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The High C	By : HyperHenry Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 7929 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The High C
- 2-The Breaking of ...
- 1
- 2
Author: HyperHenry

Rating: Still so R!! Kiddies: out!

Disclaimers: See chapter 1 and replace owe with own (my bad)

Summary: Eh? What was that? P-Plot? (rolls on the floor laughing)

A/N: Oh, wow! Cheers ever so much for those stunning reviews. It is really gratifying to see how many of you have actually taken the time to read and review my little piece. I have comments for your kind attention at the bottom of this chapter. :)

As I try to sum up your reviews, two requests spring to mind: 1) there is a general consensus that you would like Erik to get down to serious business and let not-so-little-Erik come out and play, 2) you're salivating for more bondage and increasingly hotter S/M.

Well ... your wish is my command. ;)

THE HIGH C

Chapter 2: The Breaking of ....

Christine sat completely still on a red velvet prop chair. Occasionally she would look up and past the beams of the building, wondering why her Angel of Music had summoned her to this particular place. Usually the music sessions took place in the cellar. This was the attic. Not an ideal place for singing, compliments to the bad acoustics. So – Christine wondered very much.

She moved delicately. Her Master had instructed her to keep practising the scales the way he had shown her the last time: taking the cue from her centre. Instead of his guiding hand, she had used her own, but it had not felt right. Perhaps she was doing it wrong. She shivered inadvertently. She wondered briefly at the shiver as well. Could the shudder in her be due to the long, dark grey shadows cast by the enigmatic stage props? They were long and almost demanding in the way they crept over the flooring planks – like thieves in the still of the night. Almost alive and living in sin. Or was it the dust they seemed to exhale with a silent sigh when she looked at them?

A cloud slowly started to shroud the sun, in the process altering the spectre of shadows and shades in the attic. The particularly long shadow of the demon statue from Faust faded in colour, yet grew longer still, reaching for her. Christine sat in the middle of the room, and yet the shadow almost touched the midnight blue satin of her slippers. An irresistible urge to withdraw her feet rose within her. Yet, her Angel had commanded her to remain sitting until he arrived, and she would do so. She looked down. The slippers matched nicely the nightgown she was wearing. Her Master had insisted. A full robe with the constraining corset would squeeze life out of her singing. And she trusted him implicitly.

Christine's thoughts strayed no more. With a soft hiss she realised that she could feel him. She couldn't quite determine where he was in the room. She never really could. He was everywhere; everywhere and nowhere, but most of all: he was inside her mind. At that very moment, she felt him enter her with his soft chanting.

Christine. Christine.

"I am here, Angel," she awed, almost not daring to breathe. She had closed her eyes.

I see you, child. You have come to me. I am content. Hark now, as you will receive your next lesson of reaching the ultimate peak.

Her heart started to hammer in her chest. An almost unbearable feeling.

Yet not half as unbearable as the feeling that was stirred inside of the Phantom of the Opera.

She was sitting there. Illuminated by the merest sunbeam from the window in the ceiling. She was wearing a whiter than white nightgown, laced with delicately pink applications.

Pristine Christine.

Even after their last session, such an innocent child. A child he was about to ravage. His breathing increased in anticipation. He would carry her on and they would reach the C3 – together. He started whispering his chanting softly and let his powerful mind enter hers.

"Christine, you must close your eyes, let the music embrace you and it will be your slave. Hush, sweet apprentice."

As she closed her eyes slowly with obedient determination, he crept closer, his step light and fluent. In his right hand were silk ribbons of a blood red colour and a red velvet mask. In his left hand was a tall, slender champagne glass. He put the glass on the floor. Then he stepped behind her, murmuring his chant and let his hands slide over her arms, shoulders, nape. As his able hands stroked her chin, the red mask was slipped quietly into position over her eyes. She didn't even react.

"As one sense leaves you, the others leap to support. Answer them, Christine. Use them."

