Welcome to Past the Point of No Return! We are and Advanced Role Play site based on ‘The Phantom of The Opera’ Stories. We hope you enjoy your time here and if you have any queries feel free to pm a member of staff.
The year is 1924
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Sweet Sinner « Thread Started on Mar 4, 2009, 8:45am »
Nothing had piqued his interest in this way in years. Erik was concealed behind the layers of his cloak, his fedora pulled down low over his masked face. In the fading illumination of twilight he brooked no more attention than anyone else in the marginally busy marketplace. Everyone was busy with their own objectives. Collecting a little of this, some of that - finishing the days work and scurrying home just to begin the terrible cycle again the next day. He often liked to join the realm of the living at this time. The population was sparse, less offensive than in mid-day and he could blend in rather easily. Walking amongst them made him feel almost normal, almost accepted. He usually traced a familiar and well planned path to the end of the marketplace and back. In nearly seven years there had scarcely been an incident.
Today, however, something gave him pause. He hesitated so abruptly that a gentleman behind him bumped squarely into his back. This would have been justification for immediate death if Erik had not been so distracted. Instead he simply grunted as the bloody fool bustled past with an apology.
Across the square, currently weighing an apple in the palm of her hand, was Christine.
No, it wasn’t Christine at all. But it was a young girl who looked nearly identical to her. She had the same milky skin, flowing hair and even her features resembled that of his protégé so accurately that Erik had to remind himself repeatedly that it was not her. It couldn’t be. His angel had left him years before in the bowels of the opera house, skipping off with her beloved Vicomte. She would be older by now, and likely a mother. This girl had the freshness of youth, an undeniable beauty and familiarity that drew him in.
Before he realized what had happened, Erik had crossed the street and approached her. Thankfully he regained control of his senses before she even noticed his skulking figure. He retreated into the familiar embrace of the shadows, unable to tear his gaze away.
How long had this creature lived? How long had she existed here, so painfully close to his domain, and he had remained oblivious to it? She was more perfect even than his wax mannequins of Christine. A living, breathing replica. Erik considered kidnapping quite seriously, playing through the appropriate props he would need to carry it off successfully. As he mulled over his dark thoughts, he followed after her. She carried herself with grace, but her dark eyes were tinged with sorrow. When she finally reached her destination, he understood why.
She belonged to the red-light district of the city. Erik returned to his lair that night to wallow in a mixture of absolute elation and self-pity. Why did she have to be a whore, of all things? God, if there was one, must simply hate him. He had sketched out her pretty face until his fingers ached from holding the charcoal. He paced about his lair, absolutely feverish in his newfound obsession.
He had to possess her. Nothing else would placate his eager and busy mind. He had to take her. Erik plotted out a perfectly feasible and logical plan to simply snatch her off the streets. If she really was a mere whore, she would scarcely be missed. He could offer her something more. Food, comforts, shelter, protection - all in exchange for her services. It was a deal any woman in her position would be thrilled with, wasn’t it?
There was a single, nagging, lingering thought that ruined his plans. As he had observed her in the marketplace a butterfly had landed atop her satchel. The girl had turned to admire it, spoken something inane to the creature, and then laughed aloud. The sound of her laughter was musical, warm and beautiful. It didn't sound at all like her laugh. That tiny little nuance likely saved her. The girl would never know the possibly dark future that she had been fated to, nor that her simple giggle had spared her of it.The sharp realization that this was not Christine brought Erik back into lucidity, and he observed her with a different fascination.
Each evening he would return to the same spot, waiting for her. Some days she arrived, often she did not. He soon learned the schedule she kept in regards to her work and otherwise. He was taken with following her anytime she was moving about the city streets alone, intent on keeping her safe from any other predator that might have her in their sight. For weeks this was enough, this odd sort of communion with another person. Just like a man addicted to drugs, however, he soon needed more. Watching her small hands caress the fruit she studiously considered was no longer enough. He imagined holding one of those hands in his own, feeling their softness. It was utter madness, Erik knew, but he could not resist the insatiable draw. He resumed his plotting, even preparing the Louis-Phillipe bedroom for his new guest. This brought about particularly raw emotions, of course, but Erik was persistent. If she would join him in his home, she would have to be cared for appropriately.
It was nearly summer before he realized he would not do that to her. Perhaps he had changed? Gone soft? Erik wasn't sure, but he refused to watch her for weeks - punishing himself for this perceived weakness. He only returned to the dank marketplace when he could tolerate the separation no longer. Like a starving man he returned to the place where he knew she would be, and found himself only more anxious when she did at last arrive.
