by Colette Gale
And the comte, who had recently interrupted his attachment with La Sorelli, might very well be looking for a replacement.
How convenient. She felt her lips curl into a smile.
And then she returned to the matter at hand.
“You cannot move,” she told Guy sharply, the Spanish lilt back in her voice.
“As always, I await your every command.”
She reached out and trickled her fingertip over the ridges of his hairless belly, bumping, one, two, three, from the curve of his rib cage down toward his groin. He shivered under her touch, but he did not move.
Except for his cock. It flinched and grew.
“I said you were not to move,” she reminded him mildly. And slapped at it.
He grunted and his cock grew larger. Carlotta felt his eyes fastened on her as she bent forward to take the tip in her mouth. She circled her lips around it, slipping her tongue over the velvet skin, and then pulled back to look down at him.
He had not moved, but his eyes were dark and focused on her mouth. His beautiful chest rose and fell a bit faster. She liked it best when it was covered with droplets of sweat, when he had to fight for control.
Carlotta yanked at the tie of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. She stood in front of him and let him look his fill. Her breasts were generous and had barely begun to sag, and her hips were round and voluptuous. Her waist nipped in, leaving her a perfect hourglass form. She had no bush tangling over her quim; every hair had been plucked away, leaving her smooth and white.
“Now,” she told Guy in a cool voice, “we shall see how well you will distract me.”
She clambered onto the bed near his feet and crawled so that she straddled his massive thighs. Sitting her bare rump on his knees, Carlotta spread her legs wide so that he would have a clear view of her sex, and rose up on her knees.
Taking her breasts in her hands, she began to play with herself. She teased her already tight nipples until they were puckered tight as her anus, flicking them with her fingers, sending shoots of desire down to her sex. She lifted and squeezed and massaged, all the while watching Guy watch her.
He did not move, but his chest rose a bit faster; his eyes narrowed a bit farther. When she slipped one hand down to cover her mons, his attention followed her. She was wet and she slid her fingers between her labia, drenching them and bringing her juices up to wet her nipple. The feel of her slick fingertips swirling over the very front of the tight nubbin made her pip throb and swim.
When her areola was hard and shiny with her moisture, Carlotta eased herself forward, sliding her dripping self over his cock, letting it slip through the juices of her lips to rest in the crack of her ass as she moved up closer to his head.
“Taste,” she told him, bringing her wet nipple down to his mouth. She felt the jerk of his body as he reacted, but then he quickly subdued the urge to remove his hands from behind his head and reach for her.
When his hot mouth closed over her entire areola, Carlotta closed her eyes and thrust her chest toward him. Pleasure drove down to her belly with every hard suck of his lips, and she rocked her hips over his strong, flat belly, rubbing her juicy sex into his skin. It swelled and burned, and when he released her nipple to slide his tongue over it, slipping over the most sensitive area, another rush of liquid dampened her sex.
“Harder!” she ordered, grinding herself down, rocking her hips faster as he fastened his teeth around her nipple. “Suck me harder!”
He sucked; she could see the cords in his neck stand out as he fought to keep his hands in place behind his head, and the movement of his jaw as he sucked and licked and at last drew the whole front of her breast into his mouth. Inside that hot, wet cavern, her nipple strained and he swirled his tongue, that thick, strong muscle, up and around and under her jutting nib.
Carlotta slid a hand between her legs and found the kernel of her sex, jimmying it around as she rocked and he sucked and she came closer to the end. The orgasm vibrated through her, and she moaned, keeping the rhythm of her finger strong until every last bit of pleasure had shuddered through her nerves.
Guy released her nipple as she pulled away, and he was breathing hard. His eyes were dark and unfocused, his mouth open as he drew in circles of air. But his arms had remained behind his head as ordered.
“Very good,” she purred, leaning forward to kiss him. She planted one hand on each side of his head, resting on his bulging forearms, wrapping her small white hands halfway around the tan muscles, and bent her lips to his.
She tasted the bare musky scent of herself on him, and thrust her tongue into his mouth to get every drop. He began to kiss her back, his lips fighting with hers, but she pulled away.
“I did not give you permission,” she reminded him sharply, sitting back on her heels, her hot quim warm on his belly. “You shall have to be punished quite thoroughly.”
His eyes flared dark and his pupils grew larger, and for a moment, she thought he was about to beg. But he did not, for he did not have permission to speak.
“Good, very good,” she told him, acknowledging his restraint. “Now you will eat me.” That ought to get him to the edge.
She slithered up his hot, muscular torso, taking a moment to suck, hard, on one flat nipple, before arranging her widespread legs over his face. Gripping the ornate iron decoration of the headboard above him, she positioned herself just above his mouth, making certain she was high enough that he would have to lift his head to reach her.
The first swipe of his strong, hot tongue sent a wave of renewed lust spreading through her. He swept it over one thick labium, up, around, and down the other one. His tongue was flat and wide and wet and it made a delicious slapping sound as it dipped around her lips. Carlotta stifled a moan and tipped her head back, her breasts pressing against the cold iron scrollwork. Her nipples were tight again, hurting in their pleasure, and her knees began to tremble.
