluffy Smut. Strict 'M' rating.

A/N: This smutlette is dedicated to Eternally Eric's for suggesting this wonderful idea in his/her? review. Thank you so much for the inspiration; I do hope I've done justice to your praise!

And now, without much further ado, on with smut!

Don Juan Most Triumphant

"Erik. I am too old, too tired, and far too matronly to play the part of Aminta in a believable fashion. NO! I refuse to do it!" Christine lifted her chin in outright refusal. Rare were the times when she went against his artistic judgment, but really, this was too much. "Might I remind you, it's been fifteen years, two children, and fifteen pounds since I last played that part, and I might also remind you, Ange, I didn't really enjoy playing it then either!"

She sat with a huff at her dressing room vanity and began putting on her makeup for the night's performance. Here's where you are mistaken, Madame Daae, you are even more beautiful now than when you were fifteen years ago, his Voice surrounded her. And as for the added weight that child-bearing and womanhood have brought, it has only served to make your shape more curvaceous and lush. And finally, as your husband, opera owner, and creative director of the opera house to which you are contractually obligated to perform, I am giving you absolutely no choice in the matter of whether or not you sing.

Christine's eyes flashed fire. Oh, really? She carefully put down her powder lest she hurl it at the mirror he was currently hiding behind. We would just see about that. She stated lightly, "Yes. And just who is going to play Don Juan? Piangi?! He retired three years ago, Erik, and no one else knows the part."

She heard him tsk. You forget, Christine, to whom you are speaking.

"Oh, I know exactly who it is I am speaking to, thank you very much, and I absolutely refuse to go out there in such a farcical display. NO!"

His Voice became cajoling, hypnotizing, convincing, and she steeled herself against it: Christine. It is one song. The point of climax, that is all, my dear. One song. You don't even have to dress the part of Aminta; you just have to sing it, my wife.

Her eyebrows went up in challenge. "Oh? Well, if that's the case, then I'm wearing my comfortable black dress without the corset."

She heard him give a knowing chuckle. I anticipated you would say that, my dear. You many leave off the corset, but you will find your costume on the rack. Be a good girl now and be on stage in ten for curtain.

"Erik! ERIK! This is not over!" Christine rose and crossed to the mirrored passage. She opened the mirror; of course he was not there. "Oh Erik, you right basta—"

"Christine. Curtain in ten." Madam Giry's voice rang clear through the door as she knocked, making her usual rounds down the row of dressing rooms.

Fuming, Christine threw her hair brush very hard against the wall, satisfied when it made a sizable dent in the plaster. What the hell was Erik thinking? She would not do it! She simply would not. Absently, she thought about just going home. No one would miss her really. The understudy Erik had finally approved could take up the part no problem.

Christine ground her teeth together. She was young and beautiful and absolutely brilliant.

Her replacement.

Okay. So she had been feeling a little blue lately. What with Ari and Gus attending boarding school. And Erik had finally caught wise to her subtle phallic maneuvering years ago. She smiled slightly at the memory. But oh, hadn't he paid her back in kind since then?

Using the power of his Voice, he had convinced her to do all manner of things she normally would have refused to do. Bondage, anal, role playing; she was now more than passably familiar with it all. And all because she had tried—and succeeded for a time, thank you very much— in outwitting the master strategist himself. She sighed and removed her corset and bustle.

And now this.

Not deigning to examine the costume too closely; Christine slipped it on, absently registering how lightweight, yet voluminous the skirt felt as it belled around her ankles. She refused to check her reflection, disgusted with what she thought she would find. Instead she left her dressing room and made her way to the stage to take up position once more as the vacuous, virgin-slut.

"Christine. There you are dear. Monsieur Rien has specifically requested for you to sit here before curtain. It is where you will be cued for the finale in Act III of Don Juan." Christine followed Madam Giry to the perch and sat most gracelessly on the oddly shaped wooden stump; her voluminous skirts billowing around her as Madam tsk'd. "Really, Christine. I know you no longer dance, my dear, but that is no excuse to plop and flounce. Ladies do not flounce, my dear, they glide." Christine mimicked the last in fond amusement simultaneously as Madam Giry uttered it.

Looking down, she finally noticed that the dress she wore was made of some diaphanous, golden material that had many microscopic holes within it. It was like lace, but lighter than air, and it was slightly abrasive to the skin. The good madam helped Christine arrange her skirts in a somewhat more pleasing fashion as to appeal to the audience's sensibilities. It was as she was arranging them, that she felt it, a clear parting seam in the back. What the hell?! "Two minutes 'til curtain." Madam reminded her, and Christine wondered if she had time to don the black dress. Maybe if she enlisted Madam's help? She almost got up to do so, but realized with a sigh, that she was nothing if not professional. And the Diva needing a wardrobe change this late in production spoke too closely to an artistic fit of pique that La Carlotta would have thrown. If there was one thing in the world that Christine refused to be likened to, it was La Carlotta.