"Yes, Master," she said, speaking for the first time since his entrance. He smiled behind his white porcelain mask: she was now putting herself in a trance before he even entered the room.

His hands continued their journey down the exquisite nightgown. With a deft movement, it fell to the floor, eliciting a mere and soft whimper from its owner.

"Trust me," he told her in his deceptively soft voice. She had begun to tremble, yet stopped immediately when his hands landed on her white arms with the lightness of a moth. Slowly he traced them, one at a time, all the way to her fingertips where he wrapped her wrists in the silk ribbons he had brought. The knot was firm, without causing the skin to blush. When he was done, she found herself standing with her arms stretched out from her body in an angle of 45 degrees. Then there was a tug. She gasped. This time much more loudly.

"Calm yourself," he said, a bit more brusquely. "You will not speak unless I ask you to."

Christine began to breathe in little huffs. Had she done something to upset the Angel of Music? Would he punish her? Was that why her arms were floating in the air?

Erik regarded his work. Christine stood between two sleek prop pillars. Her arms were tied to each of the pillars, but not in a crucifixion position; that would have stretched out her thorax too much and obstructed her singing. He smiled at the Faust devil in the corner. Most appropriate, this witness, to whom he bowed inwardly. Then he turned back to Christine.

Christine.

Oh, god, she was so beautiful. The Phantom began to shiver in his core. She was almost naked. Slowly he reached out and put his hand on her back with a feather light touch. She jerked. She had cool skin. He would soon heat it up.

Du calme, he murmured, du calme, mon petit l'oiseau.¹⁾

He felt keenly how the tender trembling skin underneath his warm hand gradually stilled.

They stood like this for some time. Then the yearning became intolerable and the need for imminent release overwhelming. The Phantom pushed her forward and separated her luscious legs slightly by forcing his knee between them.

"Sing, Christine. Sing for me."

As she sang the scales after his direction, his fingers travelled down the path once before visited. The undergarments were soon disposed off and the twin peaks yet again visible to the naked eye. The scales were good, but raw. Her voice was still not warm enough for peaking. From behind, he watched how her midriff worked and her arms pulled the silk ribbons. "Do not break the tie, or I will be cross with you," he hissed in her ear, making her shiver violently. The last tone ended with a whimper. "Please, Angel," she gasped, "I will be good. I promise."

Erik said nothing but wrapped his hands round her tiny wrists. A minor display of force, and he could break those. The thought increased the frequency of her breathing. His hands stroked her arms, the pressure of the fingers leaving light rosy trails on the virgin white skin.

"I will not hurt you. I am strict, only to be kind."

"Yes, Master. Thank you." Her voice was almost vanishing.

"Have you been practising, my little one?"

"Yes, Master. I have done as you have ordered. I have sung while filling my centre with my finger, and I have clenched the way you told me to."

His own finger crept slowly, oh, so slowly round her hips to connect with her nether lips. She gasped softly. He pressed his hand against her pelvis with his long finger slightly pushing her female nub. "Sing," he demanded. She sang with a certain gusto, betraying her nervous state of mind, and he felt the strain of her abdominal muscles. Then his left hand went down its well-known road on her back through the canyon to the centre. She was already wet – a stark contrast to his dry mouth. He gently inserted his finger. She was so wet she didn't even notice.

"Clench," he whispered.

"But, my Master..." she gasped.

"I will not tell you again," he warned her in a dangerous voice as his right hand pressed harder into her nub. She clenched. He gasped! So strong, now. "Good," he rasped, "but is it good enough? Clench," he added as he also added another finger. She clenched again. Still good. The scales were rising and her voice gained more confidence. C2. So far so good.

Erik took a deep breath. His right hand continued to control her abdominal muscles and her diaphragm while his finger was still teasing her clitoris. His left hand was sloooowly rotating within the very core of his beloved angel. He heard her whine softly, trying very hard to it down in fear of his retribution. The whine, however, not more like a moan than a whimper. Oh, such a sweet sound. It was time to move on before he got a heart attack.

