Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her teacher was nice, enough.

He always wore a faint aftershave that reminded her somehow of a black-and-white film set somewhere in the tropics, like something outdated and austere, leftover Florida Water.

He was impeccable in his appearance, always in a three-piece suit and matching fedora, which on anybody else, would have been laughable, but the anachronism fit him perfectly, right down to the bone-white gloves he always wore.

Perhaps it was the full face mask that offset everything else. It was certainly anything but banal.

They had met by chance one day at the beginning of her semester, Christine’s voice rising into the air with a soft, light melody of some old lullaby her father used to sing for her, the long summers finally over, the cool evenings of fall soon taking their turn.

She had been practicing poorly in a piano room in the basement of her building, when she heard him call out behind her.

“Excuse me, miss—?”

She blinked, his lanyard bouncing against his chest as he briskly approached her.

“Yes?” She responded blankly, glancing at his name and the university logo. Even in his official photo, he wore the mask.

Erik M.

“Forgive me for startling you—I simply heard your voice, and frankly, I was stunned by its beauty. You sound divine. Are you in the vocal program…”

His directness caught her off guard, her skin warm at this sudden flattery bordering on the insincere, saccharine and artificial. She was embarrassed, yes—she knew she no longer was…quite as good as when she auditioned. The pain left her empty.

They walked out of the building, the lights dim in the evening. They were the only ones left.

“I’m flattered, but I really can’t say I’m as good as I used to be.” She averted her eyes from his face, unsure of where to look at him. “Maybe you mistook me for someone else, Mr…?”

“Please, call me Erik.”

In one conversation, and with the memory of her father’s hopes for her glimmering success, like a mirage on the horizon, they agreed to lessons, the sparrows chirping their way back to their nests for the night.

The death of her father had cast a muted, sad, sheet of a shadow upon her memory. It was as if his grip on life was finally set loose in relief at her acceptance to university, a prestigious institution for opera and classical music. He passed quietly one rainy day before noon, his last summer solstice on earth. She helped the nurse prepare him for the morgue, passing her hand over his eyes, covering his face with a white sheet, gently tucking him into his death bed. 

Christine had gone back home in a daze, rainy season swelling with the grey clouds, coming and going with the wind. The morning after, she wandered into a coin laundromat in her old neighborhood, the sun struggling to shine through the haze of heat, empty lots and wired fences heavy with vines; honeysuckle, jasmines, bougainvilleas, palm trees peeking through the tops of the canopies, a cacophony of birds hiding within mango trees splitting with fruit calling through the weather.

It was a dingy, run down place; cracked tiles, loud cameras on the corners, an old CRT television sagging over the counter playing music from the 80s. She stared blankly at the men and women in the grainy film, dancing along with the singer in accompaniment, one of them holding a ringing cowbell in rhythm. Of course it would be Lluvia, by Eddie Santiago that was playing when she stepped in, the brass instruments glimmering in the saturated light of the recording, faces blurry and indistinguishable from one another, outdated silhouettes and gauche colors flickering in and out of view. The rain continued outside.

The wake was a solitary affair. Her father had arranged for everything well in advance, everything paid for, a meager pittance for the barest ceremony. There was no will aside from his violin, and the rest of his money transferred to her bank account. 

She sat in an empty funeral home with the officiator, a stout, short, sweaty man with thin blonde hair and pink from the heat. He had arranged the funeral bouquets on either side of his casket; white orchids, carnations, roses, hydrangeas, lilies, soft swoops of the sticky breeze of the A/C barely concealing the humid, hot miasma that lingered outside. She sat there until midnight, the priest coming to say mass at 10pm, his voice echoing dully in the empty space. All the metal chairs were set out, a facsimile of company, the ghosts of all those who had appeared in his life attending to his final goodbye, his grieving daughter, empty spaces, empty condolences. She knelt before the casket for many moments, gazing into his face one last time. A last time for everything.

The next day, Christine tossed the last bouquets into the grave as his casket was lowered; goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

She had gazed into the maw of her father’s grave for the first time—

Then turned around, and walked away. 

The director had been kind enough to offer her a ride back to the funeral home.

It was a shame when his stubby hand wandered onto her thigh at a traffic light, the blinding sun reflecting the high clouds off the windshield. The dust suffocated her.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” He sighed, squeezing, his hand sliding higher, a southern drawl hiding behind his words. “If there’s anything I can do…” 

Without much fanfare, and ignoring his sudden apologies, his sad, strained pleas for her to return, she had stepped out of the car, slammed the door, and simply walked back home. 

It had taken her four hours. Drenched in sweat, curls doubled in size with humidity, with popped blisters on her feet from her discarded flats in her hand, nylons sticky and disgusting with her odor of mauve sorrow, she had stripped herself completely, thrown her clothing promptly in the garbage, slipped into the shower, and wept.

Christine always loved the shower. She could cry there, find pleasure and privacy there in her small apartment, the stone tile capturing the accumulated sighs of her emotion, a breath of her one and precious life.

But now, it was empty. 