A maid specializing in makeup and hair adornment came to give her a final once over, smiling her approval. "You always do so well by yourself; I hardly need to do anything at all." The woman arranged one of Christine's sausage curls so that it fell over her should. You look a veritable fashion-plate, La Daae; you are stunning!" Christine tried to give a smile to the sycophantic remark, but she was afraid she couldn't quite muster it. Fame—it could be so tiresome at times, never knowing when people were being honest and forthright.

God, when had she become so jaded?

As the orchestra began to tune for the second act, Christine felt a part of the bench beneath her give way, and quite suddenly, there were hands inside her skirts, parting them at the seam. Just what the hell was going on?! She made to stand— Don't. move. a very familiar and knowing Voice commanded in her ear.

Christine spoke to her skirts, now being expertly manipulated so that she was bared on bottom in the opening he had created, "I don't know what you have planned, Ange, but you should know that I am very angry with you, and I—OH!"

Quiet, my dear. Do you want all of the demimonde knowing what we are doing?

"ERRrrrik! Stop that right this instant!" She growled and squirmed, trying to rise. Hands clamped around her hips, staying her even as he used his tongue to great effect by laving and licking her little bundle of nerves as he thrust in and out with two of his fingers. Christine grew flushed with embarrassment and desire. Oh God! Who was looking at her? Surreptitiously, she looked around. Many of the stagehands and numerous ballet rats, Madam Giry, Meg. Andre, Firmin. Oh God, his wicked tongue!

And that was when the curtain rose.

Oh, dear God—NO! Christine closed her eyes as the limelight focused itself on her and the music cued. What were her lines?! Dear God, what were her lines? Erik mumbled from his position beneath her, giving her a cheap thrill, "And here she sits…" he gave a particularly lazy swirl of his tongue, "in love's bower…" Ever helpful, he gave a luxurious tongue roll as he directed her to sing on cue.

Drawing together every scrap of dignity and professionalism she could muster in light of such an outrageous predicament, Christine tried not to squirm as she sang breathlessly, "And here she… si-its…in love's bow-er…waiting. for. that. final…oh! hour. That final mo-oh-ment when… they will be…a-ah-Ah-as ONE!" Christine felt herself begin to crest as he drove her to the tempo of his music, playing her as expertly as he would his violin. "The. innocent. maiden and—" her teeth clenched as her world narrowed to only his wicked tongue, "the great (flick) Don (flick) JuaaAAahhn! (flick, flick, flick)" She flew apart, shattering before them all; her head listing to one side as the audience wildly applauded her feat.

Recovering quickly, Christine admitted she had handled that rather well; she imagined few others would be able to keep in key, never mind maintain musicality of that magnitude under such conditions, but then again, she had had a great teacher.

She waited for the next segment of song, trying not to think about what just happened— what she had just… in front of hundreds of… her cheeks paled then grew warm from embarrassment. But then her eyes grew round as she heard that Voice appeal to her from the wings.

If her husband was over there playing Don Juan, then who was… she felt hands tighten around her hips, as he sung his part from the wings, "There are those that mock, hmm, and those that jessst." Christine squirmed as his Voice drew closer to her. Her ears heard his voice drawing nearer; her body feeling his every intonation beneath her. "But all will concede I amm the bessst." He was intentionally drawing this out to torture her. Christine closed her eyes on a breathless moan as he was giving her little aftershocks of sensation. "The Great and mmMost TriummphanT Don Juan!"

His Voice had made it to just behind her.

And then suddenly he was just behind her, sitting up and facing the audience—his black-masked visage a perfect fit for the role he had created as masked libertine.

As soon as he appeared, Christine felt his hardness pierce her moist depths and she gasped; her eyes widening in shock. Mon Dieu! What a time for his debut! "That's right, my dear, I'm. here. to. play. There. will. be. no doubt. should. I. staAay." His arms wound themselves tightly around her, holding her to him as he moved his hips in tandem with the lyrical speech he had given. His pumping thighs remaining hidden from view under the stump. "You will be a sacrifice most fine" he paused to caress her cheek, and she shivered as he gave a slow, luxurious roll of hip, "on the altar of Lust Divine."

Christine looked up at him; her shocked gaze connected with his own of frank challenge, and he looked every bit the mischievous reprobate she had fallen in love all those years ago. Her inner muscles twitched around him, and his eyes widened and then lit with fire.

They sang together as he began to move in earnest within her, and she clutched and held him tightly—both in his arms and within; the fires of passion quickly overtaking them both. "Then we two shall become as one… for the night has but hardly begun… for the innocent and her Don Juan." Neither was in a hurry to gallop towards completion. The world fell away; as suddenly, it was just the two of them singing and celebrating their love, performing in actuality what the song was only hinting at through suggestion.

But they quickly came back to reality as the crowd began to cheer and applaud them at the conclusion of the piece. With a small caress to her cheek, Christine felt Erik bend and then withdraw from her depths, disappearing once more below the stage. With a tug, her skirts were righted, and the stump on which she was sitting made whole again.

And maddeningly, she was left empty and wanting.

