She slept.
The Phantom stood at the foot of the bed, contemplating her lovely, still form. He regarded her coldly-- his angel, his magnum opus-- with the habitual sneer twisting his malformed face. Unbidden, however, the litheness of her small body began to inspire in him an insidious, growing hunger. The sneer dissolved, though the twistedness remained. He rubbed his chin pensively in time to the deviant music trickling through his poisoned mind. Ever before content to skulk in the shadows with menace and murder on the agenda, the Phantom thrilled to be so searingly near her warmth and youth: vulnerable vitality spread before him like a banquet of flesh, youth and silk.
She was his, after all, was she not? Christine, his protégé. His Prima Donna. There, lying in his bed, in his home, far removed from the prying eyes and bright intrusive attentions of others. He had brought her here, here where none could witness nor object, here where none could thwart his will or mock his wanting. And she had succumbed—- followed him, willingly, wantingly. Wantonly. She was his, alone.
A soft sound escaped Christine's parted lips, and she stirred slightly. The Phantom's eyes glinted with diseased steel. A deep breath swelled the sleeping diva's bosom, followed by a soft sigh that dipped her graceful waist. The masked man licked his lips, hands twitching unconsciously—- she was teasing him, beckoning to him even from the depths of her dreams, he could see it. She was here, she was his... and she wanted him. Who was he to deny his own creation?
Decision snapped his body into motion, and in an instant he was hovering over her on the soft sheets. Even in his desire, it was a conscious effort to push his half-masked face close to her perfect one—- but the sweet terrifying pleasure of her breath sliding against his long-denied skin was a succulent wine that made bold his cringing heart. One trembling hand hung heavy over her body, traversing its curves just a fraction away from true touch; he could sense Christine's hum of life sleeping beneath her perfect skin, the even thrumming of her blood within her flesh.
Oh, he envied that blood. He coveted its place so deep inside her humanity. It was hot, wet and welcomed—he belonged there, the driving force within her veins, the carrier of her every breath. The Phantom groaned softly in the back of his dry throat, using his thumb to graze her skin, tracing the blue lines on Christine's pale, limp wrist. He could feel the rhythm as he had felt the pulses of others, seconds before he choked it away—- but she was different. Why destroy what he had slaved to create, to entice, to entomb deep within his secret place? Her steady vitality called to him as tenderly as her voice had sung. She was his. She was no threat. She would not turn in disgust, or defiance, or disdain. The Phantom continued to trace the curving outlines of her body, finally sating his twitching fingers with the first taste of her living flesh.
Through the dense fog in her subconscious, Christine slowly became aware of herself—- and of him. The face of the Phantom was oppressively close; she swallowed the shriek and forced herself to remain still. Her senses surged awake as she struggled to process what was happening, and she trembled despite herself. The Phantom's hand swept possessively over her body, finally coming to rest on her throat. She fought to quell her convulsive swallowing, his sharp scent bold and uninvited in her nostrils. His eyes bored into her, and she knew he had realized she was awake.
"Christine, Christine...' the Phantom grated softly in her ear, his damp breath anointing her neck. "You have no idea. No knowledge of how I burn for you, how I long to escape the infected, miserable body and lose myself deep within your quivering flesh. Oh, my life, my angel! My Christine, open your eyes."
She could do nothing but obey. Her wide green eyes dilated with fear as they stared into the mask covering his cruel features. He projected madness and animal-naked desire, and she stifled a cry when he suddenly pounced. The Phantom pinned her body with his and hissed into her face, "Ahhh, yes, you feel it now. The power of the 'Music of the Night' is mine, sweet Mademoiselle Daae—- as are you." A predatory growl escaped him, and Christine's eyes widened further when he ground his hips heavily against her waist. She did indeed feel his power, the strength of his lust burning lewdly against her thigh. An unexpected jolt of answering arousal raked down the diva's spine, and her body trembled with new awareness even through her dread.
"But—-" she began, trying to free her arms from his pinioning grasp.
"No, dear sweet lady," the Phantom grated, breathing heavily as he tightened his grip. "Surrender to me. I will teach you, my angel, my beautiful Christine. This music, oh Christine, do you not feel it? Is it not precisely as I have described to you? You are mine, my angel, surrender to me."
She had no time to muse over this, for his red-misted passion demanded her undivided attention. With a flurry of sharp, impatient tugs, the masked man roughly divested Christine of her garments and flung them aside. Her milk-white skin was now the only concealment for her warm curves of living flesh, and that skin crawled with repugnance and dismay. She shivered while his shaking hands swirled over her bareness hungrily, and closed her eyes to avoid his hard, hot gaze—- but she could not escape the commanding pressure of his lust.
The Phantom was panting as he feverishly tugged off his own clothing, his body undulating unconsciously against her in libidinous anticipation. Christine's eyes remained tightly shut, but the blood was singing in her ears—was this the music he meant? Though he knew she feared him, the Phantom also knew she desired him; he felt her quake in response to the power of his distorted, lust-filled mind.
He stepped back for a moment (not loosening his hold on her, but merely lengthening it), and took a deep, shaky breath. He consumed her with his cold, crazed eyes, one hand clasped tightly around the woman's upper arm and the other slowly fondling his own engorged flesh. He considered her carefully, then with his shoulder suddenly pushed off the half-mask covering his deformed visage. The sweat that had collected beneath it dripped from his chin, and he shivered with relief. There! With one sharp clatter, the last barrier between the Phantom and his angel dissolved—what did it matter now? Let her look upon all of him. The head of his throbbing member quivered, and a thin bead of sticky fluid seeped from the tip.