"Christine," he whispered, his voice thick with intensity. "I want you to sing Mozart's coloratura part from the Queen of the Night aria. Start one octave down, then repeat it rising one note. Do not be afraid. I am here with you; I will help you elongate your pipe and fill your void with music."

"Yes, Master, thank you," Christine's heart leaped with joy. The aria! The coloratura! He had never let her do that before, professing anxiety that it might be too much for her at such an early stage. But now... She bent her knees slightly, thrust forward her torso, keenly aware of him following her every movement, and opened her inner hollow tube. The first note vibrated through the room.

"Yesssss," he hissed, "see now why I chose this location? You will get no help from the acoustics. Your voice will have to seek glory on its own. Sing, Christine. Let your voice unfold and bathe in the darkness of pleasure and music."

Urged by his compliments and powerful presence she kept singing while he adjusted her position, nudging her legs apart just a little more and leaning her over an inch more. As a consequence of his ministrations, her tone grew a notch darker and her pitch fuller.

"AGAIN, CHRISTINE. SING FOR ME. THE COLORATURA."

Erik's chest heaved and fell. His right hand left momentarily the pale peaceful hills of her heart shaped behind and snuck behind his crotch instead. Something in there needed air. The Phantom's own magic flute came jabbing out of its confinement, vibrating with its head pointed in one prominent direction. His long strong fingers prodded their way back to her feminine pass way, but this time they were not alone. With an impossible effort, Erik managed not to cry out as he thrust forward and plunged deep within the soul of Christine Daee. Christine missed a note, her whole body tensing suddenly. But her master and dominator grabbed her body and held her tight, tight, commanding over and over again: "SING, Christine – SING FOR ME." The old enchantment back in place, the young woman sang for her life and reached .... the correct key for the coloratura. Something burst inside of her and it was as if the tone now filled her chest much more freely. She braced herself, approaching the C3 immediately before the highest note in the coloratura: the G3. Somewhere in the room was the sound of something breaking. Erik was clutching her and then pushed her over to allow for her singing; then he thrust again, suppressing a moan as his engorged member was mercilessly squeezed by Christine's young and narrow passage to heaven. And again he ploughed her, wincing as he felt the inevitable ending approach. No, not yet! Oh, god, this is heaven. Not yet, it must be with the C!!! He pulled out almost entirely and allowed his arousal to rest while listening for the note to finish everything. And when it was there, he thrust back into her with all his might while pressing his right hand against her sensitive little nub in the front. Christine threw back her head and let all her dark curls dance over her angel's chest while her voice and her soul reached the C3 of desire. The Phantom snarled and groaned loudly. As he spilt himself inside of her, twisting and jerking in delight and undiluted lust, her nature answered the call of her centre and she came as she climbed the coloratura's highest note.

How appropriate, Erik thought through a fog a moist pleasure; how appropriate that the note of her climax should be ... G3.

And that is when his eye caught the sight of something in pieces on the floor. It was white and seemed almost shattered to dust. Then he gasped. His face whipped round to look at the champagne glass. It was intact. Yet Christine had undeniably reached the C3. The tone had been fragile, still .... Still, it had been able to break something, if not the glass. It had broken porcelain.

For one second. For one delicious, earth shattering second, Erik had felt free. As he had come with a vengeance inside his protégée's warm, soft cavern, the disclosure of his face merely added to his feeling of intense freedom.

It wasn't until the second that followed that he realised his vulnerability. Christine's perfectly performed high note had left the champagne glass undisturbed, yet had completely shattered the porcelain mask on his face. The pieces had instantly let go of his dark secret, so wet with sweet desire and effort. He subdued the second gasp that was on its way and forced himself to calm down. Christine was blindfolded. She could not see.

And yet still, from habit as much as from self-loathing, did he cover his damned demonic half with his right hand.

