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The moon hung in the dark sky like a scythe. Raoul could almost feel its sharpness, the welling of blood on his skin. Only one room away slept his beautiful wife. Or he hoped she was sleeping. Perhaps not. Perhaps she tossed and turned as he did, kept awake by too many bad dreams.
“Raoul, will you visit my bedchamber tonight?” Christine had asked him after dinner, the firelight playing softly across her face, eyes cast downwards. She had been so alluring.
“Perhaps,” was all he could mutter in return. Long past the point of making promises he couldn’t hope to keep. He brushed a curl off her cheek, kissed her chastely. How he longed to join her that evening.
Instead he remained in his own cold and lonely bed, thinking desperately of his wife across the hall. The Christine in his mind turned over in bed, restless, alone, thin nightgown clinging to her soft body. He longed for her, without question. His body heated as he thought about her, chestnut hair spilling across the pillows, sweet mouth parting as she called his name. And what could possibly keep a man away from his beautiful young wife, one practically begging him to bed her?
On their wedding night, he had managed to perform. Drunk from champagne, Christine’s soft smiles and softer hands reassuring him. The shape of her breasts through her chemise as her corset was removed, the hot clutch of her thighs. She was so beautiful; he was so lucky. Yet as they lay together afterwards, shame bubbled inside him like poison. It crawled over his skin every time he even imagined touching her again, despoiling her with his pestilence.
Raoul turned over, turned over again, sighing deeply. His bedsheets felt heavy, constricting, his nightshirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Shame was an ever-present spectre clawing at him. Cloying as ambergris perfume, the heavy scent of tallow candles, brackish water. The Phantom’s chamber...
He would have done anything for Christine, to free her from the Phantom’s grasp. His skeleton hands, his sickening perversions. He had offered himself in her place, fully expecting the Phantom to kill him as soon as Christine was free from the chamber. Her white dress disappeared into the gloom and Raoul steeled himself for death. He could face this bravely, knowing that Christine was safe. The noose would tighten and Raoul could die happily knowing she was free.
But the Phantom had other plans. Raoul could withstand the beatings, the ropes chafing his wrists and throat, leaving ugly red welts. The Phantom’s rage was explosive, violent, seething like an ocean swell and then crashing to a crumbling mess of sea foam as he retreated to his pipe organ to press out a ghastly tune.
Torture was not so entirely unexpected. Raoul would not allow himself to beg for death, though day by day he longed for it to be over. For the waiting to end. In heaven he could await his reunion with Christine...
Days passed, or maybe weeks. Months, years, it was impossible to say. No daylight, only candles flickering in damp darkness. A constant cycle of discomforted sleep, waking in a pained haze, sometimes with a kick to his aching ribs. The pittance of food the Phantom allowed him, hard bread and water.
“I have decided your fate, boy,” the Phantom growled, half shadowed in darkness.
How shamefully Raoul’s heart leapt. Death at last. Let it be quick, he prayed. The Phantom dragged him from the dark cell where he spent those ceaseless hours and to his own chamber, the pipe organ, the sumptuous bed.
“You have deprived me of a bride. So you must take her place.”
Raoul was confused at first. Was he not already taking Christine’s place? Allowing this beast to beat and abuse him in her stead? But then the Phantom commanded him to undress.
“No!” Raoul snarled on instinct and the Phantom met that with a vicious backhand. His already split lip broke open again, blood welling onto his chin and in his mouth.
“Undress,” the Phantom repeated and truly, what choice did Raoul have? Perhaps he was a coward after all.
Hands shaking, he divested himself of his torn shirt and trousers, unveiling the mottled purple and yellowing bruises covering much of his skin. He stood shivering before that hideous creature, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Behind the mask, it was difficult to discern the Phantom’s true expression, but Raoul thought he could detect an evil smirk on those twisted lips.
And he was turned around, the Phantom’s powerful hands manipulating him as easily as one would a doll, arms twisted back, roped looped back around his sore wrists. Raoul hissed in pain as the torn skin was rubbed savagely as the bindings tightened. He was pushed onto the bed, into musty velvet, fraying damask, shredded brocade smelling faintly metallic. He pressed his face into the fabric, praying it would be over quickly. But the Phantom turned him over first and Raoul was forced to look his ravisher in the face. The mask remained between them, but the eyes were still frightening. Dark, evil, threatening. He felt so exposed, so helpless, his nakedness on display. Raoul had kept himself pure for his future bride. He had never been so vulnerable before.
