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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- 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.

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Black Angels

Chapter 6: First Encounters

A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, there is some hot r-rated lovin’ in this chapter. Enjoy it!

Sorelli walked once more through the dilapidated dormitories. She used to feel intense sadness when she walked through the once glamorous building, but now she felt only dread. The walls repelled her, reminding her of her sins. She no longer felt a fondness for her shattered home; she felt disgust that it housed her greatest and most shameful secret. She knew that once she picked up her much anticipated reward that she would never again return to the place that she once sought comfort in during the most difficult times in her life. This place had given her life, but now it was nothing more then a reminder of her weaknesses and her desperation.

She could feel eyes on her as she walked into her room; the gray and brown walls were alive with malice. They did not look pathetic anymore, they looked threatening. If walls could talk, these ones would surely hurl vicious insults at her.

“Ah, here you are.” She muttered silently to herself as she picked up the beige envelope that was sealed with a bright red skull. She tore it open and pulled out its contents. The recommendation was intact, the impeccably neat and professional writing of Madame Giry lining the page. Her words were worth their weight in gold, no respectable opera house would ever deny her wishes. She had become something of a legend at the Populaire. The bulge at the bottom of the envelope called out to her shaking fingers like the quivering body of a lover. She knew that she was not the only woman who had come to equate money with sexual desire, it was something cruelly forced into each and every woman who was not of noble birth. She counted out the bills; there were 5000 francs for the taking. He had not deceived her.

She felt intense relief at seeing the authentic bills in her hands. If he had betrayed her she would not have been able to live with herself. She allowed the feeling of validation to sweep over her, calming her nerves and quieting her wildly protesting conscience. She was going to live as she lived before; she was safe from the unfairness of the world around her. It was with a heavy heart that she quietly celebrated the resurrection of her livelihood, for her gain implied certain doom to several other people, one of whom she cared for deeply.

***

“Lotte, you have big feet.” Raoul chuckled that boyish and good-natured chuckle as he stared down at the bare feet of his wife.

“You are too honest for your own good.” Christine looked at him with mock disapproval and turned her back to him, exaggerating her offended gesture as she did so.

“I do not mean to offend, but my love, look at them! You’re so small, yet your feet are quite large.” He reached down and grabbed one of her slim ankles and brought her foot upwards, she shrieked in protest, but succumbed to a fit of giggles as she tried to pull free of his grasp.

“These are working feet, do you have any idea what they went through when I used to dance? No, you have no idea, for your feet have never suffered as mine have.” Raoul released her ankle and she pulled the red coverlet over her lower body, hiding her feet from his amused gaze.

“You speak as though your feet deserve praise.”

“You should praise them, you should see only breathtaking beauty in every part of me!” She flipped onto her back and put her hands behind her head, her nightgown was thick and hot against her skin, she could no longer bear to hold her arms against her body.

“Oh, I do think every part of you is beautiful, even your man-feet.” He laughed again, but quickly turned his back from her should she decide to give him a playful smack for his audacity.

“If you cannot appreciate my strong, powerful, and lady-like feet, I shall just have to take them elsewhere…” She got up to move, and he gripped her around the waist, pulling her back onto the bed with him. She struggled at first, laughing as she tried to stand up, which only made him grip her harder. When she felt his arms tighten impulsively around her waist she felt a jolt of electric excitement course through her veins and manifest itself between her legs. The roughness of the gesture was intoxicating.

“No, your feet belong with me, so I can look upon them and marvel at their alarming bigness.” Raoul released her and she sat back on the bed, leaving her legs on top of the covers.

“Now that you see flaw in them you will not love me in the morning.” Christine acted as though she was destitute and heartbroken, and Raoul let out a robust and contagious laugh.

“I’ll love your feet in the morning, I promise.” He pressed a friendly kiss to the tip of her nose.

She pulled the thin silk sheet over her and rested her head on the pillow. She enjoyed her and Raoul’s playful banter. It was calming and lighthearted, and it often calmed the warring in her mind and replaced it with laughter and comfort. She looked up at her handsome husband, his face always looked so free from pain. He was not a man who had lead a sheltered life, he dealt with the loss of his parents and he had nearly lost his own life on several occasions. Yet in spite of all of the darkness in his life, his eyes always shone with optimism, his lips always smiled, his arms were always welcoming and open.

He was one of the best husbands any woman could want. He had taken her as his wife without caring for the fact that she was a performer with no rank in society. He had married her knowing that she had shared a dark connection with a man of whom they never spoke. He loved her even though his family frowned upon it, even though the man he respected and admired most, his brother, disapproved. He stayed true to the little girl whose scarf he had run into the sea to retrieve. That pretty little girl with the chestnut curls and chocolate brown eyes.

He had returned with her to Paris, a city that held nothing but dark and unpleasant memories for him. He wanted his Lotte to be near her friends when he would need to accompany his brother on business endeavors. He wanted to invite familiar and kind faces to dinner and tea so that she may smile and speak without reservation or propriety. He would move a mountain if she asked it of him. Yet sometimes he could not help but see pain cross her eyes, her face would become solemn and distant. His heart ached when he saw that pain inside of her, pain that he could not fight away for her.

