Unmasqued

The unyielding column slid in her anus, and Maude had the lovely sensation of being filled, full, tight… so tight that every little breath brought pleasure-pain coursing through her body. Armand moved behind her, drilling the phallus deeper… and his cock in and out, slowly, full… fuller… so full, she felt her entire insides shifting with each of his strokes. The cavern of her vagina swelled, the sensation deep inside burning with the need for relief.

Exquis!

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, tears as the pleasure grew to an unbearable level… pain-wrapped, the feeling of being trapped, imprisoned by three stiff cocks… She couldn't move, and then, when she thought it could grow no more, Firmin released her head and grabbed for her breasts, holding them in his hands as they swung beneath his ballocks.

She was breathing heavily through her nose, choking on every other stroke of Firmin's cock, her quim so wet that Armand slid all the way out for one glorious moment… and then slammed back inside of her, pushing the phallus in ever deeper with his belly. Pain! Her pip throbbed so hard it must be bright red, burning with the need for release.

Firmin groaned, and shot himself deep into her throat, filling it with warm, salty ejaculate, choking her.

Maude gulped it back, tears stinging her eyes, and sagged, face to the floor, as Firmin pulled out, Armand still working sleekly from behind. And then, he reached around and touched her shiny, hard sex and she screamed into the rug… screamed as the violent burst of relief swept over her. She shook and quaked beneath him, and felt his long, huffing groan of orgasm pulsing inside her as he slumped over her.

When she staggered to her feet moments later, Armand and Firmin were both still lumps of male flesh on the rug. Maude stood above them, in all of her naked glory, her pip and quim still humming… her asshole still twitching.

She snapped her whip, and it cracked in the air over them.

Firmin jerked and opened his eye. "Surely… Maude… you are not…"

Armand merely groaned.

"Come, come gentlemen… or is it that you already have?" Maude chuckled at her own joke, and cracked the whip again. "The night is still young! The masquerade ball may be winding down, but we do not have to!"

But, to the managers' infinite relief, Maude's plans were suddenly interrupted by a scream in the distance. And then shouts and more screams. "The Phantom!"

A woman, one of the costumiers, had been found near the dressing rooms, deserted due to the masquerade ball… and discovered only when one of the stagehands had been sent to locate a specific item for La Carlotta's costume. She had been describing it to the Opera House's patrons, the Chagny brothers, and the elder one had requested to actually see the intricate fan of which she had spoken.

The dead woman, Regine, was only in her late twenties… not a particularly pretty girl, but not an unfavorable one either. Her neck was broken; her head sagged awkwardly against her shoulder.

She had been costumed as a shepherdess, and her mask still remained in place over the upper half of her face. Her skirts were jostled up, but it was not clear whether that was because of the way she'd fallen, or because the Opera Ghost had helped himself to her charms either before or after he'd broken her neck.

For it had, indeed, been the Opera Ghost. The one who'd remained silent and unobtrusive for well over a month… since Joseph Buquet's death. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was the perpetrator.

Christine stared in horror at the lifeless body as it was carried away, draped in a white sheet. Could Erik have done such a thing?

How?

She could not comprehend it.

Pressing her hand to her mouth, Christine staggered down the corridor to the room where she slept. Such violence. Yes, he was capable. She had seen it in his eyes, seen it even tonight when he'd contemplated killing the comte.

Had he taken out his rage on Regine instead? Rage directed at Philippe de Chagny… and also at herself, Christine Daae.

A strong hand seized her arm, and Christine whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. Madame Giry stood there, her face settled and foreboding. Her hair hung, not in its neatly scraped-back chignon, but loosely bundled at the back of her head and falling in swaths.

"It is long past time for us to talk, Christine," she said firmly, pulling her into a nearby room. "You have put me off long enough, and now this has happened. If you had spoken with me before now, we could possibly have prevented it. Now there will be no hope for Erik. Do you understand that?"

She thrust Christine away so that she stumbled to a chair, and sank gratefully into it. "But Madame Giry, Erik…"

Her words faltered when the ballet mistress turned on her, her dark eyes sharp. "You do not believe Erik has done this, do you Christine? After all you have known of him?"

Christine sobbed. "I do not know! I do not think he would… a woman… but, Madame Giry, he has killed before…"