Jack paused and took a moment to examine his reflection in the windowpane. He adjusted his bow tie, apparently out of nervousness, but Diane recognized the performer in him at work. When he said, "I'm not so sure this trip was a good idea, love," Diane knew he wanted her to ask why. He was just an old ham at heart, really.
"This would, of course, be a sincere concern of some sort," she said. Just because he wanted her to ask didn't mean she planned to make it easy for him. "Nothing at all to do with your claim that the best rendition of 'The Barber of Seville' was done by Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny, and you see no reason to attend an inferior production."
Jack put his hand to his chest in mock pain. "You wound me, my darling. Naturally, when you suggested we spend an evening at the opera, I was thrilled to oblige."
"And the fact that you were looking at Pat Benatar concerts last week..."
"Pure coincidence. Although I am glad to hear she's decided to do a second show in the Twin Cities." Jack turned away from the window, taking his wife's hand as the two of them headed towards the auditorium. "No, I'm just worried about you. I mean, you're young, you're beautiful, we're at the Opera...you're clearly in grave danger of being targeted by the Phantom."
Diane nodded. "Yes, I suppose I should have seen this coming. This would be the Phantom of the Ordway, I suppose?"
Jack showed nothing but sincerity in his big brown eyes. "Of course. Everybody knows that the designer of this theater was killed during its construction. He and his girlfriend were schtupping backstage, the beam he was standing her up against collapsed, and..." He made a dismissive hand gesture. "Pfft. Poor bastard didn't even get a chance to climax. Ever since, no good-looking woman has been entirely safe here."
"Amazing," Diane said. "What's even more amazing is that I hadn't heard about any of this. You'd think, being an architecture major, that something so... interesting... andby'interesting'imean'bullshit'... would have come up in my studies. And yet, all of my professors--who must have been complicit in some dark conspiracy to cover up the tragedy--told me that he continued to have a long and storied career in the industry before finally dying in 2002 at the age of 84, 18 years after this theater was built. Clearly, though, I must bow to your superior knowledge, because I know my husband would never lie to me."
Jack stopped dead in his tracks. "You're sure on that?"
"Quite sure. No Opera Ghost, of either the Pratchett or Webber variety."
"No Opera Ghost at all?" Jack's expression was one of innocent consternation. Diane wondered exactly where he was going with this.
"None." The flow of human traffic was beginning to subside. The opera would be starting in a few minutes.
Jack leaned in and whispered in his wife's ear. "Invisible Touch," he said. Diane drew in her breath sharply as she felt a phantom finger trace its way down the line of her spine, all the way from the base of her neck to her tailbone.
Jack watched the expression on her face. "You know," he said, "I'm beginning to think there might be something fun to watch at the opera after all."
ACT ONE:
There are times,
Diane thought as she managed to collapse into her seat,
that I really wish I wasn't quite such a good hypnotic subject.
The ghostly fingers had moved down to the soles of her feet now, tickling and teasing them as the opera began. "Piano, pianissimo, senza parlar," Fiorello sang, but Diane had other things on her mind.
Was this a new trigger? She could never be entirely sure; she had been playing with Jack for long enough that he didn't have to work too hard to make her forget things. She'd obviously forgotten that he'd implanted the trigger, but had she also forgotten other times that he'd used it on her? No, she thought, glancing at him as he pretended to pay attention to the opera. He was enjoying himself too much. This was a new one for both of them.
An impressive one, too, she noted as she felt fingers tracing slow circles around her thighs. Just lightly, tracing along her lap, but the sensation was unmistakable. She could look down and see that there were no hands on her body, but it didn't break the illusion at all. She kept expecting to see the fabric of her dress move. Jack had really outdone himself.
Diane settled in to try to enjoy the show. As impressive as Jack's hypnotic skills were, she could enjoy them later. For now, she just wanted to listen to a little light opera. She sat back, trying to remember exactly how the plot worked. The man singing was the count pretending to be the student, and the man he was singing to was the barber, and...
The fingers traced around to her inner thigh, and Diane stopped breathing for a moment. She could feel them, the phantom hands slowly creeping up her thigh, now less than an inch away from her suddenly very engorged clit...Diane focused on letting her breath out slowly. No moans, no gasps, no whimpers. Opera fans had no sense of humor when it came to disturbances during the show.
And Jack knew that, she thought as the fingers slowly, almost imperceptibly, crept closer to her pussy. And she knew that he knew it. She gritted her teeth and tried very hard to just breathe. Her hips thrust forward just a little, involuntarily, but it didn't matter. The phantom fingers weren't real, she couldn't move deeper into their touch. She was totally at their mercy...
She felt them slide back around her thigh and run along the swell of her hip. Diane breathed a quiet sigh of relief that nonetheless got her a tiny disapproving look from the woman sitting three seats away. Tough crowd.
When they got out of this, Diane grumbled to herself as she felt the 'hands' rest possessively on her hip, she was going to have serious words with her husband. At the Rasputina concert last week, he was all attentive to the music. When they went to see Great White--Great White, for fucksake--he was totally into the band's performance. But take him to 'The Barber of Seville', and Mister Mischief had nothing better to do than disrupt her night.
Mm-hmm,
her brain said right back to her,
and is there some reason you're not asking him to stop?
Diane didn't know exactly which part of her brain had decided to argue with her sound, reasoned opinions on proper behavior when dealing with high culture, but it was probably the same part that was currently making her believe that invisible hands were trailing down her thigh to her ankle, oh so slowly.
Diane tried to pretend that she didn't want the disruption of whispering to her husband in the middle of the production, or at the very least didn't believe that he'd break the post-hypnotic suggestion, but her brain was having none of it. It knew perfectly well that if she really wanted Jack to stop this, he would. And she wasn't doing it.
Then her brain decided to tweak her nipples. Diane decided her brain could be a real bitch sometimes.
The 'hands' pinched harder. Definitely a bitch. A real... teasing... bitch. Diane gripped the arms of her seat so hard her palms went white. She let out a long, slow breath. Easy, normal breathing, that was the--ohgoditstwistingthem--key.
Jack kept giving her sidelong glances. Each one suggested that butter, if placed in his mouth, would remain a cool, spreadable semi-solid. It was the general expression he got when he was really enjoying watching her struggle.
Definitely, revenge would be in order at the end of the night. Perhaps she could... could... the phantom fingers rolled her nipples, and Diane's eyes rolled back in her head. Perhaps she could fuck him silly, was the obvious answer. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't loving every minute of it. She'd really be lying if she said that trying to keep from moaning out loud wasn't half the fun.
The fingers traced the swell of her breasts then, and Diane did let out a tiny whimper, but it was lost in the swell of Rosina singing, "Lo sono docile, son rispettosa, sono obbediente, dolce, amorosa, mi lascio reggere, mi fo guidar." Diane had no idea what that meant, but it sounded pretty. In fact, the whole opera sounded pretty. Part of her wanted to find a translation when she got home, but she'd heard that not knowing what the words meant was half the fun.
Finally, the hands left her breasts for a bit and began to stroke her temples. Diane sighed quietly in relief, and started trying to concentrate on the music again. It was mostly sneezing and yawning at the moment, but Diane hoped it would get good again soon.