Christine felt herself becoming tired, her eyelids felt heavy and a comforting feeling of warmth overtook her. She snuggled into the blankets and gently caressed her husband’s shoulder. He extinguished the candle at his bedside and fitted his body behind hers, holding her tightly to him. They often slept like that, seeking comfort and security in one another’s arms. They had only made love twice in the month that they had been wed; neither of them seemed to have much of an appetite for it. The first time had been awkward and painful; the second had been simply awkward. She felt as though the gentle invasion was a chore, she felt none of the explosive pleasure that the girls and women in the opera house whispered about behind closed doors. She was not compelled to let out those shameless moans that she heard coming through the thin dormitory walls late at night.

Raoul was always gentle, and he always kissed her as he moved within her, never taking his lips off of hers. He often asked her if she felt good, and she would smile and say yes, she had not the heart to hurt his feelings. Only in her dreams did she feel that throbbing, pulsating contracting of her most private area. She had sinful dreams of that man in the mask. In some of the dreams she would see him in the distance, and he would come towards her with that inextinguishable fire in his eyes. She would sit upon the top of his grand organ and lift her skirts, her movements tantalizingly slow. In the dreams, she never wore drawers, petticoats, or stockings. She would expose that forbidden part of her to his gaze, that part of a woman’s body that no man or lady spoke of. A part of her that she had never even looked at herself. Her dreams would have her acting as the loose women in those shameless books that Meg read in the absence of her mother did. She could never bring herself to read the passages, she always felt as though her father or angel would look upon her with disgust and disapproval. It was a good decision; she would not have to face the disappointment that most other women would after indulging in the books.

***

Christine stirred in her sleep. She awoke to find her husband sleeping peacefully next to her, his breathing even and silent. The moon shone through the window, casting dim shadows on the red walls. She decided that she needed air; her mind was so full of incoherent and troublesome thoughts that not even the presence of Raoul could calm her. She stepped out of bed, moving slowly and being careful not to wake Raoul. The velvety soft Persian rug felt cool underneath her bare feet as she walked out of their bedchamber and down the stairs to the study.

The study had large bay windows and two adjoining glass doors that looked out into the never-ending fields on their new Parisian home. She gently turned the brass handle, careful to keep the door from creaking. Standing in the cool night air in her thin night shift and sheer robe was comforting. The breeze cooled her skin and blew back her garments; she thought the feel of the rippling fabric was oddly sensual.

He watched her from the cover of the trees. He hated hiding in the shadows, but that was the fate to which he was condemned since birth. She looked beautiful, so angelic and surreal. Like a goddess descending gracefully from Olympus she stood before him, her eyes closed, her lips parted slightly. He heard her audible sigh and his heart began to beat faster then it had since she had offered him her hand that first night in Carlotta’s dressing room.

She looked like a dark-haired Aphrodite, a woman so beautiful and sensual that Ares, the god of war, the epitome of masculinity and prowess, longed for her to warm his bed. Aphrodite was married to an ugly god who controlled the fertility of the earth, Hephaestus. That Greek tale had give him comfort and hope when he first began to desire her as a man does a woman, but it would seem that his darker nature would deny him such a pure beauty. Perhaps the tale that befitted them was that of Hades and Persephone. She could only be his goddess during dark times, as her soul was made to thrive in the springtime. The only exception was that it t’was not her heartbroken mother who asked for her to walk the earth in the spring and summer, it was her godly prince. Her golden Adonis, her handsome Hercules.

He had expected her to deny him, but he also expected her fear and horror to give way to love. Hera had come to love Zeus and accept him as her husband, after all. He then thought about the infidelity and lies in their union, and quickly dismissed that tale. He was a beast, she a beauty, and he would never turn into a gorgeous and perfect prince who simply needed her undying love and devotion.

He watched her now, his heart filled with sadness so deep that he felt those hateful tears begin to burn in his eyes. He loved her. He loved more then any man could ever love a woman. He hated her as well. He longed to run to her now and bring her into the darkness of the woods and ravage her body until she could no longer move. He would scream at her that she was his, that she belonged to him, that she deserved nothing more then contempt and hatred for denying him and refusing to repay him for the gift that he had given her. Her voice. His music.

He knew that if he decided to possess her with violence and anger that his heart would break even more. His hatred and anger would be replaced by regret and anguish. He would cradle her body and comfort her, promising never to hurt her again, begging for her forgiveness as they cried together. He cursed himself for his weakness. He wished to see her naked and defiled, frightened and powerless beneath his hard and strong body. He would take what was his, and he would love every minute of it. Yet, the satisfaction that he longed for left a sick feeling in his heart. He truly was that monster that so many had accused him of being.