The Phantom had removed his overcoat, his waistcoat. Beneath the billowing fabric of his shirt, he did not look deformed. Only his face, it seemed, was ravaged.
“What a blushing bride you make, dear vicomte,” he said softly, that voice like dark and sensuous velvet.
Raoul could feel his face heating, humiliation and fear making blood rush hotly to his cheeks. As the hands came closer to touch him, he flinched on instinct. They had only beaten him before. But this gentle touch was somehow worse. Soft, almost sensual. Raoul’s breath hitched despite himself as those awful fingers teased the hair on his chest, brushed a nipple. They skittered over the bruised, painful skin on his sides, still aching from the vicious kicks and punches landed by this same man. Over his hip and lower belly, exploring. Like a curious researcher, gathering evidence.
But when the hands returned to his nipples, Raoul tried to twist away. Another hard slap to the face left his cheek stinging.
“Have you never broken in a stubborn horse, boy?” the Phantom purred, amused.
“Y-yes,” Raoul stuttered out, breath catching.
“Then you know the touch must be gentle, yet firm.” And he cruelly pinched his nipple, twisting it.
Raoul yelped, unable to bite back the sound. The Phantom chuckled, twisting both nipples now. The skin tingled painfully, overly sensitive, as the savage touch turned softer. A calloused thumb gently teasing the abused flesh, sending throbs of feeling through Raoul’s entire body. He tried to fight it, but he felt himself reacting regardless, his breath caught in high pitched moans, hips twisting as the Phantom alternated pinching and then softly rubbing his nipples, leaving them hard, red and aching.
“How interesting,” the Phantom remarked, as though taking notes for a scientific paper. But his breathing, too, sounded harsh.
This would be Raoul’s real torture, he thought brokenly to himself. His own body used against him. He never deserved Christine at all, if this was his true nature: base and wicked, so easily defiled. He squeezed his eyes shut, scrunching his face against the sting of humiliated tears. And so he recoiled at once when he felt the Phantom’s hand on his groin.
“No – please –” he gasped as the Phantom palmed his prick, the flesh not so soft as he would have hoped. “I beg of you,” he pleaded quite pathetically, eyes flying open as he gave his hardening cock a squeeze.
The reaction was predictable. Another slap cracked across his face and the tears really did break free. Rolling down his hot cheeks, onto the moulting velvet pillow. And the hand on his prick did not relent. Coaxing his traitorous cock to full hardness with shamefully little effort, pulling sounds from Raoul he did not think himself capable of making. Breathy moans, weak sounding yelps. His arms twisted beneath him, cutting painfully into his injured wrists. His hips bucked despite himself into that warm, hateful hand.
“Please –” he mumbled, knowing it would earn him another slap and unable to stop himself. A hard smack to his face and he saw stars. Another to his hard and leaking cock. Raoul shrieked at the pain, prick throbbing. The Phantom slapped it again and Raoul howled, trying in vain to twist away, but the man’s other hand was keeping his hip pinned firmly to the bed.
The Phantom laughed harshly as Raoul released a shuddering sob, tears still spilling from his eyes. Then he was being turned over, hot cheek pressed to damp fabric, his aching cock crushed to the bedcovers. Perhaps it would be over soon. But Raoul knew he was foolhardy to hope for such a thing. The humiliations were far from over.
He felt the touch on his flank and flinched, body stiffening. He heard the clinking of a bottle and then the familiar smell of oil filled his nose. Raoul understood enough about buggery to know this was a good thing. Something to ease the way and make it less painful. But whatever short-lived relief he might have felt quickly evaporated when he felt cool, slick fingers at his entrance. It was horrible, so close, so intimate. The fingers traced his rim, squeezing the cheeks of his arse to fully expose him. The humiliation was sickening. Two fingers dipped in and Raoul let out a muffled yelp, like a puppy being kicked. Even with the oil, the stretch was painful, and the Phantom was unrelenting, pushing deep without giving Raoul any time to adjust. Twisting, opening him up, scissoring painfully. And then his fingers crooked and they found a spot deep inside that caused Raoul to let out a startled moan. He never imagined that such a violation could feel pleasurable, but there it was, some hitherto unknown part of his anatomy that felt like a centre of white-hot pleasure. A tether directly to his cock and when the Phantom pressed it, Raoul groaned, hips bucking, softening cock hardening again painfully.
