Spook in Black Satin

(or..... Singing lessons, what singing lessons....?)

by Gastonia Le Chat

"Hellfire and damnation!"

Philippe, Comte de Chagny lumbered to his feet and swore loudly at his younger brother.

The hapless Raoul trembled like an aspen leaf, his rather full lips pushed forward in a pink pout. Philippe's florid face looked even more like a cooked beetroot as he stood in front of the younger man, his arms flailing like a windmill.

"It's just not on, featherbrain!" he ranted. "You simply cannot sully the family name by marrying an opera wench - why, we would become a laughing stock! Only consider our second cousin, Auguste Mars. You know he chose to marry Avril-Mai last June, did he not? For all that his family name is not as exalted as our own, it was a foolish notion to go and marry the daughter of a doorkeeper - and that door being the entrance to Le Moulin Rouge. Why, I could not show my face there again for many a moon!"

The Comte shook his head, a frown deepening the already cavernous furrows along his forehead.

"No, Raoul, I can't and won't stand for it," he uttered in slightly less pugnacious tones while he fumbled in his pocket for a cigar. "Besides, old chap, I already have a bride lined up for you. Nice gal - what's her name now? Ah yes! The Mademoiselle Agnes du Janvier-Fevrier."

Philippe's mottled features took on the semblance of a smile as his lips curled back from large, stained teeth. Raoul hunched his shoulders and prepared to sulk.

"Fine figure of a woman - big, broad shoulders, good strong child-bearing hips. Give you lots of sons to carry on the proud name of de Chagny, boy!"

The Comte positively beamed as he lit his cigar and inhaled deeply. The burning fumes hit his throat and he choked, spluttered rather messily and whooshed a great lungful of smoke over the unfortunate Raoul.

Recovering from a paroxysm of coughing, Raoul stared somewhat vacantly at his brother, his pale blue eyes that put Philippe in mind of a landed cod watering feebly from the effects of the smoke.

"Look here, Philippe, I just don't want to marry this Agnes." Raoul's protest was vehement. "I saw her once at some ball or other. She's huge, Philippe. Looked just like a galleon in full sail, dressed in the most terrible ballgown I've ever seen - green, yellow and white stripes - ugh!" He shuddered delicately. "Now, if you would only consider my Christine, who is so beautiful, so delicate, so slender, so --."

"Oh, cut it out, Raoul," the Comte rasped. "Don't give me all that sickening stuff. Doesn't matter how gorgeous this gal is - the fact is that she is earning her living - she is of the working fraternity, for heaven's sake!. We can't have the wife of a de Chagny parading on stage in front of the masses now, can we? Be reasonable, old chap."

Philippe studied his brother through narrowed eyes. "You need more experience with the fairer sex, my dear. All this lovey-dovey stuff - doesn't last. I'll have to start taking you out with me, let you see a bit of life, meet some real women. This Christine - pretty gal, I grant you. Just a bit too thin for my taste, what?"

Licking his lips somewhat lasciviously, Philippe continued his discourse.

"Now, take La Carlotta. There's a real woman for you. Loves her food, and as for champagne - why, she can drink me under the table any time. She's passionate, fiery, built on magnificent lines. Taught me a few tricks, I can tell you."

"That awful old hag!" Raoul burst out. "She is so horrid to my Christine. Great Spanish onion - her voice is reminiscent of a wailing cat. Now, my Christine ---"

He broke off and gulped nervously as Philippe came forward and put forward his large red face while stabbing at Raoul's boyish chest with a thick, stubby finger.

"I will hear no more about your Christine, boy!" he roared. "She may trill like a veritable nightingale, but she is no more than a Swedish peasant, and you are not going to marry her - is that clear?"

Raoul leaned back, blanching as his brother gustily exhaled a rank-smelling pot-pourri of cigar smoke, port wine and garlic.

"You will marry the Mademoiselle Agnes and be done with! I will contact her Papa and we will make arrangements for the wedding to take place very soon. It will be a fine affair - especially as the good M. Janvier-Fevrier will bear the expense. A very fine occasion indeed. All Paris will be there."

The Comte drew deeply on his cigar and rubbed his rotund stomach in a satisfied manner.

"But Philippe," whined Raoul, clutching at the Comte's lapels, "does it have to be her? Can't I choose someone else? After all, I am adorable, am I not? You can surely see I am a fair and handsome fellow. I keep my person freshly laundered, my moustache trimmed and free of cigar stains. Gosh, really, you know, I could have any girl I wanted."

He stepped back with a hand on his hip, nonchalantly tossing his blond waves as he turned his admirable profile to his brother.

"Sacre blue!" Philippe thought, adjusting his pince-nez as he looked at his brother, posing and prinking like the precious little dandy he was, "what a moron. I'm sure Mother played Father false with this one. To think that the de Chagny name and fortune will be in his hands one day. Perhaps I ought to find a wife myself, God help me."