She could see the red silk that draped from the ceiling in a sort of canopy above her and she focused on its burning hue, bringing the sensation of pulsing, red heat from her vision down to the throbbing of her sex. Guy slid his tongue into the slit between her inner and outer lips, tracing it around and back, around and back again. He had not touched her pip, not even slipped inside her vagina. Just stroked and teased over her hairless lips, sending her hips to rocking again above him.
“Eat me!” she ordered, and felt the trembling of her knees and thighs, trying to keep herself from settling down over that luscious mouth. She would make him work for it. Beg her for it.
But he wasn’t begging yet; he was nibbling at her labia now…ignoring her nib, ignoring that wide-open sex of her rumpled inner lips…just nibbling with gentle, hard teeth. Teasing. By God, he was teasing her!
His tongue slipped away from her outer lip and swept over the delicately wrinkled skin between it and her inner thigh, down and over the shivery sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and then back to allow his lips to suck on the lower edge of one swollen labium. Right where it folded into her skin. She was dripping, and she felt her juices running down her thigh, heard the erotic wet sounds as his tongue lapped through them.
“Eat me!” she ordered again, her voice husky.
And then, without warning, Guy reared his head up and fastened his mouth around her hard, swollen pip and sucked, drawing the little nib harshly into his mouth, and pulling on it as though he were trying to swallow it.
The sharpest, most intense arc of pleasure burst through her, radiating in a blast from the center of her body. Carlotta screamed and came, shuddering so hard that she lost the battle with her muscles and collapsed over his mouth, where his tongue and lips still worked, still did their job, as she dissolved into a mass of shudders and sweat.
When she fell away, onto the bed next to him, she became aware of the manner in which his chest was rising and falling: fast, as though he’d been running. And she saw that his hands were still behind his head.
“Very good,�
� she told him, and reached for the column of his cock. It was purple and thick and the vein that ran down it looked as though it were ready to burst. When she closed her fingers around it, Guy jerked, his eyes fastening on her hand as though he could will her to move it. Up and down, up and down…
She did not, of course. She held it, purposely still, barely touching it, not nearly as tightly as he wanted her to.
“Is there something you wish to say?” she asked.
“Please…may I come?”
She did not answer; she gave him a delicate stroke that sent tremors rippling over his stomach. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the bed.
“Please…”
She tightened her fingers around his cock. Warm velvet it was, and she wanted to feel it inside her. Her sex was awakening again, even after the intense orgasm. Her breasts tightened. Saliva pooled in her mouth.
She stroked him, twice, hard and fast, and then released him when she felt him get ready to let go.
“No, you may not.”
Carlotta straddled him and slipped his cock up inside her slick inner lips, her mouth opening in a silent moan of pleasure. She moved, rocked, once, to settle his length, then looked down at him.
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes focused on it as though it held some great secret of immortality. His handsome face was set, unmoving, his nostrils flared as though to draw in greater amounts of air. The vein in his neck contracted madly and she saw that—
“I did not give you permission to move your hand.”
Guy drew in a harsh breath and closed his eyes. He replaced the hand that had moved from behind his head back where it belonged. His lips moved; Carlotta thought perhaps that they moved to form the word “please.”
“Open your eyes,” she ordered. “Watch me. If you take your eyes off me, your punishment will be boundless.”
He obediently opened his eyes and she shifted her hips deliberately. She saw the way his lids flickered and twitched and his breath hitched…but he did not look away. His eyes did not roll back into his head as she was certain they wanted to.
“Very good,” she purred. And twitched her hips again, harder, and tightened her inner lips around him. This time his lips moved involuntarily and his breath stopped, his chest full…then, after a moment, started again.
She gathered her breasts in her hands and began to pluck at her hard nipples, sending those delicious sensations down to her sex. She licked her lips, watching in delight as Guy mirrored her by licking his own lips.
She rose up on his cock, and back down, and up again, and watched him struggle to maintain his composure…and congratulated herself, not for the first time, on her student. This find of hers…this lustful man who was little more than a boy willing to be molded and taught…and tortured. Would the Comte de Chagny be so pliable?
Somehow, she thought not.
She rocked on his cock, not up and down, but back and forth, making certain the head of his cock stroked the special spot inside her vagina, and pressed against her nib. Her own breath was coming faster, and she heard his even when her eyes were closed.
She opened them, and saw to her delight that he was still watching her, a desperate expression blazing in his eyes. His mouth gapped; his arms strained behind his head, muscles bulging.
Carlotta lifted herself up and began to work up and down on his cock. He gasped, and shuddered, and begged, “Please, please, let me fuck you…Let me…fuck…you…”
“No,” she told him. “No!”
She worked harder, watching his face, judging when he was coming close, and stopped in time, settled on him. Felt the huge cock inside her and the beautiful throb of her pip pushed against it.
She smiled. He groaned. She pinched her nipple. He watched.
She leaned forward and offered one to him, and he sucked on it like he was starving. It hurt and it sent a ripple of need down to her sex and she pulled away, causing a loud smacking sound from his lips.