In a moment of strange lucidity Erik realized that this little dance, one she was completely unaware of, was ridiculous. She was a whore! He would simply buy her time. The thought would have made him burn with shame (especially since that failed attempt at purchasing physical favors from such a woman) had he not been so utterly engrossed in his goal. As it were, he was simply relieved with his newfound plan. That evening he dressed immaculately in his finest garb, the finely tailored and expensive suit fitting his emaciate form perfectly. With fine leather gloves on his hands, he topped the entire thing with a heavy cloak that boasted a hood. Fully dressed he looked like little more than a wraith, completely invisible beneath the layers and layers. He navigated his way through the Parisian streets toward the Montmarte section of the city.
The Moulin Rouge was clearly identifiable because of the large windmill atop it's roof. Erik thought this was an odd sort of advertisement, but it mattered little to him. He plucked up the courage to force himself into such a clearly social situation and entered the den of debauchery. Instantly his senses were inundated with the stench of alcohol, sex, and sweat. The room was thrumming with life. Some blonde number was on stage, singing in an untrained voice that pained Erik's sensibilities. The men gathered about were staring at her, clearly thinking nothing of the song but of the provocative garb she was wearing. A myriad of other girls weaved about through the tables, carrying drinks and the like to eager customers. The entire room was a din of noise and laughter, and it was almost enough to turn heel and leave. He almost did just that. When he was nearing the door, however, that tinkling laughter was speaking. Introducing something in coy words that made men chuckle. Erik turned quickly and found his quarry atop the stage herself, dressed in a completely ostentatious manner with far too much make-up marring her natural beauty. As much as Erik opposed the change, loathed the way it made her...look like a whore, he found himself no better than the lascivious men who now gaped at her with clear longing. He responded physically to the beauty on the stage, and hated himself for it. That wasn't what this was about. Her profession was merely incidental.
It was clear, however, that this little tart was the pride and joy of the establishment. She spoke with an air of confidence that suggested she could have anything she wanted, batted her lashes in a sultry manner that had every man present eating from her palm, and continued her playful banter like this for a full moment. Eventually she began to sing, and Erik was lost. Her voice lacked the other-worldliness of Christine's. It was more earthy, simple, and of course untrained. Still, it was a lovely tone - rather low and sensual in contrast to the light airiness of his former student. Perhaps that was intentional, however, because Erik found himself wondering what that sweet little voice sounded like in the throes of pleasure.
He shook his head to clear it. The woman was proving to be quite the siren. Her little show, gaudy and over the top, ended soon and she disappeared from the stage with a promise to return. The room responded vehemently - cursing at her departure and all clamoring to secure her attention further. The means were doing so were made clear as a series of men seemed to present themselves to an overweight, overdressed woman perched upon a lounge to one side of the room. Erik couldn't help but smirk at the thought that she was, in fact, the Madame. How cliche. He watched her survey the throng that approached in an attempt to win the favors of the lady in question for the evening. She feigned disdain and disinterest, shaking her head no more often than not. More than one gentleman went away clearly disappointed. It seemed as though she had narrowed it down to a pair of older, too-eager men. They were speaking heatedly, likely countering the offer of the other. Erik tired of mere observation and sulked towards the trio.
The woman seemed less surprised than the men by his odd attire. Perhaps it wasn't entirely uncommon for a man to seek anonymity in these walls. Plenty of husbands and the like probably spent their time here and longed for secrecy. Or perhaps she could smell the money upon him. Either way, she smiled a disgustingly sweet smile into the dark face of their new acquaintance.
"Oui, Monsieur? What may I do for you?" she asked in a voice that was just as unpretty as her appearance. Her voice was thickly accented and lazy.
Erik didn't reply, instead he extended his hand and dropped a heavy back of coins into her hand. It was a ridiculous amount, enough to buy the damned girl much less acquire her time. The fat woman wiggled in her excitement, her eyelashes fluttering too-quickly as she began to calculate just how much was in the bag.
"Isabelle," Erik said simply. The two other men realized their defeat and went away scowling, as the Madame all but purred in response to Erik's pleasing voice. He wasn't unaware of the affect his voice usually had on women, but he wasn't pleased to see it's work in this oaf.
"Oui, oui.." she gushed, too pleased with the situation. "I shall have her prepared for you, Monsieur. One hour."