Curious, intrigued, the Phantom kept pressing, and Raoul felt the need to bite the brocade edge of the pillow to muffle his pathetically needy sounds. He added another finger, the burning stretch no longer so unwelcome despite how Raoul’s conscious mind rebelled against it. And then all at once, the fingers retreated.
No doubt what would come next. Raoul registered the rustle of clothing, trousers being undone. Another dollop of oil being decanted. His heart beat faster, breath coming harsher through the barrier of tears on his face, running down his throat.
The feel of the Phantom’s cock at his hole made Raoul shudder. It felt huge, too big for him to possibly take, but it was pushed in anyway. He moaned uselessly in pain as the Phantom rutted deeper. No time to adjust to the stretch, nothing to do but take it as he teetered on the edge of hyperventilating. And as he bottomed out, there was no escaping the bolt of lightning to his groin as the man’s cock found that damned spot inside him that sent waves of unwelcome pleasure throughout his body. The Phantom’s hands dug painfully into his hips as he hitched him up to meet his powerful thrusts, the new angle even more intense. Raoul could not repress the litany of tortured moans that poured from his throat as he felt a stab of pleasure at every thrust, his hard prick bobbing freely.
The Phantom’s pace was unrelenting, slamming into him hard enough to feel the impact up his spine. Pain and pleasure mingled, as did the salt of his tears and the coppery sting of blood in his mouth. Raoul could do nothing but sob as the Phantom’s hand slid over his hip, found his sensitive, neglected cock. Combined with the savage thrusts, the tight strokes left him gasping. No pain could compare to the shame and humiliation of that rush of pleasure, orgasm peaking as a broad thumb teased over his cock head. Staining the bedcovers beneath him with his shame, Raoul sobbed brokenly into the pillow as he was brought off against his will.
Laughter echoed in his ears as he sagged bonelessly, the Phantom still fucking him with deep, powerful thrusts. It seemed to go on forever, the thrusts into his overstimulated body eliciting pained gasps and pathetic moans. And when the Phantom also reached his peak, emptying himself with a shuddering groan, Raoul could only struggle to catch his breath.
“There, there,” the Phantom cooed, as he slipped out of him, a smear of wetness now running down Raoul’s thigh. He reached up, brushed through the mess of tears and blood on Raoul’s swollen mouth. “There’s always a little blood on the wedding night.”
Raoul shuddered, a weak cry escaping. He was not even allowed to redress himself as the Phantom hauled him back to his cell. Hands still bound, it proved impossible for him to cover his shaking body in the meagre blankets he was allowed. Hot tears continued to fall as he curled up like a dog. Those heady dreams of keeping himself pure for his beautiful Christine, for their wedding night, ash in his hands. Buggered like a stable boy and worst of all he had enjoyed it. The evidence still fresh on his sticky thighs, his bruised skin.
The Phantom, having claimed his bride, would continue to take full advantage of his husbandly privileges. In addition to be smacked and hit and kicked, Raoul found himself on his back and on his knees, a cheap harlot paid in scraps of bread and hard cheese for sustenance.
Forced into supplication, the Phantom’s large, veiny cock pushed deep into his unwilling mouth, stretching his torn lip. The Phantom pulled his hair, thrust savagely into his throat, forcing Raoul to concede that he was truly nothing but a thing to be used. To receive the other man’s semen in his mouth, spilling over his bruised lips and down his chin. Or splashed across his face, as though the Phantom enjoyed leaving his mark, owning him, despoiling him forever.
Some nights (or what he supposed might be nights) he’d be left alone, the Phantom in his melancholy and brooding moods, not inclined to abuse and torment his captive. Raoul felt desperately lonely on those nights. All alone, no one to touch him, even with ill intent. It was impossible to say which was worse.
But when the Phantom did pay attention to Raoul, he did so love to mock him.
“You make such a show of resisting, crying so prettily, yet look at how eagerly you stand to attention at my touch.”
Indeed, the Phantom had roused him to be used yet again, and only the barest, gentlest touches were needed to coax his flesh into burgeoning hardness. That humiliation could never be dampened.
“How would you like some clothes,” the Phantom purred in his ear, making him shiver, hand playing idly with his straining cock.