“Guy.” She said his name gently, and it took a moment for him to focus on her eyes instead of her breasts. He did not appear to have the energy to speak. “What do you want?”
He stared at her…dragged in his breath, exhaled the words, “Fuck … you…”
“Say it, say it louder,” she coaxed, arching backward to place her hands on his thighs. Her breasts jutted out in front of her and he focused avidly on them.
“I want…to fuck…you…”
“Fuck me, then. Fuck me.”
And then suddenly, she was on her back, and Guy was rearing over her, using his knee to keep her legs apart as he gripped her shoulders. He slammed inside of her, slammed into her quim, into the top of her vagina, harder and harder, faster and faster. Carlotta moaned as he hit that inner spot, ramming against it, until she quaked with an orgasm from the inside out.
She reached up behind and grabbed the iron scrollwork, felt her breasts jouncing and bouncing with his desperate rhythm. Her orgasm went on and on; she lifted her hips, met his, violently, with every thrust. It was hot and wet and they slid together, in and out, in and out…He groaned, cried out, jammed himself inside her one final time, and she felt him coursing inside the long hot tunnel of her, and she shuddered too.
He collapsed on her, his heavy, sweaty body deliciously hot, his chest ramming against her breasts.
Carlotta slapped him on the bare ass. “We will discuss your punishment tomorrow.”
And, knees trembling, she rolled from the bed, grinning, determined to sing tonight…and to snare herself a comte. Ghost or no ghost.
~*~
Raoul crossed the stage rapidly, resisting the desire to duck when he heard a particularly loud crash behind him. Only hours before the evening’s performance, it was a madhouse in here! However could they be ready in time?
The chaos was deafening. He tightened his fingers around the huge bunch of stems he carried. This was even worse than being on a ship’s deck during a violent storm, trying to secure the lines and keep oneself from being washed overboard.
Someone was hammering nails onto a piece of scenery with great vigor; a backdrop was being lowered from its high rigging and had been caught on something, so it was now being shaken with a violence that caused Raoul no little concern. A piece of glass was being fitted into the hole in a wall of scenery; someone shouted to “Watch out!” and another person yelled, “Behind you!”
All in all, he wished he’d chosen a different route to the backstage dressing rooms than through the front doors of the Opera House, down among the stalls, up onto the stage, and behind it. Particularly during the day, when there was a cacophony of preparation for the performance of Faust that night, these halls were difficult to navigate.
He stepped around a flat being carried from the seemingly depthless wings, and, adjusting his hat so that it sat straight on his crown, he hurried along between more flats, tables, costumiers, carpenters, wigmakers, and scenery docks, finding his way only by chance because, of course, he’d been to Christine’s dressing room only one time.
But as it turned out, Raoul did not need to find his way to her private room, for as he passed along the hall, one of the dancers, whose name he had no reason to recall, attracted his attention. “Are you looking for Miss Daaé?” she asked. But she gave him a look from under her lashes, complete with dimple and tucked chin, that suggested she would prefer he was not.
“I am indeed. Do you know where she is?”
“She is in the foyer de la danse,” she replied.
Raoul picked up his pace. The dancers’ lounge was the place where the performers met their admirers after performances, and at other convenient times. He did not wish to imagine Christine—for he could not think of her as Miss Daaé, having known her as a young girl—meeting any other admirers but himself.
By the time he found his way to the lounge, after making two misturns, he had worked himself into a bit of a state. Why did his pulse race so when he thought of her? Why did the thought of another man even
looking at her make his fingers tighten?
When he opened the door—flung it, really—he found a scene much worse than he’d feared.
There was Christine, seated on a lush pink velvet sofa, in a room that looked too much like the boudoir of a courtesan for his comfort. Everything was plush and stuffed and velvet: chairs, sofas, large cushions on the floor, even three large square fabric cubes topped with glass that acted as tables. The colors burned sensually: rosy pink, crimson, royal purple, and saffron.
Wine bottles, platters of cakes and fromages and bread, bowls of glistening grapes and bright oranges and dusky brown pears, empty glasses, filled glasses—all of these trappings of entertainment littered the tables and hung in the hands of the men…the nearly dozen men…who fawned over his Christine. There were other dancers in the room, and two girls that he recognized, vaguely, as singers, but they did not hold the attention of their guests as did Christine.
She looked up when he came in, and it was not merely vanity that caused him to see the pleasure and true delight in her face. She smiled. Her fair cheeks became rosy and her blue eyes sparkled.
Raoul was not a Chagny for nothing, and never had he worn the mantle so well. “Good afternoon, Miss Daaé. I apologize for my tardiness in coming to call for you, as I’d promised last evening. Shall we go?”
He walked over to her, making his way through her admirers, and extended his arm to her. Their eyesmet, and he couldn’t help but catch his breath at her glorious beauty. She looked so innocent, so young, so pure.
And he had loved her for so long.
Christine rose, and his heart swelled, for until she did, he was not altogether certain she would support his presumption.
“For me?” she asked, smiling, looking at the massive bunch of hothouse roses he still held.