Through good fortune, her father was able to pay for a few months of rent. Enough time to allow her to steady the blow of his departure, time to find employment. She would deal with balancing her classes later, thoughts later, everything later. 

Erik was kind, polite, formal—exceedingly so. His reserved, distant behavior made it easier, easier to only focus on her voice, and easier to form a relationship with her strange instructor. Her lessons were held in a secluded, isolated room in the basement she hadn’t even known was there, a smooth black piano pressed into the far corner. As she wasn’t particularly seeking any sort of intimacy, with anyone, the location suited her.

Christine certainly felt unnerved about his appearance at first—it was as if all of his characteristics were made to be the embodiment of unease. His height, his thin frame, the way his hands fidgeted, his energy of tension and sudden, yet, graceful movement that betrayed him, the flash of a gold koi fish beneath the green sheen of a pond. 

But oh. His voice. 

It was as if it were an apology carved by air and delivered by the angels themselves, and in itself, held all of her answered questions.  

At first, bells rang loudly in the distant land of her intuition, a solemn parade of red flags flapped in the wind below them, a Greek chorus of terrible foreboding their solemn accompaniment.

“Turn back, turn back!” They moaned. 

“Lotte, what on earth are you doing?” Her father chided to her from his grave. 

He explained that his strange preference was simply to ease his own anxieties about his appearance.

His hands traced along the keys. “It is…difficult. My students are well-meaning; as well as my colleagues. However, they still stare.” He glanced up at her, his eyes capturing hers in his gaze, thick, vulnerable. “You are very kind to accommodate me.”

But in the course of one semester, her voice had underwent a complete metamorphosis, a chrysalis fulfilled and pulsing with promise, sugar-dusted potential and hope buzzing in her energy, a relief, a daze. Even her speaking voice underwent a shift, her breath sustaining her expression, her thoughts, deepening and expanding into her throat, the sound of grief evaporating from her body. Limitations ebbed, faded, sound lifting higher, taking her body with her, almost disappearing, almost slipping away.

That is why she had accepted his invitation, even though her better judgment bristled at his offer. It was after exams, thankfully, the sweet relief of winter break, and the sadness of an empty season. She shouldn’t be meeting with her teacher outside of campus, should she? 

"Yes, that's right, completely free, mademoiselle."

He pulled up his sleeves, showing her his bare wrists, the skin pale like porcelain on a Sunday.

"No tricks, no ulterior motives."

She almost laughed at his surprise French, her mouth in an easy smile, but he was so sincere in his proposal, in his speech, she understood it was not some flourish that he put on just for the sake of flattery.

He actually spoke that way, dressed that way, behaved so strangely in his movement as if it were a costume to put on, his fingers twitching.

The only thing that betrayed any sense of cool distance were his eyes. Forlorn, the color of a distant yearning, a sigh of water.  

He came across as a very lonely man.

Chapter Text

The air hung thick with the flesh of earth, salt, green mango hard as rocks ripening on the counter of her apartment, the scent of their skin scratched into her memory.

For the last few months of her father’s life, Christine had slept on the sofa in their tiny, one bedroom apartment. The walls were so thin, she often woke up at night to his coughing, his moans, especially towards the end of his illness.

She had still not cleaned it. 

His scent still lingered when she opened the door, the drawn brown curtains sagging in a sadness of drapery, thin plastic curtain rod slightly bent with the weight. The sheets were still tended from the last time she ever made them before he left for the hospice.

Gustave had declined quickly after his admittance.

She sat in the small waiting room for the wing, before the wide windows overlooking the city, a mass of grey shining mirrors glimmering in the pale haze of the last sunshine before the afternoon rains, rain splattering against the glass.

Then he died.

The old pill bottles, creams, pastilles, a pastiche for health, collected dust at the bedside, empty suggestions of hope.

She slid into his bed and closed her eyes, inhaling the last of his scent and memory. She could see the seasons wandering through like a carousel in her heart, the ocean swelling in the early morning just over the tall grasses as they spent their summers there, the bright sun shining heat and warmth into the water, radios sounding off in the distance along with the crashing of the waves. Sunsets collecting shells by the shore; tiny curling conches, fossilized bits of coral reef, smooth, cool, sea glass filling a small orange bucket with the pink sky behind them, the moon peeking out from its hiding place below the waters, risen and full. 

She fell asleep with the memory of the shore, the surf, the white foam crashing over her dreams.

Monday morning creeped through the blinds. 

The heat kept whizzing outside the windows, the small a/c unit on the far ledge whirring with weak life. The sound reminded her of how her father coughed.

She continued sleeping in the room every night until his scent disappeared.

Then she cleaned it.

She stripped the sheets, tossing them. She re-entered with a giant box of garbage bags, a mop, and very loud, questionable purple floor cleaner; then she completely emptied out her father’s room.

Christine kept his white button up shirts, his last, fine suit for performing, and of course, his violin. 