The young Adonis glanced sideways at his brother, thinking, "Silly old fool. I will not be forced into marriage with that Agnes. She towers above me and is as wide as a house. I shall ask my beautiful Christine to become secretly engaged, so there!".

Raoul dwelt with pleasure on how his Christine would be so thrilled and excited. They would go and buy the ring the very next day.

Meanwhile, a few kilometres away, deep down in the dangerously dark doomy dungeons below the Opéra House, his beloved little Christine was locked in a passionate embrace with her singing tutor, Maestro OG. He was of course the bewitching, beguiling, becloaked, bemasked, and at that particular moment, the rather bedraggled Phantom of the Opéra.

He had recently been out in a gale force wind that had whipped fiercely around the Opéra House, and consequently had lost a little of his usually dashing and debonair appearance; he had not, as yet, had time to comb his hair, to wipe a sooty smut from his cheek or adjust his windswept clothing, so busy was he with his current occupation.

She, clad only in a light robe over her brief stage costume, could feel every single line of his lean, hard body - everything - they were so closely entwined. When at last she came up for air, she mumbled weakly ~ "Tiens! Quel homme!"

"That is better, Christine, much better", declared the Phantom, his eyes flashing spectacularly behind the rather fetching polka dot mask. "We do need a lot more practice, you understand, but I hope you are enjoying these lessons as much as I, my dearest duckie?"

"Oh, absolutely, Maestro," Christine rubbed some feeling back into her numb lips. "I'm happy to continue if you insist."

"Mais oui, chèrie. Et moi aussi", purred the Phantom. "I have so much to teach you, and although you a most excellent pupil, it may take quite some time. Possibly all night long ..."

She nodded and possibly, quite possibly … smirked.

"However," he contined, "before we go ahead, there is the little matter of your singing lesson ... oooohhhh-aaahhh!! "

He suddenly squeaked as Christine delicately chewed on his Adam's apple.

"Aahh! C'est fantastique ... c'est delicieux ... c'est mmmmmm ... aaahhhh. Chèrie, I implore you ... don't stop!"

His eyes closed tight as he whimpered ecstatically, then flew wide open in huge disappointment as the softness of those delectable lips was removed from his neck.

Christine gazed into the purple-black depths of those eyes. Were there two little dancing images in the pupils?

"Oh no, 'course not", she remembered. "Only Cats have those."

The Phantom seemed to be in a trance as he stared at her rosy lips. She waved a finger in front of his face; he gulped, shook loose his limbs one by one, flapped one foot and then the other, with hands following suit, and finally squared his shoulders a couple of times. She stared in fascination - he looked like a long, lanky puppet on a string.

"Singing lesson, Maestro?" she reminded him sweetly.

"Yes, singing, ah, yes indeed."

He clapped the palms of his hands against his temples, as if to shake his brain back into action.

"Very well, now stand up straight - we must get that high 'C' perfect for tomorrow's performance. That is most important. Now let's see ..."

He pondered for a moment and then, quick as a flash, her splendidly masked tutor grabbed his adoring pupil close to him and crushed her thighs between his own in a vice-like grip that squeezed her voice out from somewhere in the region of her knees.

The sound that erupted from Christine's lips was the most stupendous high 'C'.

"There", cooed the Phantom, "that was easy-peasy, wasn't it, sweetheart?"

Christine's legs were still singing a whole spate of high 'C's as she eyed him somewhat stonily.

"Whatever you say, Maestro, but you must not expect me to ask my leading men to do such things. We would never get an opera sung, you know."

"Of course not, my sweet darling poppet," murmured the Phantom. "If anyone tried such a thing, I would aim a chandelier at them. The pointy bits uppermost .... that would certainly shatter their illusions ... and other ... parts."

He stood thoughtfully for a moment, the notion of a chandelier whizzing through the air taking hold of his powerful brain.

Emerging from this further reverie, he continued with masterly conviction, "… now, little angel of mine, all you have to do when you get on stage tomorrow, is - "think thighs". Remember our entwined thighs and you will hit that high 'C ' beautifully - no problem."

"I think of your thighs all the time, Maestro", confessed Christine, "and other ... things ..."

"You do, darling?" husked the Phantom, "come here and tell me all."

He drew her into his strong arms and proceeded to kiss her thoroughly. Christine moved her hands from his shoulders and felt him giggle as her fingers tickled his neck, and then her hands went up to delve into his hair. As the passionate kiss grew in intensity, her fingers tightened convulsively.

"By Jove", thought the Phantom, "I don't know about the earth moving, but the wig certainly is", as he surreptitiously tried to adjust it.

"Mmmm", groaned Christine.

