The Other Side of the Looing Glass

An Opera: The other Side of the Looking Glass

Disclaimer:

All Phantom related characters do not belong to me, but the ideas and such are entirely my own.

Summary:

Opening night, the curtain rises on what Christine thinks is just another performance of Foust. Little does she know...

Part one:

Overture

Darkness had fallen on the outside world, as she heard the sound of the single bell that would call her to him. It had been days, so many days, and she was beginning to think that he had no further use for her. She went quickly being careful never to raise her eyes, for fear that they would meet his. Knowing that, though her Maestro was a gentle creature, any intentional flaw in her submission would cost her greatly.

She knelt as she approached him, careful not to scrape her knees against the cold stone of the cellar's floor. 'Cold, so blessedly cold' she thought to herself as she waited. Rehearsals had been so hot under the gas lights, and she had never been so grateful for this single reprieve.

He circled her as a hunter its prey, those intense tawny golden eyes never leaving her. Blushing and shifting nervously, she knew there was nothing she could do but wait until he decided to conclude his inspection and speak. Several more moments, hours she thought was the better word, ticked by on the clock on his organ as she waited, until finally...

"You wish to make yourself mine then..." he purred as his voice of velvet and darkness surrounded her, but she knew the secret doubt and questioning hiding behind it.

"Oui Maestro, sul pour toi," she replied timidly.

"We shall see." Was his only response, and there was an edge of something, amusement maybe, hidden behind his words. She had never heard him speak to her that way, but it was her Erik, whose tendencies were unpredictable on the best of days, and slightly maddened on the worst.

He caressed her face lovingly, a gesture that made her shiver in pleasure and still the slightest fear, as he offered her his hand to rise.

"Come ma voix," he beckoned gently but there was a dare to disobey hidden behind the words, "Your bath is drawn, and you have a performance for which to prepare."

She followed him meekly into her apartments, still desperately searching for the trigger for this strange behavior but finding none. But when those gentle hands of leather and ice found their way to the laces of her gown and corset, all was lost. Thinking was for another, day, or month, or year. She didn't know nor did she care.

She laid her head against his chest, content simply to let his hands remain at her neck and sighed with the music of sweet bliss. He would have none of this for long, however, and with his perfection and need for her music coming once again to the forefront, he pulled back and began carefully to undress her.

"Non la Daae, non," he scolded sharply, there will be time for such after you sing for me this night.

"Oui Maestro," she answered sullenly, hoping against hope that maybe, for once, he would focus on her and not the music she gave him.

Suddenly though, she had no time to sulk over this fact. His lips were on her, kissing every inch of the flesh he exposed as he removed her garments, inch by blessed inch. She moaned low in her throat, needy, and still somewhat virginal to such ministrations as the phantom gave her now.

He circled in front of her rolling the nipple of one breast, then the other, gently between long and delicate fingers, and almost unconsciously she arched toward him writhing in every attempt to get closer.

He chuckled darkly, and if there was one sound that could bring her to the edge, other than his singing, it was that very thing.

"Maestro, may I... may I..." She trailed off, her delicate constitution still learning the comfort with such dark language.

"Yes?" he pressed, his hands still massaging her breasts with pain staking slowness.

The ache in her core was driving her to madness, and she knew that he knew it. She also knew that, until she said the words, there was no hope of getting anywhere with him.

She took a deep breath to steady herself and looked up into his unmasked face. "May I release for you?" she asked hardly above a whisper.

"No," he replied, and she could tell that his need was as great as her own. "You will not release until you sing."

He lifted her gently into his arms, lowering her into the Turkish bath she loved so dearly. She wanted to growl, to beg, to scream, to cry, anything to make him give her what she wanted, but she knew it would be in vain. There was a lesson here, which was that he was finished catering to the whims of a child. She was his now, she had chosen, and she would accept his control.

He laid her back in the heavily rose and lavender scented water, and with a gentleness she had seen in no mortal man, began to wash her golden curls humming quietly as he did so. Having finished what she would jestingly one day call his homage to her hair, he massaged her neck and shoulders, releasing the tension that he knew came with each day's rehearsals.

She sighed happily finally beginning to understand the nature of the love he had for her. What a fool she had been to even think she had made the wrong choice. This man would spend the rest of his life lavishing her. She only hoped that he would, in turn, allow her to truly serve him. Something told her, he was more than capable of doing so.

The massaging finished, he lathered his hands with a rose scented soap and began to wash her. She loved it when he refused to use the bar of soap, instead favoring this method. His touch was like nothing she'd ever felt, and she hoped to never tire of it.

"Where are you my songbird?" He asked as he watched her closely.

"I am not certain Maestro," she answered truthfully. "I still ache for you, and it feels as though I have done so for an eternity."

As if to emphasize that fact, his hands chose that exact moment to wash her secret places. She moaned, thrusting her hips down against his hand, and he stroked and teased as he spoke amidst her moans and sighs.

"Successfully complete the performance for me tonight, sing for me fully upon the stage, and you will have my collar and the release as many times as you wish it."

She broke from her revelry then, her moans growing silent.

"Maestro, it is only Foust. I have sung Foust a thousand times. What is different tonight?" she asked in bewilderment.

He gave a slight but knowing cackle as he helped her from the bath, and she realized that was the only answer she would receive. Sighing in frustration, she stood allowing him to dry her.

"Maestro, please, what is this?"

"Non ma voix, enough now."

And that was the end of it. He lifted the silver comb from her vanity and began to comb out her curls, and over her fell the usual trance that any contact with her hair created.

Her thoughts flashed briefly to something that seemed, almost, forbidden. The comb was replaced by his hands, and they were far from gentle. Instead, they tangled in her tresses, pulling her head back, forcing her to submit.

"Ma voix!" he scolded sharply, "I said come. It is time for you to be dressed."

She followed obediently and ashamed that she had allowed herself to stray from him so. What were these, the strange thoughts that had overtaken her consciousness so frequently of late? She would ponder them later. Now, she must prepare.

An hour later, she stood before one of the many full mirrors in the house, a simple deep red gown pooling down around her unshod feet and rubies at her throat, ears, and wrist. A veil of shear lace covered her hair, held in place by a ruby circlet.

"Ange, it seems so wrong for Foust, so sensual, not with the innocence needed," she remarked.

"Do you question," he asked coldly.

"Non Ange, non," she answered in haste as she took a step back from him.

"Good, now come. I will not have you miss your curtain."

End of part one