"Christine… Christine…" His tongue, his lips… they ate of her, drank of her… She tasted him in turn, the warm, mellow tongue, the thick, slick curve of his lips… She felt the broad, square edges of his shoulders… the heavy thrusting cock between them. She reveled in the familiarity, the comfort, the homecoming.
Before she knew it, her gown was up, her gartered thighs bare. Her buttocks rested up against the arm of the chaise, and her arms braced her torso. Her breasts jounced, bare from the bodice pulled down to her waist, gleaming cream in the low light. Erik slid his thick erection inside her, and tears burned the edges of her eyes. It felt… full, and right and familiar.
He lifted her, his hands strong and powerful at her hips, holding her as he drove inside, up and in, up and in, his warm thighs wound beneath hers, his knees pressing into the side of the sofa under her legs. In and out… his eyes were closed… Why would he not open them, look at her?
He pushed in and out, faster… Her breasts jiggled, moving up and down, free and chilled in the open air. Her pip swelled, her labia filled, slick and hot with the friction… building… her sex pounding, wanting it… Erik breathed, the puffs warm and hot, moist, as he worked his hips… in and out… filling her, the curl of lust building… building…
He came. Long, hard…
She knew it, because of the way his eyes flew open, his gaze driving into hers with the same intensity as the saber blade… naked emotion burning there… his jaw tensed and his neck corded, his dragging in of deep, gulping breaths… the pulsing warmth inside her as his hips stopped moving.
And he pulled away. Turned away. Gathered up his saber.
Slid it into its sheath.
"Erik!" she sobbed, her quim crying, her heart breaking.
"Helen chose Paris, causing a war led by her husband." He looked at her over his shoulder once briefly, then opened a door she had not known existed. "This Menelaus will not fight for a lost cause."
And then he was out the door.
When Christine reached it, opened it… he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
In the privacy of the white salon, well away from the partygoers of the masquerade ball, Maude had one thick cock slamming her quim from behind, and another long, slender one in her mouth from the front.
What more could a woman ask for?
Something up her ass, for one. A tongue-lashing on her pip for another. Perhaps another pair of lips on each nipple… if one were to get specific.
All things considered, however, Maude wasn't complaining. No, she had no complaints as her body trembled in her third orgasm of the session. Her groans of delight were choked off by Firmin's cock in her mouth.
The masquerade costumes had long been shed… except for the masks. She'd insisted they keep them on… as part of the excitement.
Her whip lay coiled on the floor, forgotten in the moment of two cocks working her, one from each end. One in, the other out… one out, the other in… as though they were one long rope being pulled in and through her in a smooth, sleek rhythm.
Her heavy breasts dangled, thick, hard nipples brushing over the rough rug as they swayed back and forth with the pulse of their movement, sending little jolts of sensation to her throbbing clit. The slick suction sounds from her pussy matched those from her mouth as Firmin held her face, sliding in and out, long and slow.
"You lovely bitch," he gasped between breaths. "I'll choke you… when I come, you'll be drowning."
Oh, out, oui, Maude thought in delight, her lips curving around him.
Behind her, Armand grasped her hips as his thick, round cock filled her quim, settling into its space and holding there, as he began to work the black dildo she'd dropped in Firmin's pocket.
The unyielding column slid in her anus, and Maude had the lovely sensation of being filled, full, tight… so tight that every little breath brought pleasure-pain coursing through her body. Armand moved behind her, drilling the phallus deeper… and his cock in and out, slowly, full… fuller… so full, she felt her entire insides shifting with each of his strokes. The cavern of her vagina swelled, the sensation deep inside burning with the need for relief.
Exquis!
Tears stung the corners of her eyes, tears as the pleasure grew to an unbearable level… pain-wrapped, the feeling of being trapped, imprisoned by three stiff cocks… She couldn't move, and then, when she thought it could grow no more, Firmin released her head and grabbed for her breasts, holding them in his hands as they swung beneath his ballocks.
She was breathing heavily through her nose, choking on every other stroke of Firmin's cock, her quim so wet that Armand slid all the way out for one glorious moment… and then slammed back inside of her, pushing the phallus in ever deeper with his belly. Pain! Her pip throbbed so hard it must be bright red, burning with the need for release.
Firmin groaned, and shot himself deep into her throat, filling it with warm, salty ejaculate, choking her.
Maude gulped it back, tears stinging her eyes, and sagged, face to the floor, as Firmin pulled out, Armand still working sleekly from behind. And then, he reached around and touched her shiny, hard sex and she screamed into the rug… screamed as the violent burst of relief swept over her. She shook and quaked beneath him, and felt his long, huffing groan of orgasm pulsing inside her as he slumped over her.
When she staggered to her feet moments later, Armand and Firmin were both still lumps of male flesh on the rug. Maude stood above them, in all of her naked glory, her pip and quim still humming… her asshole still twitching.
She snapped her whip, and it cracked in the air over them.
Firmin jerked and opened his eye. "Surely… Maude… you are not…"
Armand merely groaned.
"Come, come gentlemen… or is it that you already have?" Maude chuckled at her own joke, and cracked the whip again. "The night is still young! The masquerade ball may be winding down, but we do not have to!"
But, to the managers' infinite relief, Maude's plans were suddenly interrupted by a scream in the distance. And then shouts and more screams. "The Phantom!"
A woman, one of the costumiers, had been found near the dressing rooms, deserted due to the masquerade ball… and discovered only when one of the stagehands had been sent to locate a specific item for La Carlotta's costume. She had been describing it to the Opera House's patrons, the Chagny brothers, and the elder one had requested to actually see the intricate fan of which she had spoken.
The dead woman, Régine, was only in her late twenties… not a particularly pretty girl, but not an unfavorable one either. Her neck was broken; her head sagged awkwardly against her shoulder.
She had been costumed as a shepherdess, and her mask still remained in place over the upper half of her face. Her skirts were jostled up, but it was not clear whether that was because of the way she'd fallen, or because the Opera Ghost had helped himself to her charms either before or after he'd broken her neck.
For it had, indeed, been the Opera Ghost. The one who'd remained silent and unobtrusive for well over a month… since Joseph Buquet's death. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was the perpetrator.
Christine stared in horror at the lifeless body as it was carried away, draped in a white sheet. Could Erik have done such a thing?
How?
She could not comprehend it.
Pressing her hand to her mouth, Christine staggered down the corridor to the room where she slept. Such violence. Yes, he was capable. She had seen it in his eyes, seen it even tonight when he'd contemplated killing the comte.
Had he taken out his rage on Régine instead? Rage directed at Philippe de Chagny… and also at herself, Christine Daaé.