“Clothes?” Raoul muttered cautiously, breath hitching. He’d been left naked constantly since that first night, not cold and shivering only while in the Phantom’s bed.
“Yes. You’d like them?”
“Y-yes,” he stuttered, not entirely trusting this apparent show of kindness.
He was correct to be wary. The Phantom loosened the ropes binding his wrists and then went rifling through a chest of drawers. He emerged bearing a lady’s corset. Raoul stared dumbly at the article, face burning as he took in the Phantom’s intentions.
“Why must you delight in tormenting me?” Raoul mumbled in misery as the Phantom unhooked the busk and fitted it around Raoul’s torso.
“A foolish question,” he answered, tone harsh.
The corset was a pretty thing of dark blue satin, trimmed in lace, adorned with ribbons. Raoul did not wish to imagine why the Phantom would possess such a thing. It was, of course, cut for a lady much smaller than Raoul, with curves in different places. The bodice did not fit him correctly at all and it pulled tightly as the Phantom hooked the eyelets up the front. Pulling the laces was worse. The steel boning dug painfully into Raoul’s ribs as the laces tightened, squeezing the air from his lungs. He pulled and pulled until Raoul could hardly breathe at all, every gasping breath sharp with pain. The Phantom tied the laces snug around his newly pinched in waist, running his hands up and down Raoul’s sides, breath hot on the back on his neck
“Such a pretty bride you are,” he murmured, brushing tousled hair from his forehead. “My own obedient wife.”
Raoul wheezed with every intake of breath, feeling lightheaded from the sudden lack of oxygen. The corset was too short on his torso, the bust barely covering his chest. The Phantom’s hand found his nipples, pinching and teasing them to tingling hardness. Dizzy, Raoul swayed slightly, falling easily as the Phantom pushed him onto the bed. The smell of dusty velvet would always recall this moment, his head spinning, cock hard and leaking despite his indignity.
The slick sound of oil over flesh came to him through a haze. His knees parted at once as though he were a trained animal responding to his master’s touch. The Phantom pushed into him easily from behind, Raoul’s body accepting the invasion with hardly any resistance. Even some degree of eagerness. The Phantom knew just how to fuck him to make him keen and thrash about, moaning desperately, spending himself on the sheets. Constricted in the tight-laced corset, Raoul’s panting was even more laboured, sweat sticking damp strands of hair to his face.
The Phantom rocked deeper, bending over Raoul’s straining body to wrap a broad hand around his exposed throat. He let out a strangled gasp, his breathing even more constricted, black spots appearing in his vision. His forearms, supporting him, trembled. His mind went blank, a phonograph crackling, white noise replacing any conscious thought. And when the Phantom’s hand loosened, Raoul could barely pull in enough air to relieve the asphyxia, the corset crushing his lungs. A few moments of panting harshly, the Phantom fucking him, and he was choking him again. Raoul was too weak to do anything, vision greying out yet again. Perhaps death would finally take him.
But no, the Phantom’s hand released his windpipe in the end. Scant air filled his lungs. His whole body was tingling. That spot inside him, stimulated with every thrust of the Phantom’s cock, seemed more sensitive than usual. The lack of oxygen made his entire body one raw nerve.
Indeed, when the Phantom touched his cock and not his throat, Raoul let out a sharp whine. But it was barely a light stroke and then he released him, palm resting on Raoul’s trembling belly.
“So eager,” the Phantom muttered, pace slowly just a hair. “I think you would even beg for it.”
Raoul gasped, shaking his head wildly. But his cock was aching, a painful need making his limbs shake.
“Beg for it,” the Phantom demanded more sternly.
Desperate, Raoul screwed up his face, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled. “Please!” he finally burst out. “Please –”
“Please, what?” the Phantom inquired airily and Raoul sobbed.
“Please touch my cock... bring me off... please...” His voice trailed off into pathetic weeping but it was enough.
The Phantom’s hand returned, wrapping itself around his aching prick. It took only a few sloppy strokes to bring him off, spilling his shameful seed in long pulses, shattering through him like lashes of a horsewhip.
His arms could not support him. He sagged, face pressed to the pillows as he struggled to breathe. The Phantom paused, pulling out with a shrill yelp from Raoul, before turning him bodily over onto his back. And Raoul was left feeling more exposed as the Phantom pushed back his legs, held down his wrists despite how Raoul entirely lacked the energy to struggle. He pushed back in and Raoul scrunched his face up tight, tears leaking out as the Phantom rutted into him. An eternity passed before the man above him stiffened, shuddering through his own orgasm.