Pulling away from his student, he untied her hands, silently slipped her nightgown over her naked form, dropped a gentle kiss on the top of her head and disappeared behind the Faust demon's shadow.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Christine removed the mask. She was still breathing heavily. Then she blinked rapidly and gingerly shook her head to rid her eyes of the fog.

And then she let one word out on her breath:

"Wow!"

The End

¹⁾ Calm down, calm down, my little bird

GRIN! That's it. You like? Tell me. It's probably completely out of canon, but hey, this is our playground, right? ;)

Note – that the Aria of the Queen of the Night from Mozart's The Magic Flute that I have used for Christine's practice is written in F3 with one of the high notes ending on a G3. How's that for a killer! (what was this intense hatred Mozart apparently felt towards sopranos?), and I'm entirely certain that there's absolutely NO way anyone can take those notes in the – ahem – 'coming' position. But – hey – this is fiction. Can porcelain break from high notes as well as glass? I have no idea. Probably not. So this was simply thought up on the account of drama. Also note that Gounod's Faust opened in Paris in 1859 so it is not implausible for the theatres to have had props from that particular opera in 1870.

Comments for your lovely reviews on Chapter 1:

Maggie: re. challenge: You got it!

CassieJo: re. German: Nope, I'm not. You need to go a bit more north: Denmark. Land of Hans Christian Andersen, Hamlet, and... well, that's about it, I guess. Danish shares a lot of linguistic terms with English (ex. yule tree = juletræ) – blame it on the raging, plundering savages, the Vikings – but other than that, the two languages are really awfully different from one another, particularly in a grammatical sense. So if you spot some odd phrases or weird syntax – you'll know why. ;)

Re. bending over to reach the note: Yup! You're right. I remember those lessons too when I sang in a choir. Boy, the hours we spent desperately exhaling and inhaling to broaden our windpipes in the most peculiar positions... (starts drooling at the fictional possibilities).

SublimeClarity: GASP! Boy, do you know how to write a review!!!! Do you do this for a living? Your review was extensive and elaborate – not to mention full of shameless pride (hmmm – but who am I to argue ;) ). I'm glad you picked up on the intentional repetitions. I was bitten by the Samuel Beckett and T.S. Eliot bugs ages ago. Of course, I would never be able to touch their ankles, so instead I'm doing the best I can with these puny little attempts. As for my grasp of the English vocabulary and grammar – look who's talking! I can't believe English is not your first language, you seem to use it completely effortlessly.

Regarding the contents of your review: you're quite right – it's definitely not canon. I have never read Laroux' novel, I have only seen the musical and the movie, and that's the extent of my experience with the awesome story. I'm glad the lemon piece worked. I believe it's the first time I have ever attempted to write a plot less story, but I wanted to challenge myself.

And I see you have been visiting my homepage. That's great, I hope you enjoyed it. As for your suggestion for me to draw or paint some POTO fan art, I'm full up with assignments right now (which is why this chapter took such a long time), but I might just do it one day when I'm bored.

Oh – and by the way: I had SO much fun writing about that drop of water (snigger).

Kitty: don't worry – I'm not taking your review in the wrong way. ;) However, I confess to being a bit confused. I remember me ol'e choirmaster telling me the high C was the C3, and on http://www.dutchdivas.net/frames2/highC.html I found this:

"There are more exceptions for the human voice. For instance Erna Sack, the German coloratura-soprano. She started in 1928 - at the beginning of her career - with small contralto parts (!) and changed in 1930 to coloratura-soprano. Of her is known that she could reach c4, nickname of her: the 'German Nightingale'. Another soprano, the Italian coloratura-soprano Lucrezia Agujari (1741-1783), highly admired by Mozart, could also reach that height. Mado Robin, the French coloratura-soprano could hit b3, a visiting-card of her. Even a c4."

Yet according to you, the high C is at least C6-7. Whatcha think? Did I misunderstand something, or are both my sources all wrong?
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The High C