"Christine!" Madam Giry hissed. "You're on!" Christine started visibly; she was in the limelight once more—alone.

She just began singing. She didn't know what she sang, or even if it was any good, but she sang, and the crowd applauded enthusiastically. She performed one more such number and then, getting up on trembling legs, she curtseyed; all the while the unfulfilled pressure and dampness between her thighs was an ever-present reminder of the torture she had to endure until she saw her husband once more.

She curtseyed a final time and the curtain dropped as did the trapdoor she stood upon. With a gasp, she was falling straight into the arms of Don Juan. And then the trap door was shut with a clack and his hands were once more in her skirts, lifting her up and parting them. "Wrap your legs around me, my girl." And she immediately did so as he crooned his approval. And then he was driving into her hard and fast as he held her pinned against the stone wall.

Ripping off his mask, she began frantically kissing each and every bit of flesh she could reach: his eyes, his chin, his neck as she clung for purchase at his shoulders while he pumped. They were both of them silent during the exchange. No words were needed; only confirmation of this—of them. Christine hit crisis a moment before he went rigid with his own release. Even so, both were quiet in their joy and afterwards, they held one another trembling, basking in lovers' bliss.

At length, Christine kissed his sweat-dampened brow and stated, "So I guess no encore this evening, maestro? You know our loyal patrons will protest such ill and seemingly ungrateful treatment."

He slid her down, supporting her until she was sure her legs would hold. "Let them." His Voice was decidedly smug, "They've had quite enough of you for the time being."

Hand in hand, they began to walk to their underground home.

Passion on Display: Review for Erik Rien's Rose Noir Fantastique!

IF you were one of the few not present for Monsieur Rien's one-night musicale Rose Noir Fantastique, then, dear reader, I pity you!

Patrons of the Opera Populaire have long flocked to hear La Daae perform, and let's face it, the Prima Donna of the world's premier opera house could sing an entire concert of sea shanties, and we, her adoring fans, would be enraptured! With her classic beauty and her celestial voice, the Diva easily holds all of Paris in the palm of her hand. However, last night, this critic got to witness first-hand the untold depths of passion to which La Daae is capable, and though thoroughly embarrassed to admit, he is still reeling from the masterful effects La inspired.

As our faithful readers know, it has long been long rumored that La Daae is married to none other than the reclusive composer and opera house owner himself Erik Rein. But neither has deigned to confirm nor deny.

Well, if she is, then Monsieur Rein better look out!

During the first number of the second act, the song—from the famous opera Don Juan Triumphant performed in Paris these long fifteen years ago to much resounding acclaim—was the lover's duet in Act III, sealing the fate of the innocent heroine at the hands of the notorious libertine Don Juan.

The curtain rose, and the Diva appeared seated on some sort of decorative wooden log wearing a diaphanously daring confection of a rich golden hue. Hesitantly, she began to sing, and the crowd was captivated as she breathlessly voiced her love and expectant seduction at the hands of Don Juan. La colored beautifully upon completion of the solo piece, and no one was left unmoved by her masterful performance.

And then a voice from the wings began to sing. And loyal readers, if La Daae is perfection itself, then the masked man playing opposite her was nothing short of celestial descent for nothing else could explain the masked man's voice other than this. Appearing from a hidden alcove below La Daae's perch, the audience and La Daae gasped in shocked surprise as the masked man rose just behind our beloved Diva and wrapped his arms around her in a very intimate and knowing embrace. The masked man was persuasion incarnate; his liquid voice and mysterious visage leaving all who heard him captivated and (dare I pen it?) aroused. All were held spell-bound while the lovers sang their passionate duet ending in a clamor of applause and cheers.

Upon conclusion of the piece, the masked man disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, and La Daae was left alone once more, gracing us with her beauty and song by effortlessly performing two well-known pieces of Monsieur Rien's composition.

When the final curtain fell, the entire theatre rose to its feet as one, clamoring for an encore between the two. The chants of 'mask' and 'La Daae' could be heard ringing from the rafters.

But sadly, no encore was forthcoming.

And now, all of Paris wants to know: Just who was that masked man, and can we expect to see more of him?

Until next time, my faithful readers,

Phinias Phernalle, Opera enthusiast and correspondent for La Lanterne en Critique.

Placing the review on the bedside table, Erik reached for and drew Christine up against him. "And that is just one of many, my sweet." He nuzzled his ruined face into her bared bosom, humming contentedly. "We showed all of Paris what true passion is last night, and you shown brilliantly. Tell me, do you feel better?" He grabbed her chin and compelled her eyes to meet his. She nodded shyly, burying her head in his neck, content to just be held by him.

He murmured in her ear, "I want no more of this defeatist talk, Christine. You are aging beautifully. And if last night proves anything, it is how utterly irresistibly bewitching you are that you drive me to act out each and every one of my fantasies."

He kissed her on the nose sweetly and then drew both of them to their knees. "Now. Assume the position wench! I haven't all day."

Reviews give encouragement to the authoress and inspirational fuel for the smut.

Thank you!

DGM