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The Dance of Broken Souls	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 3149 -:- 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
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Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed, I appreciate it!

Skimbleshanks: Your review was great, I got a good laugh out of it! I hope this section makes up for my negligence, don’t punish me too harshly now lol.

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I was never one to suffer the effects of boredom. In fact, I was one who either by unconscious self-discipline or a thirst for activity, did not allow time to weary me. Each and every hour had its use. Each minute was filled with crucial thoughts and careful consideration. Each second demanded the use of my hands and mind, for to sit idle would be to allow my broken soul to rot and descend deeper into the black abyss which threatened to consume it.

Some would say that it had long ago been consumed. I could not sit quietly twiddling my thumbs while contemplating my sedentary life-style. A sedentary life-style would surely drive me over the brink of madness that floated ominously before me each and every day.

I am not one for poetic metaphor, as poets tend to be a flighty bunch. Victims of fantastical delusions and romantic notions they are. Yet, I cannot help but see madness as a barren, black sea. The darkness repels you, but a deep, unwanted urge will always beckon you to go forth and let the frothy gray waters wash over your feet even as your mind screams with revulsion.

The mind and body sometimes take you down terrain you would rather not travel.

I would rather not be hurtling down a steep road that led to the all-consuming flames of desire. I was a man as any other, yet I was not. A paradox you say? Life is full of contradictions.

A real man was blessed with a real face, one that could be touched by the breeze and sun without fear. A real man was looked upon with admiration or indifference, not shocked fear or condescending pity. A real man could allow his urge to touch and caress a woman’s flesh to come to fruition. He could bravely approach his lady of temptation and seduce her with sentiments and promises, many of which would be blatant lies.

A real man always carried his fair maiden to bed and never questioned her desire to lie upon his silk sheets while he moved within her, sharing with her his very soul.

A real man was ignorant of the true joy of touching another’s flesh intimately.

A real man did not see the beauty inherent in desire, he saw only his satisfaction.
How I envied and loathed those real men. How I detested them while wanting no more than to walk the earth for one day as one of them.

Did I mention that life is filled with contradictions?

It would seem that my nature was suffering from the same affliction.

And it would seem that my nature was demanding some more of that delightful poppy seed. A vice or an escape? It was too soon to tell, but I was not in the mood to berate another bothersome base urge.

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Dawn was beginning to break, the black sky fading to a picturesque collage of pink and yellow. The horizon was as peaceful as the quiet streets, the bustle of day not yet descending upon the solitary earth. For once, I felt content in being alone.

The sand crunched silently beneath my boots as I pulled off my jacket. My shirt hung loosely about my shoulders, the material parting immodestly over my chest.

I was rather well built, I knew. Years of moving about at all times had kept me quite fit, even though physical strength was not something I relied upon a great deal. I needed to be quick and agile so as not to be seen when I wished to remain hidden. I also needed to intimidate if need be, and occasionally my face alone was not enough to keep rapscallion louts at bay.

A distant memory of Father Mansart leapt to the forefront of my mind. Long ago, long before my life truly began, he had told me in a voice filled with wonder and subtle admiration that I was becoming a rather large boy. It was true that I was taller than most.

The sadness in the old priest’s voice was evident even to my naïve and young ears. His implication was fiercely debilitating, as his wistful comment spoke of the misfortunes of my attractively sized body being wasteful. What woman would want to be wrapped in these arms? The arms were attached to shoulders that held head of a monster.

He should have said, “It is a shame about your strength and fitness Erik, as it will prove quite useless.” God knows that is what he thought as he shook his head and lowered those sad eyes. Poor old bastard, a good-hearted man he was, but as dumb as the day was long.

I would have appreciated his honesty.

Really, I would have. I am not one with fragile sensibilities and a blissful ignorance of my own hideousness.

I reached the thick stone doors of the Khanum’s apartments. It was too early for her to be expecting any visitors, but I did not fear incurring her wrath. As much as she would sneer and hiss at my boldness, she would remain content. She found me rather entertaining, and although one such as I would normally consider it an insult, I felt little indignation. In fact, she amused me with her haughty indifference and ferocity.

If I did not feel a small sense of reluctant and perverse admiration for the woman I would not have hinted at the size of my cock. I am, above all else, a gentleman.

Or not.

The door opened easily, the dry room nearly sighing in relief as the cool morning air entered the chambers. I nearly sighed with relief at the thought of my opium.

Perhaps my lovely, wanton, teasing, lying gift horse would be up.

I had not yet forgotten her. I tried to ignore her, to push the feeling of her hot little body against mine from my mind. But I failed time and time again.