She fished a key out of her reticule, and pressed it into his gloved palm. Erik half-bowed and excused himself from her presence. The key had a number etched into it's golden surface. 3. Erik mused over the generic quality of it as he extracted himself from the den of debauchery. Cool air cleared his mind and gave him time to prepare himself mentally for what was about to occur.
Exactly how did one explain to a purchased prostitute that no services would be required?In
Re: Sweet Sinner « Reply #1 on Mar 6, 2009, 2:42am »
Painted faces… costumes… subterfuge… lies. It all made Isabelle sick. And yet this was the world in which she submerged herself, by choice- and yet at the same time, completely against her will. The frequent customers of the Moulin Rouge smiled at her, each clamoring for her attention, each thinking that she smiled only for them. How could they not know that her carefully painted charade was just that- an act, a job that she performed to keep herself off the streets. She made the rounds, spoke to the usual customers, fluttered her eyelashes. A demure dip of her head here, a coyly placed hand on a shoulder there. How skilled she was at her job, to make them all think she reciprocated their disgusting feelings- or perhaps they were just that eager to believe.
“Isabelle, it’s time. Get up there,” the Madame hissed as she brushed past Isabelle. Her spirits suddenly lifted. Singing was her favorite part of her job- the only part she enjoyed. She hadn’t had the privilege of actual voice lessons, like some of the other courtesans had, and yet no one who heard Isabelle sing could deny that she had a gift. Untrained, unfocused, and poorly controlled- and yet there was a sincere, beautiful quality about it that captivated her audiences. She was grateful for her meager talent, as it was the main reason she was no longer stuck in the gutters of Paris.
She walked gracefully over to the stage, giving the crowd a saucy look that commanded their complete attention. Pausing briefly, Isabelle opened her mouth and began to sing.
“I believe in doing what I can In crying when I must And laughing when I choose, Oh, if love were all, I would be lonely
I believe the more you love a man The more you give your trust, The more you’re bound to lose Although when shadows fall, I think if somebody splendid really needed me Someone affectionate and dear Cares would be ended if I knew that he Wanted to have me near
But I believe that since my life began, The most I’ve ever had is a talent to amuse Oh, if love were all… I would be lonely.”
Her voice trailed off, her eyes closed. She was lost in the song, believing that just for this moment, she wasn’t a courtesan. She was a real singer, paid just to sing a pretty song. It was a wonderful feeling, a blissful sense of oblivion that she would give anything to hold onto. But deep down Isabelle knew that when she opened her eyes, the illusion would be over. But eventually she had to open them, and now the worse part began- the bidding, as if she were a horse, or a fancy carriage. Isabelle sighed, stepping away from the spotlight and disappearing backstage. She hated watching the men clamoring for her favors, inevitable though it was. Isabelle preferred to wait in room 3 for whoever had paid the Madame the most. Slipping out of her fancy dress and into a silk robe, Isabelle mentally prepared herself for the evening’s work.
The door opened, and a man walked in. She was lighting a candle, and her back was turned. Before she could turn around and face her customer, however, she was shoved roughly into the wall, her hands forced behind her back, and her eyes blindfolded with a long piece of rough fabric. “What- what are you doing?” she cried, struggling with her attacker.
Re: Sweet Sinner « Reply #2 on Mar 6, 2009, 9:51am »
Erik had not intended to be so rough with the girl. His anticipation and anxiousness had simply built over the course of the hour that he had waited for her so much that he couldn't help himself. As he watched her form, silhouetted by candlelight, he had wanted her fiercely. She had noticed his entrance, of course, and would turn at any moment. He felt a stab of panic and did the only thing he could think of; he immobilized her. Now as he felt her splendid, silken-covered body pressed between his own and the wall he realized that it had been a mistake to touch her at all.
The devil in him reveled in her struggle, taking a sadistic pleasure even in the high pitched tremble in her voice. She was clearly frightened, and she should be. The hands of a murderer wound a sheath of satin about her eyes, effectively blinding her. He indulged himself enough to splay his hand against the column of her throat, longing to feel the smoothness of her skin beneath his own. His hands were clad with leather, though, and so the mission was fruitless. He stepped back then, the warmth of their joined bodies replaced by the mild chill of the room. Immediately the little thing lifted it's hands to remove the blinders, a natural reaction anyone would have likely undertaken.
"No," he murmured, his first spoken word to her. His voice was compelling, almost hypnotic in it's beauty - even in such a short admission. The command might fail, however, and so he stepped forward again - this time he merely encircled each delicate wrist in his stronger hands. He tugged her along to the setee where he deposited her rather unceremoniously. As he forced her to lounge back against the worn fabric, he produced a supple length of leather with which he bound her wrists together.