She sat on the floor of the empty space, the curtains replaced with cheap, white lacy ones from the dollar store. She replaced the sheets too, the mattress cover, all beige and soft creams, ruffled duster and small rose print from her childhood. She couldn’t afford a new set now.

She slowly re-settled into her new room, the white tiles sad and blank looking back up at her, slick with moisture, capturing the soft pinks and orange of the sunset, music drifting into her windows from her neighbors somewhere in the building below her. The rain had cleared, and her laptop sat open, grey and obscure to her own thoughts.

It had been so long since she had any extended time on her own, the sky sighing into further color as the hours crept closer to nightfall, dusk speckled with distant, crackling fireworks.

The shower had been her only fleeting, infrequent space of privacy, the water aiding to conceal her very, very quiet sighs, the shower-head cocked to the side as to direct the water away from her own arousal, thin little slips of dew dripping from her fingers and down her swollen lips. She had learned to content herself with her own fingers, too embarrassed to keep any other toys at home with her dying father in the next room over. His death hung over her like a shroud of thin, soft sadness, a breath that knew when it would reach its end. Desire could not live there.

His passing was like a relief valve, a simple permission. She did not know what stage of grief she was in, as if it were a site and setting for some great performance, red silk lining golden rings of light. But she felt physically relieved alongside with all the other variety of emotion that lived in her body—or lack thereof. She felt like a stone with a soul at the bottom of the sea, silent and curved infinitely with currents, life washing over her, smoothing her, making her emotions more pliable to breaking, sensitive like a conch crushed of its shell, white flesh of milk.

In her face she saw the ending of her own life, a mystery of fulfillment and emptying, and such heavy, leaden sadness.

Her own desires were often muddled and unclear to her, ephemeral like a morning star. She could find a thread, a succession of images, but then they’d fizzle out as quickly as they came.

She slipped her fingers beneath her underwear, soft with sweat and something else, sighing. 

Christine was tired of being a person. Expectations piled before her, weighing her body, exhausting her. She favored her touch leaning towards the right, a finger sliding around her small, soft nub. 

It was as if all the emptiness in her body suddenly slipped deep inside her, somewhere beyond where her fingers could reach. And she pulsed.

She didn’t want to be a person anymore. That was the phrase that pooled into the sheets below her, sticky fantasy made liquid, her lips softly murmuring pleasure. She didn’t want to be a person anymore, and what did that look like? Passive, blank, open, grinding on something, needy. She felt very needy, all the time. She just buried it somewhere deep down until she couldn’t bear to look at anyone in the face anymore, love and desire a cloud out of reach.

Christine wanted the embarrassing fairy tale, the resolution, the happy ending, even if she didn’t believe it to be possible. She wanted the high-pitched breath, the writhing, stolen in the night, and mostly, she just really wanted to be fucked. Just fucked. 

She imagined something larger, filling her, the image of a person always obscured, a silhouette. Something that could fill her, stretch her, something hard to rock onto, drip onto.

Then shame came instead of her, and stole it all away, leaving her alone once again in her empty home, a valley of buried happiness.

Christine shut the door closed behind her, suit moist with drizzle, tossing her bag somewhere beside her and slipping her shoes off.

It had been two weeks and she continued to receive rejection, after rejection. Every day since she moved back into her old room, she had spent re-crafting her resume, applying, applying, a flurry of names and lists, worthless language, a calling card for failure. 

She had even gone back to her old job and begged her boss for it back; she quit to take care of Gustave full-time. He deeply apologized for her loss, both of her father and income. 

Her tears came on and off, bursts of rain passing through her body along with the season outside, thunderstorms and winds whipping her interior into the exterior, falling asleep usually crying to the pitter-patter of a storm against her window. 

She tried to make up for it by dressing comfortably. Knee socks, white ruffled shorts, striped white-and-blue cami with a bow. She bought them all at the dollar store, from the children’s section, simply because they were the only articles of cotton clothing that could fit her. They were comfortable, and cheaper.

She slumped in bed, the white curtains aiding the still, stiff afternoon weather.

Christine spent the rest of the day staring at the ceiling fan, closing her eyes, and trying to find some relief again with her hands, giving up, frustrated once she couldn’t find any sort of inspiration.

She needed to be conservative. Yes, she had some savings—very little, from before she had to take care of Gustave, and his own meager addition. She could not be frivolous. 

But…was this frivolous?

 She had never used a vibrator before. She never bought one, and her sudden dark mood passed through her again like water—would she die without ever knowing how it feels? 

Christine went ahead and ordered one.

Chapter Text

“Christine, I’m worried about you.”

She set the carafe of coffee aside. Autumn evening glowed gently into her living room, the lights outside one by one flickering on with life; and yet, it only aided her unease.

Raoul sat across from her at her table, turning the small porcelain cup in his hands. “You’ve changed, a lot.” 

 His face was ashen. 

 “…there is something I need to tell you, but…”

He shifted in his seat.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way." He whispered. "Can you promise me you won’t?”

She frowned, breathing in slowly. “I don’t…” She pushed back a cuticle with her thumb. "Uhm."

