Unmasqued

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.