Unmasqued

spied on the Daae girl wasn't used as frequently, although he'd outfitted it with a small clutch of instruments-as Carlotta had cause to know.

She saw no one as she walked awkwardly along the hall on trembling legs, then to the small door that led to the dungeons. She at least knew where the captive was, the man called Erik. It had been a shock to learn that the so-called Opera Ghost was actually the natural brother of the comte. Chagny's vitriol and hatred toward the man had spewed forth during that horrible night she'd spent helpless and abused under his hands and body, and she'd learned enough to know that whatever sins Erik might have committed at the opera, the fact that his brother both hated and feared him meant that he was her most obvious ally.

Christine had the knob in her hands, smooth and cool, before Philippe's grasping hand jerked her back. Not hard enough that she tumbled to the ground, but enough that she lost her grip on the metal and jolted backward. Another shove from him and she spun around, this time keeping her balance as there were no heavy skirts to set her off-kilter or trip her.

But he came toward her before she could celebrate that little victory, his eyes ferocious and his hands reaching toward her. 'So you want to play with the club, do you, Christine?' he asked. 'I'd be most happy to accommodate you. But first…' He didn't grab at her arms as she'd expected; no, again, he surprised her, his fingers sliding into her cleavage and rending away the triangle of her bodice in a loud tear.

Christine pulled away, whirling, but he came after her again. It appeared the game was over; her blow, however ineffective, had angered him. His footsteps were hard and fast behind her, his breathing more harsh. He grabbed at her shoulder, pulling her back with a head-jolting snatch, and suddenly she felt herself falling.

Unable to control a surprised screech, she tried to brace herself for the fall. But instead of hard floor, she found herself slamming onto something soft. Before she could roll away, Philippe's heavy weight was there, over her, stretching her wrists above her, as she lay on the bed, or whatever it was she was on.

His hips jimmied between her legs, which somehow had become splayed beneath him, and he paused to look down at her. His mouth was twisted in a combination of pleasure and greed, one side tilted up and curled-reminding her of Erik for a bizarre, horrific moment. He breathed heavily, but it was not from exertion. As he looked down at her, pinning her with his violating gaze, one of his hands moved from where it had held her wrist, to slide down over her throat.

One hand free, Christine slapped and scratched, dug her nails into his other arm, the one that held her wrist so tightly her fingers began to tingle. But he ignored the pain; perhaps he reveled in it, for his pupils swelled and his free hand slid down… slowly, excruciatingly slowly, over her sweat-moist skin to cover her breast, thumbing her nipple back and forth contemplatively. Then he fitted his palm over the whole swell, like a lover, molding, lifting, squeezing through the protection of her corset.

Still she batted at him, struggling on, though she was becoming weary and out of breath. He moved his hand from her breast and slid fingers down between corset and skin and gave a sudden pull that nearly jerked her shoulders from her neck, making the edges of the corset cut into her skin. Her breasts fell free, but the corset stayed in place, rubbing against her tender skin.

Christine moaned, kicking in earnest from under his weight and grasping a handful of his hair as he bent to suck roughly on her nipple. She gave a hard yank, twisting and bucking beneath him, and Philippe pulled up suddenly, his eyes glinting angrily. Grabbing her free wrist, he pulled it above her head and captured it with his other hand, leaving her pinned by the arms, and one of his hands free.

'Now, my dear,' he gasped, pressing his weight into the vee between her legs, his face glistening with moisture, 'kick and cry all you wish… It's better that way.' He bent to her breast, his breath rasping against her skin as he rammed his hips against her. She fought him when she felt his hand slide down between them, where he ground into her; she felt him pull at his breeches even as he kept her nipple between his teeth. The pain stung, down from her breast to the heavy weight on her, and though her legs shook from fatigue, and his grip above her head numbed her wrists, she roiled and rolled beneath him, gasping for air, tears streaming from her eyes.