Still, he did not release him. After pulling out, he stroked the underside of his thigh, the mess he had left in his hole. He prodded the twitching rim, eliciting a weak gasp from Raoul.
“Pretty boy,” he muttered, fingers disappearing into his slick opening. “You’re mine now. Christine has doubtlessly forgotten you.”
“She would not. She would never.” Raoul felt it with certainty. Even in the depths of his despair. Even when he hoped that she would.
The Phantom frowned. He withdrew his fingers and slapped Raoul hard with a sticky hand, leaving a wet smear on his tear-stained cheek. Roughly, he pulled Raoul up, finally unlacing the corset and Raoul could take a deep, proper breath. Still, his ribs ached, the corset’s boning leaving angry red marks behind where they’d dug into his skin.
He was deposited back into his cell. Darkness cocooned him. The shame which ate away at him his only companion. When he closed his eyes, he tried to recall Christine’s face. He knew she would not want to forget him, but he wished she would. He was no good for her now.
When the Phantom returned for him the next time, Raoul braced himself for another round of pain and humiliation. But the man’s face beyond the mask was not cruel, smirking coldly. Nor burning with hate.
He presented Raoul with clothes. Not ladies’ clothes, but a neatly folded bundle of a shirt, trousers, braces, even a waistcoat. All a little worn and musty smelling, but proper clothes.
“Dine with me?” the Phantom inquired, almost gallant in his manner.
Raoul could not respond. He was too confounded. He accepted the clothes quickly, fearing the Phantom’s wrath. Dressed cautiously with shaking hands. They felt odd on his body, his skin too accustomed to being bare.
Despite the mask, the Phantom, in his beaded cloak and feathered hat, gave every impression of being a well-heeled gentleman. Or a man who was trying to be. Like a man Raoul had once been.
There was a table set up in the main chamber. On it sat a tarnished candelabra, a blaze of light in the dark space. A fine white tablecloth, gleaming plates, a decanter of wine shining like a dark ruby. A massive roast, grotesquely glistening. The Phantom bid Raoul to sit.
It was all so surreal. Raoul felt as though he were walking through a dream. One he couldn’t trust not to turn suddenly into a nightmare.
He sat. Tried desperately to keep himself from fidgeting. The Phantom sat across him with a great sweep of his dazzling cloak. He poured them both wine from the decanter, crystal goblets catching the candlelight like a cache of jewels. He rose his own in a toast and Raoul, hand trembling only slightly, copied him.
The wine was so rich, so deep, Raoul felt lightheaded after the first swallow. Indeed, his belly was mostly empty, he hadn’t imbibed alcohol for so long, but the immediate wave of dizziness still alarmed him. The Phantom was watching him carefully. Raoul took another long sip.
He felt like a player in an opera. But someone had neglected to provide him the lyrics. All he could do was sit stiffly, palms sweating, as the Phantom carved slices of roast. The carving knife shimmered in the light, now smeared with red liquid from the rare meat. The look of it made Raoul’s stomach twist unpleasantly. But his plate was piled high regardless.
“Well?” the Phantom inquired, almost impatiently.
It came to Raoul that the man wanted to be complimented for his efforts.
“It’s - it’s lovely,” Raoul choked out. He took another draught of wine. His head felt so thick, so big and heavy.
The Phantom drew in a shuddering breath, large hands tensing on the tablecloth. “This is what you are used to, correct? Fine dining, being pampered, provided the loveliest things?”
Raoul blinked rapidly, trying to discern what the Phantom wanted from him, how he was meant to act in order to avoid inciting an explosion of rage. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s all lovely. It’s all perfect.”
Dark eyes from across the table, one bare, the other glaring through the eyehole of a mask. Puncturing Raoul like daggers. His throat tightened.
“Eat, my dear vicomte.”
It was difficult to cut the roast with his hands quivering so. Raoul managed best he could, shaving off a few scraps of red, oozing meat. After being starved for so long, the sight of real meat should have tempted him, but instead he felt the bile rise in his throat. He hesitated, fork trembling.
“Eat,” the Phantom seethed and Raoul’s frenzied heart beat faster.
He tried. He put the meat into his mouth and began to chew, fighting back the urge to retch. It felt ghastly on his tongue, inedible, and as he tried to swallow, his throat rebelled. In an instant he was spilling it back up on the plate, choking violently.