She did not want me, this I knew. I hated her for it, but even as I hated her for her headstrong dedication to her duties, I longed for her.

I was, above all else, a human being. I had needs as did any other, and I felt a burning need to bury my celibate, useless cock into her tight pink cunt, stealing her innocence as she stole mine.

I would brand her my very own; forever she would live knowing the first man inside of her body was a monster.

Forever I would die inside knowing she masked her revulsion with every kiss, touch and thrust.

Yet in the moment when I would be lost inside of her body, I would be free.

The dawn had broken, but still sleep remained. The apartment was quiet, the only sound being the light tap of my boots upon the tiles. I had yet to reach the bronze paradise that signified the thirst for splendor. All I saw were primitive plaster walls, walls that looked like they were constructed by primitive beings from a primitive era.

Black cracks marred the already faded mortar, like deep-set wrinkles they aged the building without grace. It could have been a wise and delicate elder; instead it remained a broken and poor beggar, disfigured by years of pain and despair.

Did walls mirror the countenance of those who passed them each and everyday? I would hope not, but natural order works in mysterious ways.

I gently opened the door to the Khanum’s opulent kingdom. It looked dull and faded in the early morning light.

She sat there, her eyes glaring out the window, her body taut but relaxed. She heard me enter, but did not turn to face me. Perhaps her silence was meant to condemn my intrusion. A symbolic protest. A lack of a proper welcome made for an uncomfortable guest indeed!

I cleared my throat rather obscenely.

“You did not need to do that, I saw you enter.” Her lilting purr deceived my better judgment once more, making me believe she was a but a harmless kitten.

“You did not acknowledge me.” I answered indifferently, staring at her slim frame in her smooth brown muslin dressing gown. Well, it was not a dressing gown in Persia, but I did not know the proper term. In all honesty, I had no desire to know.

“What does the magician want?” She turned towards me and splayed her arms across the marble windowsill behind her before arching her back and closing her eyes as the sunlight covered her ebony hair in a white glow.

“Some of that wonderful poppy cake we shared yesterday.”

I heard her chuckle ominously.

“Go into Elizabeth’s chamber, there will be some on her bureau.”

“Thank you.” Conversation was now superfluous and I nodded curtly before moving towards the heavy wooden door at the far end of the glittering boudoir.

Anxiousness pulled at my shallow heart as I lifted my hand to grasp the handle and pull open the barrier that kept me from my vices.

These walls were a glorious colour of royal blue, dark but not forbidding. Sometimes night could be beautiful, and in this room it was always night, and it was always beautiful. A dark elegance that contrasted against the fiery personality of the sleeping mistress overwhelmed me for but a moment.

The thick curtains were not gauzy or sheer, but rather a thick velvet. My gift horse did not like the sun invading her ethereal cave in the early hours or the morning when sleep kept her at peace.

I could see nothing but her honey-hued hair atop a silken pillow, her face buried beneath the coverlet.

What would she do if I were to crawl beneath that blanket and run my hands up and down the length of her body, breathing in her feminine scent while silencing her indignant protests with my mouth?

Would she accept me out of a duty? Would she turn me away out of fear? Would she lay still and passive?

Would the true depth of her sacrifice suddenly permeate her clouded mind? Perhaps she simply flattered herself when she felt my cock rise beneath her smooth ass, but never really understood the physical and emotional consequences of giving herself over to a monster.

Thinking is one thing. To think is to fantasize, and in our fantasies, everything is as perfect as can be. When we control events in our own minds, we are never the ones ravaged by pain or misfortune. We are victorious and triumphant, feeling nothing but pleasure and contentment as our minds gift us with visions of ecstasy and splendor.

Never in our fantasies do we feel pain or betrayal. Never do our hearts beat with trepidation and dread. Never do our bodies feel pain or our minds protest. To dream is to experience a most exciting event wrapped in gold-plated armor. We are impenetrable and mighty, withstanding the winds of danger.

When we act upon our fantasies, the cruelty of reality distorts our rose-coloured images. When we are vulnerable we are without armor, open to the harshness of words and the pain of blows.

She could imagine proudly displaying her body to me and bringing me to my knees with desire, but could she imagine the inevitable pain that would come with my taking her?

Could she imagine feeling her immunity ripped away after she was a used woman, no longer a golden virgin rose tended carefully by those who admired her purity? She was Elizabeth the Persian Princess, but soon she would be soiled goods, a weed when she was once a flower.

No, I doubted she considered any of this when she crawled into my lap before accusing me of thinking her ugly.

I could see the beautiful pipe lying on top of her wooden boudoir, but an insatiable urge crept up my spine as my feet carried me to the mess of golden brown hair and blue silk.