His hand brushed against her sex; she felt the shift as his trousers opened and fell away; then his pounding cock was free against her chemise-covered thigh. His breath was out of control, his eyes closed and face tight with pleasure and concentration. He moved against her; she struggled to pull away, her legs and hips moving frantically against him, trying to keep him off-balance. Suddenly, he stiffened, stopped, and groaned against her chest. Something wet and warm seeped through the light fabric of her chemise, soaking through to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

Puffing with exertion and release, Philippe lifted his head and looked at her. 'Now,' he told her, 'that we have that out of the way… let us move on to something more interesting. I've a mind to hear you beg.' He released her, stepping away to refasten his breeches, his eyes watching placidly as she rolled from her position and staggered from the bed.

He allowed her to reach the door again before his fingers closed over her shoulder and he pulled her back. Roughly, he dragged her across the room and shoved her into the narrow vee of the elongated X-shaped bed. She stumbled backward, and before she could catch her balance he was upon her, thrusting her onto the structure so hard her teeth snapped together. Firm hands closed around an ankle, and suddenly it was clamped into place down one of the legs of the X.

Screaming and kicking anew, Christine struggled harder, but he was too strong. Her second ankle was locked in place and then she had only her hands and nails to claw and strike with.

But Philippe stepped away, around to the top of the X, and grabbed her hair from behind as she bent forward, trying to free her legs. He yanked, and she fell back, her head slamming into the hard surface beneath. Stunned, she could only blink and fight feebly as he locked her left wrist into place, far from her head and other arm, in a terrible echo of Erik's own position five stories below.

He left one arm free, and came to stand between her wide legs. She tried to twist and roll her hips, tried to close her legs, but of course she could not. He watched her for a moment, a delighted grin stretching his lips. 'I do love to watch a woman struggle. It's not so unlike watching one find pleasure: the same writhing motions, the same groans, the same expressions.'

She tried to stop, tried to still her body, but she couldn't cease fighting. She couldn't succumb.

At last, reaching behind him, he produced a long blade and said, 'Now, then, let us see exactly what you've been hiding.'

Starting with her left foot, he delicately cut away the flimsy slipper. With a long, straight slice from her foot, under the imprisoning cuff, up along her calf, over the bump of her knee, to the top of her inner thigh beneath the crumpled and stained chemise, he slit her stocking. It fell away, leaving her leg bare and chill, and with nary a scratch.

One hand closed around her leg and slid all the way from ankle to thigh in a possessive caress as Christine lay sobbing quietly, no longer struggling. Her free hand was useless; a tease. She could do nothing but flail with it, wipe her tears, clutch it over her chest, try to bat him away from between her legs.

He unclothed her other leg in the same manner, then stood again between her legs, this time with the knife in hand. Her breath caught as he bent to her chest, and she felt the insistent tugs as he skimmed the blade under the ties of her corset, slicing through them like a cobweb. The corset loosened and fell away in two clam-like halves, and now there was nothing left but her chemise.

The blade was cool and sharp against her skin, and he drew it slowly, so slowly she thought she would scream… but she dared not move, dared hardly to breathe… as he drew it slowly down between her breasts, down, down past her ribs and over the slight swell of her belly, nicking the edge of her navel, down, down to the rise of her mound and the fluff of sensitive hair that grew there… down and around, dipping between her legs, so close there to her most sensitive part, just a breath away, and then, a sudden fast, sharp rending as he sliced from there to the hem.

She heard him drop the knife, felt the parting of the chemise as it fell away, leaving her naked, bare, spread, with only one useless limb to cover herself.

His hands were on her then, everywhere. Shoulder to arm, down over the rise of her breasts, along her ribs and waist, cupping her buttocks, lifting her hips, they swarmed everywhere as she tried to cover herself, to push them away, to scratch and hit and punch. He remained always just out of reach, his hands heavy and hot, damp and groping, grasping, grabbing, probing, pinching.

At last he lifted them, grasped her free wrist, and snapped it into its place beyond her head. And now she had nothing with which to cover herself.