Unmasqued

'Angel,' she breathed.

'Erik. My name is Erik.'

'Erik. Please, Erik…'

Pressed against the glass, she could see nothing that was not directly in front of her face, only the wall-two, perhaps three feet away-a gas lamp, the corner of a small table.

But she heard something, and then she began to breathe harder. Her breath came in short sharp gasps, because she knew he was there. In the room with her. Somehow.

She tried to pull away from the mirror, but her arms were extended so far that she could barely turn her face from side to side. When she struggled to raise her head, her sex pushed against the glass, the coarse hairs crushed beneath it. She could not pull far enough to see anything but the small distance to her right side… or to her left.

Christine was not frightened. But she was… aware. So completely, painfully aware of every hair on her body, every muscle, every heartbeat, every breath… of the growing moisture and heat, her need…

When he touched her, she jerked, slamming her hips into the mirror before she could stop herself. His hand- no, a finger… just one finger trailed, bumping, down her spine as the other hand lifted her hair away, baring her back, without touching her skin.

A bare finger. Not a gloved one.

Flesh to flesh. Warm, roughly padded, firm and sure, his finger moved down to the curve of her buttocks, slipped quickly into the top of the cleft… then disappeared.

Two hands gathered the mass of her hair; she felt them pull it together, lift it, and twist it into a loose coil… Then something slid into it, a comb across her scalp holding her hair in place, and he removed his hands. Her nape and shoulders and back were bare.

Christine closed her eyes, waiting, trying to slow her breath, to release the coil of lust that was so tight it was painful.

Then she felt him at the back of her left leg, two hands deftly rolling the silk stocking down her thigh, over her knee, and to the floor. She lifted her foot without hesitation, and felt the rough wool of the carpet under it when the stocking was removed. He did the same with the other, and then she was completely naked. Totally bare. Hidden only by the mirror against her.

'Erik…' she moaned. She didn't know what else to do. He wasn't touching her anymore; he wasn't speaking. 'Please…'

She felt rather than saw his shadow as he stepped closer; his figure blocked the direct light from the gas lamp, so all she could see in the close mirror was the dark shape of a head and shoulders looming behind her.

Then a hand pressed flat against the center of her back, just between her shoulder blades. Fingers curled gently around the nape of her neck and delicately held her there as another hand slid down along the right side of her body. His hand traced her ribs and over the swell of her hip, then cupped one side of her rear.

Nothing but that, nothing but that bare touch, and she was trembling beneath it. Panting. The stinging between her legs grew, and she felt wetness surge as she throbbed and pushed against the mirror.

'Spread your legs.'

His fingers dipped low from behind, and slid into the lower vee between her legs, up, and into the pool of her moisture. His thumb fit in the valley between her buttocks, and his fingers began to circle around her inner lips, tracing the slick opening, rolling through the wetness, and spreading it over her plump labia.

Through the roaring in her ears, she could hear his breathing rough behind her. She felt the way his talented hand, prisoning her neck so gently, trembled and flexed over her skin. But most of her attention was focused on the hard, throbbing nub of her pip as his fingers slipped around it, and next to it, and then, finally, cupped it from behind. Flicked it. Once, twice… she moaned, pushing back, away from the mirror, into his hand.

'Christine…' His voice shook.

Now he was close behind her; his forehead rested on the mirror next to hers so that she couldn't turn to look at him. She felt the bare brush of his sleeve to the left of her shoulder, and down, near her knees, where his trousers touched the back of her leg. He moved again, and then she was trapped between his tall, powerful body and the cold, hard silk of glass.

His arms traced hers, spread far from her body, his hands closing around her wrists; his legs pushed into the backs of hers. His hips, his cock, pressed into the small of her back, the buttons of his trouser fastenings stamping on her skin.

His hands slid from her wrists along the length of her arms, down over the underside of her shoulders, and alongside her breasts. She arched back from the mirror as far as her taut arms would allow, and he laughed softly against her head, his breath hot at her temple.

'Impatient, are you, Christine?' But he slipped his hands around the front of her, closing over her hard nipples, still cold from the mirror, and covered them with his warm palms. From behind, he pushed her hips into the mirror and massaged her breasts with long, flexible fingers. She moaned, and rolled her pubis into the glass, and he followed her rhythm, rolling and shifting with her. She was trembling and pulsing all over, her entire being focused on the need he aroused within her.

Christine tried to turn her head, to put her face next to his, but he hissed and pulled his head away from the mirror before she could come face-to-face with him.

'You are impatient, aren't you?' There was that edge again, lacing his erotic voice, the edge that told her he was not pleased with her impatience. She tipped her head back to the mirror, pressing her cheek again to the moist spot she'd left, and closed her eyes.

'Please, Erik,' she whispered.

He pulled on her nipples, one after the other in a fast, tortuous rhythm that caused her breathing to grow rougher, more ragged. Spikes of desire shot down to her pip with each tweak. It felt as if it was growing, swelling, and could take no more before it would burst…

Then he slid his hands down and captured her hips, one on each side, and held her firmly against the mirror. She could not move from the waist down, and barely from the waist up.

He'd moved away and only his hands were touching her, planting her pubis and hip bones on the glass.

Then she felt his mouth on her shoulder, hot and moist and scoring into her skin. He was not gentle, or featherlight… He nipped and teethed and licked, all the while holding her hips so that she could not wriggle, until she was shaking and shuddering with need.

He sucked on her skin, trailed the delicate tip of his tongue all the way down her spine. She felt him kneeling behind her, braced herself as his tongue slid along the cleft of her buttocks, sending her squirming and shivering, half sobbing, and gasping to catch her breath.

Oh, please… was all she could think. She could not even form the words. Her pip was throbbing so hard, it was painful; she could feel a trickle of wet as it trailed down the inside of her thigh. Then his tongue was there, licking it, following the trail back up to her hot, wet quim, and she thought she would scream.

He pulled the sides of her bottom apart, leveraged her hips away from the glass so that she was half-leaning, half-hanging from her wrists; her face, shoulders, breasts, arms, shoved up against it. She felt him moving close behind her, and suddenly his tongue was just where she needed it.

She gave a soft scream, jerking uncontrollably against the mirror as he flicked his tongue over the hard nub of her tickler, faster, faster, harder, side to side, until she let go and sagged into a mass of quivering, shaking, shuddering muscle and bone and wetness.

Her mouth was open, planted against the glass, screaming silently into its silvery silk as she came, and came, and convulsed against it. Her body, damp and hot, slid helplessly against the mirror, leaving chaotic streaks over it.

'Now,' said Erik into her ear, 'you will remember this when you sing tonight, wont you, Christine?' He sounded ragged, out of breath, strained. 'I'll be watching you from Box Five, and remember… you sing for me. And me alone. No one else can give you what I give you.'

And then he was gone.

And moments later, her wrists loosened from behind the mirror, and Christine collapsed in a heap on the floor, landing on the silk of her discarded robe and the taut boning of her corset.