“I’m just really worried about you Christine, and,” he reached his hands towards hers, squeezing. He dwarfed her, his pale blonde arm hair offset by the tan. His thumb stroked the back of her palm.

The more he tried to approach his subject, the more he pushed and ebbed away from her gaze, unsettled and blushing deeply. It went all the way to his neck. Then in one exhale, he gathered his movement over the threshold.

“Christine, I know what you do.” He whispered.

She felt her stomach turn.

“‘Know what I do’?” She repeated, turning her head. She felt her skin grow clammy. “You mean, sing?”

“No, Christine, I mean…” He ran a hand through his hair.

“I know you make…content.”

She slipped her hand out from beneath his instantly, heat running up all the way to her neck, her vision blurring. Her heart palpitated.

“Please, I don’t judge you, I just—” 

Raoul’s blush ran deeper.

Then it hit her.

“Oh my god.”

He…

“Please, please, Christine,” he began, pushing his chair behind him to rise from his seat. 

She pressed her side against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut behind the palms of hands. The humiliation tasted like hard metal. 

“Christine, please, please don’t be upset,” he pleaded. She felt him kneel down in front of her.

“I understand, I get it, I really do,” 

She felt his hand on her bare thigh. She winced.

“I’m just…I’m just worried about…about what you’re being requested to do—”

“Get out.”

“What?”

She whipped around suddenly to face him, slapping him squarely in the face.

“Get out of my fucking house!” 

He gripped her wrists, steadying her movement, squeezing her. “No, Christine, please, listen to me—”



“Get out! Get out of my fucking house! Get out! Get OUT! ”

“This isn’t good for you, Christine! This is getting too weird! Why don’t you go back and do more vanilla—”

“GET OUT, RAOUL!”

He pulled her up out of the chair by her wrists, and she yanked herself out of his grip, slapping him again. He winced, gripping her shoulders. “Christine—”

“How could you do this to me!” She shrieked, tears running down her cheeks, sobbing. “How could you see me in person, then pretend you don't go home and fucking jack off to me!”

She pushed him.

“You’ve seen all of me! You’ve seen—”

“This isn’t how it was supposed to happen—”

“Get out of MY HOUSE, Raoul!”

A neighbor pounded the wall on the other side of her kitchen.

“Get the FUCK OUT! ”

One night, Christine dreamt that she was standing at Gustave’s grave.

Separated by a wire fence 10 feet high all around, a carpet of white roses and white daisies lay upon the soft, green earth, a pallor of crushed fragrance, the scent of forgiveness.

Her father cried on her shoulder. She held him.

It all had started as a joke. On twitter.

It was a semi-anonymous burner account, where she could post pictures of herself. Only ever with her face partially visible however, and it was a nice enough outlet to find some positive attention, like a stream of pennies tossed into a wishing well.

My dad just died lmao should I make an *nlyf*ns 

She had attached a picture of herself pressing her cleavage up into the camera—black, lace trimmed cami, a rose-petal rosary hanging off her neck. Only her lips were visible, a bright cherry gloss sheen, strands of wavy hair framing her neck and shoulders, clavicle, baby hairs from the back of her neck curled into tight ringlets that sat on her skin.

Christine dried herself off after her shower, shaking her hair out.

She had just come back from the waxing salon, using more of her precious savings. It was more like an investment, she justified. This was her new job.

She had been surprised at the amount of attention her post got. It went almost viral—it was her most popular tweet.

While Christine could barely stomach reading the comments, it all plainly told her one thing:

Yes.

She slipped her towel off, turning around and gazing at herself in the mirror. She was attractive—she didn't really feel that way most of the time, but she unfortunately received enough unwanted attention to be certain of it. Her father always called her a little doll. His muñequita.

"Mis ojitos de venado."

She grabbed one of her ass cheeks, squeezing. What should she even do? 

She trailed her hand down her smooth skin, her vulva soft and sensitive. It had been embarrassing to have someone put their hands there, but it quickly was eclipsed by the pain. The aesthetician had consoled her, empathetic.

"You're doing great, mama! Almost done. The back, too?"

It all felt completely ridiculous. She would become the OnlyFans girl with the dead dad. Maybe that should be her thing. 

My dad died now I take pics of my pussy for strangers online💗THIS MONTH ONLY half-off new subscribers! 💸

She laughed. If she didn't, she would cry.

Christine laid down, and began trying to find her best angles.

She had gone back to the dollar store and bought some little black candles and an armful of tacky, cheap lingerie. They hung off the back of a small chair, the candles lit around her to create a soft, calm vibe. Low music played from her laptop speaker. 

Christine took pictures of her breasts, the scratchy, lace polyester bra driving her crazy. She let her areolas and nipple pop out, dark brown against the soft canary-cream fabric. She added some red blush to them, patting it on gently with her finger, then fogged up her camera lens for a softer effect. It looked cute.

She angled herself to the side, taking pictures of her ass, the thong curving around her cheeks nicely. If she arched her back a little, she could make them look even rounder, fuller. She spread her legs slightly. It reminded her of the cats in her neighborhood, when they would go into heat and scream all night. It was always painful, for them. For the female ones, at least. 