"Mmmm-hmmm", echoed the Phantom.

"Mmmm--ouff".

She simply had to wrench herself away and take in a huge gulp of air, trying hard to uncross her eyes at the same time.

Finally, her legs still wobbly from that fantastic squeeze by the Phantom's masterful lower limbs, Christine tottered from his embrace over to the throne where she grabbed hold of the mannequin sprawled across it with glassy-eyed abandon. She flung the doll on the floor, collapsed upon the throne and muttered gruffly to herself about the weird habits of men.

"You are quite well, child?" The Phantom asked solicitously, eyeing the slender ankles peeping from beneath her gown as she lay back in his chair with her eyes closed. Her hair was dishevelled and coming loose from its pins; her robe had slipped from one shoulder, affording him a glimpse of a delectable décolletage.

Pursing his lips on an indrawn, silent whistle, he moved towards her, running his hands over his hair and down his sleekly adorable body. Christine opened her eyes to blow back a wisp of hair which was tickling her face and caught the Phantom slinking towards her.

She swallowed, eyes growing rounder and rounder as he approached.

"Heavens above, the man is so incredibly scrummy. Never mind the funny face - what a body. He positively glides when he moves. I'll wager he can really ... tango ..."

Her thoughts made her blush. She gulped again, forgetting all about her dashingly suitable young suitor back in his chatêau.

Christine gazed worshipfully at the Phantom as he stood masterfully before her.

"I think we have reached The Point of No Return", he murmured as he reached for her. "The Point of…? I say, that's a really whizzy title for a song, don't you think? "

His hand brushed lightly against her pulsating throat, turning her to a quivering jelly.

"No turning back now, my Angel; forward and onwards to the next stage in our lessons in ... love."

The last word was murmured in such a low, sensuous, heart-stoppingly, knee-trembingly husky growl that Christine almost fainted. The Phantom pulled her to his chest, his thrilling touch scorching through her dainty robe.

"No more singing lessons for a little while, my precious. We will continue with such mundane matters ... later", he breathed hotly in her ear.

"I c--couldn't sing another note, Maestro", whimpered Christine as his hands continued their voyage of discovery, reducing her to a dribbling wreck.

"You will sing like a bird soon, my angel ... very, very soon", he promised as he gathered her up in his arms and strode masterfully to the bedroom, pausing on the way to kiss her passionately. In so doing, he had the incredibly bad luck to miss the doorpost by a couple of inches, resulting in a painful crack on the knee. His smothered oath caused Christine to vibrate with silent laughter.

Limping to the bed, he laid his precious burden down on the black satin sheets, catching her deftly as she instantly skidded off to the side.

"Your robe is a little too silky, my angel. Perhaps it should be removed ...?", he murmured in thrilling tones.

The Phantom kicked off his shoes and slithered sexily onto the bed beside her.

Calamity!

His elegant socks of rich purple silk lost their grip on the slippery sheets and before Christine's amazed gaze, he promptly disappeared off the end of the bed.

Christine snorted, then started to giggle madly as she heard his body thump onto the floor. She heard him scrabbling about in a demented fashion, cursing and swearing to himself.

"Lève-toi, imbécile. Je suis un homme très maladroit!"

His hands - those sensuous, long-fingered hands - came fumbling up at the sheet, trying desperately to find a hold. Then his head appeared over the end of the bed, his wig wildly askew as he cursed …"these damned satin sheets. I'll give that salesman hell!"

Christine let out a scream of hysterical laughter as she watched him scramble about at the foot of the bed, hauling up a long leg and thwacking it down hard on the sheet, then sliding right off again. He grabbed wildly at the bedclothes as he tried to gain a foothold. By the time he managed to haul himself back onto the bed, she was laughing so much that tears were streaming down her face as she practically sobbed with mirth.

The Phantom sprawled inelegantly beside her, grunting and puffing with strenuous effort. She heard him mumble and growl. What was he saying? ...

"Oh, for goodness sake, I must look an absolute fright."

At this, Christine fell back on the pillows, shrieking with merriment. Looked a fright! Oh! Oh! He was gorgeous, he was magnificent and she adored him, but looked a fright - he was a fright! Always had been - with that catastrophic kisser! And she was off again as her body shook with laughter.

The Phantom sat up very carefully, holding tightly to a bedpost whilst he kicked away the offending sheets. He glanced sideways with a bit of a scowl at Christine and at the tears of mirth running down her face, then gave a great crack of laughter as he saw how her streaming eyes had streaked her stage make-up into runnels.

"Hah!", his laughter bellowed out as he pointed a long finger at her eyes, bedaubed with blobs of damp mascara, and the greasepaint streaking her cheeks. "Hah! Hah! You look like a dear little zebra with big, black panda eyes!"