I simply wanted to see her at peace, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling softly with her deep, even breaths. Her mouth would not be screaming indignant protests, her body would not be tantalizingly moving before me. I would have no need to throw her up over my shoulder and spank her pretty, pale behind, listening to her shriek and squeal with shock and horror. Perhaps with a little perverse glee as well.

Perhaps I am a wishful thinker as well as a cynic.

Paradoxes.

My heart was thundering in my chest as I inched closer and closer to the sleeping rose. I feared awakening her, as I was not quite sure if we were on decent terms or not.

It was strange really, we had played a perverse game of domination and submission in the garden, we had kissed as lovers kiss, and then she had fled into the Persian air, her silent triumph eating away at my black soul.

Despite my indignation, I still feared hers. Perhaps a man more experienced in the art of love and seduction would handle this uncertainty with certainty. I could do no such thing.

She let out a deep, contented sigh and rolled onto her back. I came closer to her bedside, my traitorous mind reprimanding me mercilessly for taking such a daring liberty, but my feet still shuffled closer and closer.

Her shoulders were bare, the smooth lines of her collar bones shadowed by the darkness of the royal blue chamber. Her long, brown lashes rested against the smooth gold of her skin.

I resisted an urge to reach out and stroke the smooth skin of her cheek and run a fingertip over her feathered lashes. Her full pink lips parted slightly then closed, how I wanted to feel those as well.

I would memorize every line in her plump bottom lip; the texture and smoothness would become as familiar to me as my own fingers. I would learn and cherish each and every bit of her feminine flesh; no part of her would be neglected.

Oh, how I craved, longed, needed to know her body! To know the body of any female creature would be the sweetest joy! No man could ever know the desire that makes ones blood burn with longing unless he looked upon the reverential gift that was a woman’s body, and knew that he could never possess it.

When a desire eludes us, the want we feel is nearly our undoing, and once we grasp that forbidden treasure, we seldom believe that it is real. It would be like touching a ghost, a fleeting specter that can disappear at any moment, leaving us barren and bereft.

Reaching out a tentative hand, I slowly drew the thick coverlet down, my heart racing as I did so.

It was wrong, so wrong to reveal this woman while she lay unconscious beneath my prying, lecherous eyes! Yet, the appearance of more tanned flesh made my heart thunder and my eyes widen in divine appreciation.

I had uncovered a long hidden gem, glorious and spellbinding to behold. Slowly the sheet came down lower until I could see the swell of her small breasts. I had to stop for a moment, my breath had become short, and I nearly gasped with delight.

This was unlike the orgy. This was far more intimate. I had been a mere spectator before, now I participated in the unveiling of the beautiful body of a woman. It was just he and I, alone in her elegant chamber shrouded with the colours of night. A midnight sky surrounded us as the golden light of day slipped in through the curtains, illuminating my sleeping goddess.

I brought the blue silk down further and further until the sheet rested against her belly, her tiny breasts exposed to my gaze. They were high and round, as her youth would allow, and tipped with light pink nipples which had begun to harden under the cool air of the morning.

My heart began to beat frantically, that insufferable steel drum rhythm nearly causing my chest to burst. She was beautiful, and so perfect to me. Some might say that any woman would be perfect to one as sexually deprived as I, and they would be correct. Yet nothing could spoil this moment, this plunge into ecstatic revelation. She was lovely, she was nude, and she was mine if I so wished it.

Oh, I wished it.

I finally let the covers rest against her pelvis as my hungry eyes drank in the sight of her. I still felt as though I was only looking upon a sculpture, so still was she. The lines of sunlight played across her skin as she drew one arm up above her head, exposing herself completely to my gaze.

I could no longer stop my shaking hand from reaching out to her. I simply wanted to touch her cheek, to feel the skin against my fingertips.

I placed the pad of my thumb against her bottom lip, causing it to pout and expose her lovely, even teeth.

I allowed my hand to drift down her jaw and laid my palm to rest upon the smooth column of her throat. I could feel her pulse, the heated blood caressing my hand in tune with the beat of her heart. It was like nothing I had ever felt before, so soft and delicate.

I felt like a pig, a lecherous, disgusting pig. But I couldn’t help it; this was all too perfect. Once I stripped away my judgments and prejudices, I was only a man. A man who wanted nothing more than to get lost in the sight, scent, and feel of a woman.

My finger stroked her collarbone gently, the feel of the hard bone underneath her soft skin made breathing even more difficult. Her chest rose and fell, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, I allowed my hand to drift until it hovered above one breast.

It was torture.