Christine had never really seen herself from this angle before. More out of curiosity, she slipped her thong off with a shimmy. She would be doing that with her hips a lot.

She angled her phone and looked at herself through the screen. She had only once ever gotten waxed on her bikini line, but now every small curve and detail of her body was visible to her for the first time. 

Her skin darkened considerably below her pelvis, a shade of deeper, dusky-brown rose. She even had a small birth-mark on the inside of one of her inner lips. It was cute. Between the curves of her ass, she was even darker. 

It was ridiculous, the sudden insecurity she felt. She felt pretty, and she couldn't help but feel more sensitive with her skin smooth; her fingers felt better on her skin without her thick hair. She didn't watch pornography, really, but the few times she was curious to look up anything, she never remembered anyone looking like her. Perhaps she didn't look hard enough. It always gave her the ick, not because of the women, but because she often found the men so ugly. 

The insecurity was: would she be able to make enough money with her body?
 
"Would anyone think I'm pretty?"

She slid her hand down between her legs, her fingers gently stroking her lips. She sighed. 

It all felt absurd. She couldn't recognize herself in this new light, a nascent crescent of waxing intention, glowing softly within herself. Her only concern was maintaining her anonymity in the shadow of her education. Maybe she'd also be the first opera singer with an OnlyFans. Maybe they'd pay to see her sing Martern aller Arten from The Abduction from the Seraglio. 

Lärme! Tobe! Wüthe!

She slid her hand beneath her pillow, laughing at the image of herself naked, grinding on a dildo and crowning an aria. 

Her vibrator had finally come in the mail. 

It was a small wand, purple, unintimidating. She turned it on. 

She slid fingers into her mouth, a little moisture to aide inspiration, allowing it to trickle in all the most sensitive parts of her.

The sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

She allowed it to run gently along her clit, her small hidden world, the vibrations and slick feeling of it running along her smooth lips almost overwhelming. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes. But before she laid back, she turned her phone back on to record herself. 

She began to drift away, trembling, gasping. Her thighs shook, her toes curled.

Christine thought of herself somewhere else, far, far away, someplace where she could only feel hands running along her body, her mouth filled, sucking, sucking. She thought of lips running along the back of her neck, whispering into her ear, gripping her waist, rocking on someone's lap, something hard grinding back up against her, something thick slipping deep inside—

She reached her peak, her voice rising higher above her still, stars falling behind her eyes.

In the span of one month, she had made $350 dollars.

Christine was right—her idea worked. She was now the girl with the dead dad on OnlyFans.

Chapter Text

Christine stopped into the dollar store, the fans whizzing above with stiff, humid air, the low white lights reflecting off the blue walls and glittering against the plastic packages, cleaning supplies, cheap makeup, fake costume jewelry, and various home-wares, bolts of fabric and lace tucked away in the back. Soft bachata played from some unknown source, faint and half distorted, the background to her still days, as she sorted through racks of children's clothing for comfortable cotton pieces.

She was building her new wardrobe, thinking of all the different combinations she could wear; frills, bralettes with tiny rose bows, pastel slips, tiny pleated skirts, sheer white knee high socks, half a meter of lace, pink cheap thongs with a knock-off Hello Kitty embroidered on the front. Well, that one was for her. The cheap aesthetic was funny to her, off-set and sincere in its disingenuity, Goodbye Kitty in cursive letters. She took a few. 

A television positioned on one of the corner walls played a music video silently, a scene of a man walking in on his girlfriend cheating on him in his own bed, saturated reds shifting across the screen. He dropped the bouquet of roses he held for her and a glowing gold ring onto the floor, slowly, dramatically, walking away dejected and scorned.

Christine bought more lace curtains, another set of white sheets, a small set in mind for her photos. She had an old ring light that she'd position just so, a small sloping world of drapery, and her right in the spotlight.

The cashier rapped his hands on the register, acknowledging her. It had all added up to less than $50 dollars.

The sunset shone through, hazy air and blood orange the bright sweetness of the sky after a small burst of July rain, a bike whizzing past her, its light bell ringing into the horizon. A mourning dove perched upon an electric wire, the last sunbeams of the day streaming through the clouds framing its silhouette of small, soft coos. She drank from a pineapple soda can with a straw, fizzy and artificial. 

The money had brought her nothing but relief. She could find another easy, part-time job somewhere to supplement her income, something that could fit around her school schedule, in the late afternoons or early evenings. She would go to school in the mornings, work somewhere easy afterwards, then take pictures of herself at night fucking herself silly.

It was less sordid than she thought it would be—she only had to keep care to not show her face, and everything would be fine. Everything she would do was on her own terms, her own taste. 

It gave her body space to finally find some ease, ease after the months of strain and worry for her father's declining health, ease after the funeral, ease in her life. She no longer had to rush out in a harried whirlwind of desperation, beholden to a pressure of imminent failure, and she saw it reflected in her face. She was still crying—still a pale periwinkle sky on the inside—but at least she was sleeping, at least she could breathe. 