"Do not remove them," he spoke again, his voice contrastingly gentle. He stepped back to admire his work. She was just as beautiful in such close proximity, perhaps more. He could hear the tremulous intake of her nervous breathing, smell her cheap perfume. Her face was overdone in makeup that he would never choose for her, but he had seen her pretty face often enough to remember what it looked like beneath all the rouge. The blindfold over her eyes and the way her small hands were bound excited a darkness in him that Erik had struggled a lifetime to overcome.
It would be so easy. Too easy. He had paid a ridiculous amount for it, really. He could brush the robe aside, run his cold and skeletal hands up along those shapely legs... take all that he desired from her. His hands twitched, the battle warring within him.
No. That wasn't why he wanted her. The problem was, he wasn't exactly sure why he had went to these extremes to find himself in her presence. Now what? How did one go about explaining to a prostitute that he had just tied her up and purchased her time, but was uncertain as to what he should do with her?
Erik dropped himself on the chair opposite her, and simply stared. She squirmed about on the setee, asking a myriad of questions and looking utterly bewildered at the circumstances. Her fear was tangible, tempting. Erik struggled to keep the sane part of his mind in control. So much of him wanted to exhaust her body, wrap his fingers around that pretty throat and keep her forever.
Thankfully, he felt compelled to keep her safe. Even from himself.
"Isabelle," he finally breathed when he had tired of her probing. "Be quiet."
Erik was pleased to see that she responded to his voice at least as well as any other female. He had not yet conditioned her to it's hypnotic powers, but the overtones were enough to quiet her a bit.
"I will not hurt you," he added, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward to watch his prey. "I merely want to... talk.." he said, and the notion sounded just as comical aloud as it did in his head.
Re: Sweet Sinner « Reply #3 on Mar 7, 2009, 1:42am »
To talk? Was he insane? Isabelle struggled against the blindfold, adrenaline and survival instinct kicking in. They’d taught her how to defend herself against a customer who took too many… liberties. But she also knew that some customers preferred a different style of services- many of which often involved blindfolds. The force with which he’d slammed her against the wall, and the air of desperation he was exuding, told her otherwise, however. This wasn’t some crazy man trying to get off on hurting her- and instinctively, she knew that if he had wanted to kill her, he would have.
Was it worth the attempt to scream until someone heard her? The Madame tried to give her women privacy when they were with customers, and for all Isabelle knew her screaming would just be written off as part of the job. Sickening, really… but true. If she did chance it, would it just anger the man more? Would he be incited to finish the job and actually kill her? She didn’t exactly want to find out. Better to play along and live, she thought, giving in.
“Why go to all this trouble to buy me and tie me up if you just wanted to talk?” she asked instead, curiosity winning out over attempts to plead with him. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her- and as foolish as she knew it was, she believed him. His voice was mesmerizing, hypnotic even, and she had to shake her head sharply to keep from falling under its control.
Re: Sweet Sinner « Reply #4 on Mar 8, 2009, 2:25pm »
"I do not know."
Erik responded simply, and more honestly than perhaps Isabelle could ever understand. Even as he watched her calm mildy upon the chaise he still could not decide exactly what had driven him to this point. He had doubted his sanity for decades, but this was one of the most peculiar actions he had permitted himself in a very long time. Erik allowed his gaze the luxuries he refused his hands, taking in each supple curve beneath the lovely robe she had chosen. His gaze lifted again to her face, and fell upon her ruby lips. He had only ever received one kiss in his life, and he found himself wondering if the brunette before him would taste like her.
"Tell me about yourself," he said impulsively. "Or tell me a story. Simply talk, Isabelle.." he said impulsively, his voice like a caress as he spoke her name. He enjoyed her voice. It was soft, sensual, pleasing. It calmed the frayed edges of his psyche and likely ensured that he would not simply attack her like the animal he felt akin to at the moment. Though the slip of a girl would never know it, her precious voice was the ticket to her safety at the moment.
Erik shifted in his seat, always watching her, and waited for her obedience. He scarcely doubted that she would obey. The fear that was evident in her very posture would ensure that she acquiesced to his ever demand. That thought alone was a powerful one, stroking his ego and tempting him to so much more than words. Somehow, though, he held on to his control and curled his fingers into the chair he occupied - directing a bit of his physical restlessness there instead of onto her pliable, sweet flesh.
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