The Phantom’s reaction was immediate. There was a cacophony of crashing as he upended the table, the roast, the wine, the candles, all smashed to pieces on the floor. Raoul was thrown back, curling up on the floor in a fetal position to protect his face from the shattered glass. Drops of dark red wine splattered over him.
“All I have done for you and this is how you treat me? You wretch, you bastard, you’ll pay for this!”
His screeching echoed through the chamber as Raoul scrunched tighter into his protective ball. But it was no use. The Phantom grabbed him roughly, pulling him up by the hair to slap and kick him viciously. Raoul did not try to fight, merely allowed the blows to fall, letting out weak cries of pain.
The Phantom threw him down again, tearing at Raoul’s clothes. The fine clothes he had given him, bracers pushed off, buttons torn from the white shirt now stained with wine and bits of roast. The Phantom’s hat had fallen, his deformed lips twisted with incandescent rage. Raoul had no will to fight this. His limbs went limp as his trousers were pushed down.
“This is all you are worth, this is the only thing you are good for,” the Phantom snarled.
There was no oil this time, no slow teasing to stretch him open. The pain was intense and Raoul shrieked, but he did nothing else, did not even try to twist away. He knew it was useless. But after the first thrust, the Phantom did not continue. He paused, chest heaving, as Raoul trembled beneath him.
“You will not even try to resist?”
Raoul said nothing. Not even tears could escape. The Phantom slapped him, hard across the face. Still, Raoul lay there, unmoving.
“Do what you must,” he muttered, voice sounding flat and broken even to his own ears.
This, evidently, was not what the Phantom had anticipated. He slapped Raoul again, hard across the side of his head. He lay there limply, ears ringing. The Phantom pulled out, fixed his own trousers, stood up. Raoul remained shaking on the floor.
"Get out.”
Raoul, shivering, caught off guard, said nothing.
“Leave! Leave before I change my mind.”
Still, Raoul did not move. The Phantom was changeable, capricious, moods turning quick as lightning flashes, but Raoul was frightened, terrified of angering him further.
“Get out!” he screeched, turning sharply and raising his fist. Raoul cowered, flinching away.
In a scramble he pulled on the torn shirt, the trousers, shaking legs barely supporting him as he made for the exit, for freedom.
“Christine...”
Raoul heard the pitiful wail behind him. The Phantom’s tortured cry. She also filled Raoul’s thoughts.
Back in the painfully bright sunlight, the shock of fresh air, the world startlingly real and not forgotten after so long in the Phantom’s hateful lair, Raoul believed he could put it all behind him. Fall back into Christine’s arms and let her love heal him.
He had been right about one thing: she had not forgotten him. She held him close as he sobbed a little into her bosom. She stroked his hair, kissed his hot cheeks, whispered soothing words.
“My love,” she murmured softly. “My dear, darling love.”
He thought he could marry her still. Be her loving and devoted husband. Cast off the fever dream and delirium of the Phantom’s lair. Once the bruises healed, the marks on his wrists faded, he could be his old self. The man Christine loved. The grown-up boy who had fetched her red scarf.
Their wedding was small, not lavish, though Christine was a vision in her dress, her hair adorned with white flowers and lace. Raoul held her close. He did not want to ever let her go.
But it was all a foolish boy’s dream. The Phantom’s touch could not be so easily wiped away. The nightmares were the least of it, leaving him cold and shivering in an anxious sweat. The darkness frightened him, as well as confined spaces, an unexpected touch. Christine began to gently ask what had happened to him in that lair, but he couldn’t speak of it. This was a horror he must take to his grave.
The fear was one thing, his heart racing at loud noises, raised voices. But there were also other dreams that could not truly be called nightmares. He awoke flushed, cock stiff, twisted up in his bedsheets and a thick mire of his own shame. The smell of dusty candlewax, antique velvet, the groan of a pipe organ. He could never be rid of it.
Raoul rose from his sweltering bed, cock hard beneath his nightshirt. He looked out at the moon, hanging lonely in the black sky, thought of his beautiful wife laying in her own bed without him. There were some scars that refused to fade. Marks that couldn’t be erased.
Sighing deeply, Raoul returned to bed, despite knowing sleep would still elude him. And perhaps that was best. Sleep would inevitably bring dreams.