She continued to earn more.

The phone rang.

Christine was on the sofa in only a pair of lacy blue thigh-high stockings, a gray blanket of black and white roses draped on the back, a tiger peeking in-between them. The cold, mid-November air seeped inside, the reflection of multicolored Christmas lights blinking against her balcony window, hazy watercolor of moving pigment, glittering against an early blue sky. 

Her client had asked for an audio only session today, content to simply listen to her writhe and whine, suggesting it would feel better if she didn't need to concentrate on her own image. The vibrator in her hand hummed against her sex as the ringing broke her out of the moment, heat rising to her face in embarrassment, his last message blinking at her on the screen. 

"It's almost like I'm inside of you, like I'm there teasing you with my fingers, and I'm the one making you sing for me with my touch, my little princess." 

As usual, he never spoke. Her unusual client only ever texted her. 

"I'm so, so sorry, I didn't silence my phone." She turned to the open chat on her laptop, propped up on a small table beside the sofa. 

As she reached out to turn it off, his response surprised her.

"Go ahead and answer. If you do, I'll pay you more."

A deposit notification popped on her phone screen before she could say no. In the haze of it all, it was money she couldn't say no to.

Christine sighed shakily, hoping it was a spam call, but to her dread it was—

Erik 🙈

Her heart dropped to her stomach. Too deep in the moment, and with the expectation of a payment made, she closed her eyes, steeling herself, her body. With a shaking finger, she answered, hoping she could hang up quickly.

"Hello? Erik?" She breathed.

"Christine, hello my dear. Is this a good time?"

"Ah!"

"Christine?"

She shivered, swallowing, dissimulating. "Yes, ah, it's a good time—hi! Hi, how are you?"

She winced at herself, her heart beating wildly in her chest, hoping to god he could only hear her voice, and not the sound of the toy. What the fuck was she doing?

"I'm pleased to hear that," Erik began, his voice still somehow so clear over the phone, soothing and warm. "Erik was very concerned for you. I realized that I did not ask earlier what was troubling you so terribly. You have such talent, Christine. Please know that Erik will do all he can to support you."

He was so nice to her, all the time, and here she was, doing something so strange and disgusting for money while he worried for her. Shame welled inside of her, along with a startling amount of heat and pleasure. 

"Be a good, sweet, wet slut and talk to him." Popped up on the screen. She pulsed.

Christine adjusted herself on the sofa, pressing her thighs together, shuddering. "Oh," she said lightly. "Thank you—you’re doing so much for me already."

"Sound wetter on the phone. Softer, sweeter."

"You are so—so nice to me, all the time." She sighed, voice higher-pitched and shaking, doing her best to tread the finest line between arousal and gratitude in her voice, her breath caught in humid puffs against the screen.

"Good girl."

"It is very easy to be nice to you, my dear." He murmured. "Please tell me why you were crying. What has upset you?"
 
"I...I lost my father this past summer."

Erik sighed, and she could almost feel him, as if he were right next to her, his voice prickling her skin. “I’m so sorry, Christine. I see now why you were so upset.”

Christine breathed deeply, dizzy and distracted, trying to ignore the rising arousal in her body, hazy and bright. She dripped all around the toy, moisture trickling down over the soft swells and curves of her ass, her inner thighs sticky, her body hot. 

“What could Erik do for you, Christine?”

She closed her eyes, breath growing heavier, shaking in-between the conflicting emotions, his comforting voice welling up a mixture of fear, hesitation, things unspoken, trust. It was so strange, how it could somehow take her to a different place, offer a different feeling. 

“Whine on the phone.”

“Anything you want to do, Erik, please…” She replied, voice breathy, high. She shuddered against a tender spot, mouth opening in a silent gasp. It was easier not to think about what she was doing, easier to feel the pooling wetness skip and vibrate about her lips, her clit, easier to feel herself grow more swollen to the sound of his voice, more sensitive. 

His breath huffed on the phone, warm, soft. “You are always so polite, Christine. So sweet.”

“Let everyone know what a stupid, slutty girl you are.”

Her voice tumbled through her oscillating feelings, rolling her hips to a remote rhythm as she read the message on the screen, arousal flooding through her. Her voice cracked, the moment tipping into something else within her body, the boundaries of a hidden desire. “Do you really think so?”

Erik hummed. “Of course I do. You are so kind and gentle, and you have the voice of an angel, mi niña.”

Christine shuddered, a soft sound escaping her lips, a sigh unbidden. Did she hear him also sigh in return? 

Was it really all so bad? She rocked deeper, murmuring something unintelligible, feeling herself edge against the peak of completion. 

“Should Erik stay on the line and speak nicely to you?” He asked quietly.

Christine moaned very, very quietly, almost a whisper, skin hot and flushed with trembling pleasure. “Yes, please.” 