I wanted so badly to make intimate contact with her soft curves, but fear is a deterrent more overwhelming than anyone would like to admit. Should she awaken, I would most likely be greeted with screams. I had been greeted with enough screams to last me a lifetime, and I was not in need of anymore.

I sighed and pulled my hand back, looking at the cowardly appendage with disdain as it absently brushed at invisible lint on my black trousers.

Suddenly large, brown eyes greeted my own.

I stared for a moment, disbelieving. Even as I feared her awakening, it seemed almost too tragic to be real. Now here she was, awake, and staring at me.

What was a man in my position to do?

Apologize?

Leave without a word?

Lean down and continue my relentless assault until her protests turned to passionate pleas?

Did the latter even occur outside of penny dreadfuls?

“A curious magician, aren’t we?” The large brown eyes seemed to smile. Perhaps she was still living her daring, erotic fantasy. Perhaps she was submitting to a will higher than her own. Perhaps she was really just a wanton nymph.

I said nothing, but rather stepped backwards, my eyes never leaving her own.

She sat up, the blue silk languorously falling away from her and pooling around her thighs, her body exposed once more of her own volition. I hoped that my left cheek did not redden, but it felt quite hot. I’m quite sure that it turned as pink as her bottom was yesterday after my playful show of discipline.

The politics of European society would dictate that her audacity should have left me in disgust, but I was most impressed. My mind raced with lustful visions of us gloriously entangled on the silk sheets, moving to a rhythm only we could hear.

Society knew shit. It preached, but it did not feel, for if it felt, it would never condemn acts which make one feel so alive. I looked like death, and most of the time I lived like an animated corpse, doing only what was necessary to survive in my unwanted shell of a body. Now, now I felt like I had been brought back to life after years of darkness. This, this was worth living for. This glorious, intimate beauty.

“Why so shy?” Her coy question unnerved me further as she innocently twirled strands of hair around her slim finger. Her routine seemed polished, but her eyes seemed distant. She wore a mask also. Her mask was one of abandonment; her eyes were filled with a strange fear.

Any woman knew that inviting a man to her bed implied the end of her perfect fantasy, and gave way what could be his perfect reality, should be a brute who concerned himself with only his pleasure.

My gift horse was brave. Or stupid. I was not in possession of a rational mind so as to decide which.

“Why so bold, my lady?” I stepped closer to her, watching carefully to see if she would bring her hands up to cover herself. She was a virgin in body, and thus would still carry with her maidenly fears of male virility. Little did she know her virility was far more powerful and potent than mine could ever be.

“Do you dislike a bold woman?” She leaned backwards, the silk drifting even lower.

“Not really.” Slowly I reached out and touched one wispy tendril of her hair. It felt just like the silk adorning the bed. I could have been satiated by simply running my hands through the light brown tresses, never had I thought a woman’s hair could be so intoxicating.

I may sound like an over-zealous fool, but one as involuntarily innocent as I cherished that which he thought he would be forever denied.

Her pink tongue darted out of her mouth and gently touched my hand. A bold young rose indeed. A brave one to boot.

I gingerly sat upon the bed, the mattress groaning softly as I let my weight fall on it heavily. Elizabeth scooted backwards, never upsetting the sheet that concealed her hips and thighs. The royal blue barrier kept an air of mystery about her, it challenged me further, beckoning me to earn the right to remove it and feast my eyes upon the treasure that would be laid before me.

“So you have decided to bed me after all, Erik?” Her sly smile was rather teasing, but still her eyes burned with uncertainty. She was anxious, and her façade fell away slowly.

A great wall of disingenuousness surrounded her, and slowly it would crumble, falling swiftly and unexpectedly. It is arrogant to say that I am her Trojan horse of sorts, but it would not be inaccurate.

“Perhaps I have.” My tone was clipped and severe, far more severe than I had intended, and she seemed to inadvertently grimace.

A hot feeling of shame coursed down my spine. I only intended to remain calm. I was not a man with a great deal of self-control, but I could use restraint when need be. Now was a time when they were needed.

And now was a time that I could not call upon them to assist me in this battle.

The mattress sank further as I settled fully upon the bed, my hand reaching out absently to touch the satin tresses once more. I fought a most potent urge to inhale the scent of the fine hair, but I was sure it smelled of lavender and roses.

With the feline swiftness that I marveled at her for possessing during our debacle in the garden, she suddenly was behind. Her slick, agile movements were arousing, as I was a great admirer of stealth.

I most certainly would never be comfortable with someone stealthier than I, but now was not the time for competition.

Now was not the time for thought.

I let out a tortured sigh of pleasure as her hardened nipples pressed into my back.
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The Dance of Broken Souls