"And you look just like old Worzel Gummidge, hah! hah! hee-hee!!"

With one accord they fell back on the pillows and writhed about the bed in hysterics, clutching their sides and drumming their heels, shrieking and screaming with abandoned mirth.

Slowly their laughter died away. Overcome by hiccups, they tried to regain their breath and their sanity. When they managed to calm down a little, the Phantom reached for Christine's hand and drew it to his lips. They turned to face each other - she with her small face bestrewn with varying colours and he with his wig all awry, the mask long gone in his bed-climbing antics.

"So much for my big seduction scene, my angel", he said ruefully. "Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous? Your Don Juan is nought but a clown."

"Darling Maestro, I don't think you're in the least ridiculous - well, perhaps these black satin bedclothes are a little frivolous, but what marvellous fun! I haven't enjoyed myself so much in ages! And I do like you without the mask. It may not be a wildly handsome face I see before me, but do you know, you remind me very much of one of our great Scandinavian legends."

"Oh - you mean Abba?", he asked hopefully.

"Well, I was thinking more of a troll, although of course you are much taller." She managed to hide a naughty grin.

"Oh, you--you little sausage, you! Thanks very much!"

The Phantom caught her to him and drifted a finger across her stripey cheek, causing the most delicious tingle to race down her spine.

"At least I don't look as though I've had paintpots thrown at me. Come here, my little Swedish turnip - it is time to recommence our lessons. But be damned to satin sheets! We will go for the burn on the horsehair mattress."

He lowered his fabulously frightful face to hers, murmuring huskily, "I am going to make you sing like a bird ... sigh like an angel ... move like a sinewy, sensuous, coiling, beautiful snake ... and then cry for more!"

Christine liked the sound of all this, especially the snake bit, and then indeed began to sigh like an angel as the Phantom proved himself a most resourceful, intrepid and gifted master in the art of love ...

Back at the Chatêau de Chagny, Comte Philippe held before him the first draft of a contract of marriage between his brother, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and the young lady known throughout fashionable Paris as "L'Abondance", on account of the fact that there was so much of her.

Raoul stared gloomily into space as he tried to think of a way out of becoming the husband of the despised Mademoiselle du Janvier-Fevrier. Desperate measures were called for in a desperate situation such as this.

It would have to be an elopement. He must persuade his beautiful Christine to fly with him; far, far away, where no-one would ever find them. Well, not for a couple of months at least, and then the fuss would have died down. They could return as man and wife, and his inheritance would be assured. Yes, yes, this was the answer! He would go to see Christine and explain the situation so they could run away to be married at once!

Another thought flitted through Raoul's mind which made him go hot and cold all over. Supposing, just supposing, he and Christine ... if Christine would ... sleep ... in his … ummmm … bed. If they ... did ... that... and he and Christine made ... a baby! Raoul suddenly had to loosen his collar and hide the lower half of his body under the table as his thoughts dwelt on such seductive notions.

If there was -- was a baby, an infant de Chagny on the way, then Philippe would simply have to allow them to be married! He would not dare have a scandal blacken the family name. Perhaps this was the answer, only he would first have to entice Christine to get into his b--bed . He gulped, and wiped his damp brow with a table napkin.

"No", he thought feverishly, "no, I cannot believe I ever entertained such an idea. Christine would not ... she would be horrified! She is my pure and innocent young sweetheart. She'd never dream of -- of -- letting anyone s--seduce her. Even me! Handsome as I am and so irresistibly masculine, she would never..."

Raoul continued to sit close to the table with a faraway look in his weak blue eyes, his normally pallid complexion stained by a high colour as naughty thoughts tumbled through his brain, whilst his brother sprawled across an elegant sofa and studied the marriage document, a self-satisfied smirk spread across his own beefy countenance.

Meanwhile, Christine had been very thoroughly seduced; several times, in fact. She had enjoyed every moment, so much so that she was now in the act of seducing ...

The Phantom's head spun as she kissed him long and expertly.

"We really should recommence your singing lessons, my angel", he managed to croak as she slid over him, well-versed now in the art of coiling sensuously.

Christine wrapped her limbs around his, sighing rapturously at the feel of his long legs entwined in her own. Then, being an extremely receptive and obedient young pupil who remembered everything her Maestro had taught her, she suddenly tightened her thighs and held his in a grip that was almost Herculean in such a fragile young creature.

As a faultless high 'C' con vibrato erupted from her lair-dwelling, learned, lordly, legendary, luscious and lustful lover's lips, a satisfied smile illuminated her rosy little face, the streaky greasepaint having long been rubbed clean away by endless and wonderful hours of passion, and a curly-haired chest.

"Singing lessons, darling?", she whispered naughtily in his ear, "what singing lessons.....?!".

END

© Jeanette Birt 2002