Beneath the cool shadows of her curtains in the summer evenings, Christine lay on her back and ground her hips into nothing, her thighs shaking, imagining a silhouette in the shape of kindness and love, prepping herself for a different eroticism, sighing into her fingers. Different images streamed into her, a grasping of sensuality on parade, all surprising herself; someone bending her over on a cool, hard surface, hands fondling and spreading her ass open, a hard smack against her cheeks. She saw herself press against someone in a small skirt, their face obscured, voice uncertain and grinding against a hard bulge, asking what it is that she feels, hips nestling against it harder. Of being led through a series of more sordid tasks, tricked into desire, until she could no longer discern what was real and what was illusion, taking it into the many shades of her body, faking it until she actually came to it, pure sex changing her, altering her.

Christine kept her phone on, recording, as she shivered and came in a sudden climax of duplicitous emotion. She didn't think too hard about how she would feel later. Thinking too hard only limited her.

Her whims of fantasy took her wherever she could land, a whirlwind of fancy, a flight of energy. She had opened and cleared the living room, removing the old television and an end table, drawing her small, hidden world in the corner, soft cushions trimmed with the lace she bought, sewing them in. 

Within a space of a month, she opened various social media accounts, all leading to her main site like small streams into the sea, her subscriptions steadily rising day by day. She even had set up a wish-list, and to her surprise, people did actually buy things off of it for her. She smiled when she'd check her PO Box to find a package here and there waiting for her like a small perk, like the last cupcake at a party. Some were small things she needed—a few porcelain angel figurines, props for her little world, Greek column pedestals to set them upon, a gilded mirror, fairy lights, fake candles, more upscale pieces of lingerie. Some of it was cash tips, visa gift cards. She cashed those, saved them for a rainy day. And, of course, sex toys.

The first time she had slid a dildo inside she had shuddered and cried; finally, something that could reach deeper, curve, something to rock onto, slick and thick. The recordings she made panting and fucking herself with it were very popular, her high moans particularly requested. 

She did not pay too much attention when they were all paid for by the same username, a string of numbers.

Chapter Text

Christine sat on the floor in a large t-shirt cut into a sloping muscle tank and ruffled cream underwear, the July heat evaporating off the white curtains in her living room. She had been there, catatonic and off an edible, watching a low resolution video of Spongebob dancing to Billie Jean on her laptop on loop, the condensation of her iced coffee dripping onto the tile.

She had bought her old after-bath splash of parma violets from the dollar store, still as terribly cheap and artificial as ever, but the scent brought forth a vague memory blinking through the haze of her nostalgia, skipping along the edge of a harmony, lace-trimmed with baby's breath and pink roses. It faded as quickly as the clouds did after a sunshower.

Her phone buzzed.

Earlier that day, Christine browsed through her youtube account of opera covers and various audition recordings she had posted, including the one she had sent to her university, some of them filmed by her father. None of them amounted to over 100 hits, collectively. She could remember the evenings preparing for the camera, curling her eyelashes, blotting lip gloss across her cheeks in lieu of blush, Gustave humming as he steamed her dresses. He had always been so particular about wrinkles.

She felt a sodden disappointment that her genuine, sincere attempts at some sort of public support or acknowledgment was met with such underwhelming indifference. Of course people would only care for her if she were half naked, and even then it would never be enough. The only consolation she felt was that her face held such a proximity to an unknown naïveté, fleeting anonymity, that she felt comfortable continuing to create content.

She picked up her phone, stretching and yawning, a trickle or two of residual moisture from her shower rolling off the swath of skin beneath her breasts. The scent of violets blinked in and out of the periphery of her senses, a mottled, purple bruise.

Christine had been bought out for the entire day.

It had started with a message yesterday, someone asking her how much it would be to simply text her for one whole day. 

This is a particular request. I simply wish to speak to you, for the entire day, via text. I would like for you to also send me voice notes. No entertaining anyone else, no other obligation or expectation. 

Please, name your price.

Christine hesitated, wondering if he would reject her.

He had accepted $1,200 dollars, simply for texting her for the day. Anything else, he would pay extra for. 

He had carried a polite, yet charged stream of conversation, referencing her videos, the shape of her body, her "loveliness made woman", her flowing hair, her plump lips, and her beautiful, beautiful voice.

He had wanted her to speak to him in Spanish, soft, sweet nonsense, anything, anything at all. All, of course, in high coos, fluttering sighs, giggles and sincere disingenuity.

She had tried to practice earlier into a mirror, tilting her chin down and smiling coyly through her lashes, pouting vaguely.

"Mi vida, mi corazón, que rico estas, me das tantas ganas..."

She cringed into herself, groaning. It would have to do.

And she did well.

The request didn't surprise her; ever since she added her ethnicity to her page, it only brought in more attention, more money. Adjusting herself into acquiescence, into the glittering catalogue of endless desires, fantasy, and longing, she thought it would be just another performance, a role for sex-starved, repressed men who satisfied their mercurial longings through a screen. 