Christine heard the leafs rustling and stirring under the soft touch the night breeze. She listened to the sounds of nature, enjoying the peacefulness that she felt. She heard the sound of a twig snap, her ears perked up immediately and fear wrapped itself around her vulnerable body. She knew that she should run into her home and wake the servants, there could very well be a prowler in their midst. She remained rooted to the ground though; something beyond her control stilled her feet.

“I do not think it wise for you to run Madame.” She heard him then, that deep baritone that called to her soul. She knew she should run, or better yet, scream.

“Leave.” She did not look up at the man who now stood but ten feet away from her. She bit out the word with a finality that startled even her.

“Come to me, my angel of music.” His voice mocked her, it seemed cruel, calculated.

“I will alert the authorities. You let me go, you have no right to come back here.” She could not dare to look at him, for she knew her heart would race with an emotion other then fear.

“Do you no longer long for your master?” He emphasized his last word menacingly.

“No.” She wanted to turn away, to walk back into her home and lock the door on him, to leave him far behind her. It was too late though, he had found her again, and he would never give her peace.

“What is it that you long for?”

“Peace.” She whispered the word more so to herself then to him, but he heard it, and was taken aback by her tortured plea.

“Are you not at peace now? Are you not blissfully happy with your Vicomte? Do not revel in luxury each and every night?”

“You have no right to ask me these things. We have parted ways, you and I, we must live our lives now.”

“There is no life in my body!” He barked out the words so loudly that Christine was sure that the servants would be awakened. The harsh words bit into her soul, she closed her eyes against their vicious assault.

He walked towards her slowly and she raised her head to meet his eyes. He wore that same white porcelain mask over the right side of his face. The rest of him was so perfect, so vital and sensuous, so masculine. She looked into his piercing green-blue eyes and saw the pain in their depths, the anger at their core. She nearly screamed when he took a hold of her shoulders, his grasp was rough and she could not help but cry out softly.

His fingers bit into her shoulder bones and he pressed his face to hers. All they did was look upon one another for what seemed like an eternity. They stared at each other, neither daring to blink. Their breathing was harsh and ragged; he looked down with lustful appreciation at the heaving of her tiny bosom. Her small hands grasped his wrists and she held them, feeling the strength that they carried so effortlessly.

Without warning he crushed his lips to hers, his hands retreating from her shoulders to hold her back, pressing her into his body. His tongue swept into her mouth, dueling with her own while he panted viciously. She moaned out and threw her arms over his shoulder, opening her mouth and welcoming his suggestive invasion. He was so much more forceful and passionate then the last time she had kissed him. He left her hungry lips to press hard, wet kisses down her neck, suckling the skin lightly and letting his teeth graze across it. She let her head roll back and she fisted one hand in his hair, urging him on, demanding that he do more to her.

As he brought one hand up from her stomach to roughly cup her breast she gasped. His touch was rough and painful; he squeezed the tender flesh with no sense of gentleness or restraint. She realized only then what was happening. Her eyes flew open and she abruptly released his hair and began to push against his chest.

“Stop this!” She demanded harshly as she frantically tried to pull away from his vicious embrace.

“No.” He continued to kiss down her neck and began to work the robe down her arm, suckling on her collarbone as he did so. She pictured Raoul once more, and she remembered the look of murderous insanity in her masked lover’s eyes on all of those nights where had taken and threatened lives without a second thought. She felt him grow hard in his pants, his engorged member pressing against her. He began to lower her to the grass, and she only struggled harder.

“Do not fight me!” He growled out at her as he began to work her skirt above her hips. She wore no undergarments and became more afraid then before. She could not let this man take her, not after she had been trying so hard to forget him, to push him from her mind. She had Raoul now, this was wrong.

He roughly pried her legs apart and settled between them. He began to move against her with more ferocity now, his grunts becoming more pronounced. The rough fabric of his trousers scarped against her naked vulva and she knew that no matter how much she struggled, she would not be able to push him off of her.

He worked her skirts up higher now, and she could feel the dewy grass rubbing against her bottom, she was now frantic with fear.

“Please stop this. Please.” She did not scream or cry, but just silently begged, the tears slowly starting to cascade down her cheeks. He was holding her upper arms now, keeping them plastered to the ground as he ground his pelvis into her and left small, pink teeth marks on the tender flesh of her neck and chest. He could feel her writhing beneath him, and he could not determine whether or not she was in the throes of pleasure, or trying to escape from him.

He looked down at her face and his heart began to tear in two at the sight of her. She was crying, but she made no sound. She simply let the tears of pain roll down her porcelain cheeks. He saw her clenched fists and felt the strain of her thighs as they tried to close around him to stop his movements. He pulled back from her and got up, too horrified to speak. What had he almost done to her? He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her robe tightly around her convulsing frame.

“Please don’t cry angel, it hurts me so much to see you cry.” He held her close to his chest, stroking her dirtied and tangled hair. She did not resist him, she simply sobbed silently. How she hated him, how she hated herself for wanting him.

“I have to go back inside.” She wiped the tears from her eyes and pulled out of his embrace, and he let her go. He watched the door close softly behind her, and he felt what remained of his soul shatter once more.
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Black Angels