Christine should have known her initial gimmick would come back to bite her, another way for her grief to haunt her, but she played into it. Indulging in their fantasy, she allowed herself to draw in all kinds of engagement. The girl with daddy issues. The replies to her posts, her online presence, was littered with these comments, with long winded paragraphs of men masturbating over encouraging other young women to accept themselves like she had, to exploit their loneliness and orgasm, to accept what they really were deep inside: attention starved, needy, wet, dependent on cock, and too dumb to make it on their own. Of course she exposed herself on the internet; she had no father. She only leaned further back on her bed, plush carpet the stage of her nightly roses, pushing her ass out, a glint of a heart-shaped jewel plug caught in the glass of her camera, a pulse or two deep inside her dripping all over her sheets as she tried to think of anything else. 

Christine laughed the comments off. They only degraded her because they wanted her. They were practically promoting her for free—and as long as it gave her more followers, more subscriptions, it didn't matter. 

And as she was often doing, she tried...not to think too hard about it. In some tender, interior part of her, some gilded chamber of her ruby heart, a dove wept within the crepuscule of her sighs, a tear escaping at night within her down of breath.

Christine briefly looked up negative aspects of grief, trauma. One expression was hypersexuality, a compulsion for pleasure, a painful completion.

Seeing as she didn't have much choice for money, suffocated and exhausted by expectations, alarms at dawn, and the prospect of a life that was tantamount to nothing but the joy of la fosse, she didn't see herself particularly in such expression. Sexuality was life, after all. And life needed money, and...well, it wouldn't be forever. 

Christine could play this role, slowly sharpen the cupid's bow of her performer's soul, dutifully, a practice in acting and various other parties. 

She sighed, stretching, reading her client's latest text message. 

"I would like to role-play with you, my dear. Please, call me papí."

The large, empty basement room seemed to almost shift and change into as many shapes as there were songs, a repertoire of sound, imagination. She often found herself eager and looking forward to her lessons, a small slip of a place far away from the world, a cool reprieve from the lingering summer heat, slowly turning into a soft, calm place with the lengthening of the nights. Here she could place her work out of her mind, her other role, and embody a different release, a carving of the soft-palette, evenings of moist soil from centuries long ago, carrying the scent of black plums and smooth apples, replicated within the shape of her lips, her throat. She could be anyone else, anywhere else. A gilded salon somewhere in 19th century Paris, Violetta Valéry lamenting into the saturation of her gilded cups; Miss Lucia wailing and writhing within the marriage bed of the cavernous halls of a stone edifice, artifice for love; Aida herself entombed within the sweet embrace of sarcophagal love, sweetest desire grinding down into eternity.

He was demanding, yet kind to her. At times when she would slip, or trip over a note, he would deeply sigh, tapping the toe of his shoe in exasperation, his hand running down an octave. He'd turn to her, his hands square on his knees, rapping his fingers, his voice even and only slightly chiding. 

"I know you can do better, my dear. Again?"

Sometimes he'd rise abruptly from his seat, striding behind her in a few, quick steps, his fingers twitching as he'd pass them over her midsection, along her upper back. The ghost of his touch raised gooseflesh upon her arms, the hair on the back of her neck standing up as he spoke somewhere above her ear. His awkwardness was both endearing and unsettling. He was so tall, always with that same mineral, astringent scent.

"Straighter, my dear—ah, yes. Now breathe, deep, right into your diaphragm...Erik will be here to help you. Again."

Christine often wondered what the extent of his appearance entailed—she assumed, perhaps, a deformity. She tried her best not to stare, but he seemed to search for her eyes, his gaze direct and entreating, a slow treacle for a myriad of emotions. He was so strange, always referring to himself in the third person, as if he had to force himself to speak normally.

When she first sustained a note that felt like the air became her skin, she understood the extent of not only his instruction, but her ability. She smiled at him, her face glowing with simple shock.

Sometimes when they'd finish, he'd offer to walk with her out to her old car, his hand motioning to her bag, taking it from her.

"Shall Erik escort you, mademoiselle? The world is so cruel, and teeming with strange, terrible men."

Christine would laugh, nodding, wandering out the empty building, his steps so silent trailing along hers, his posture so stiff. The lamps glowed above them, and framed by the pools of fluorescent light, she was relieved for the offer, as her mind drifted off to the rigors of her evening routine.

Chapter Text

Christine shuddered, closing her eyes and holding back a sob that racked through her body, the music blaring and obnoxious, droning, raucous.

She slipped through the crowd, away from the glowing blue pool, the moon bright and clear against its water, away from the scantily clad performers, some rolling about in clear, inflatable spheres, the flutes of champagne on silver trays, sticky sweet strawberry vape smoke and the scent of tobacco low on the wind. 

As her heels clicked through the open back doors into the mansion, she thought bitterly to herself that she never, ever, wanted to smell a whiff of Baccarat Rouge again in her entire life, as she stepped through the bustling throng, their laughter burning her throat.

The pasted on, reflective star decals on her lower back glinted silver in the low light, curving with the movement of her backless, silk black dress, her nails fumbling with the zipper on her bag as she slammed the bathroom door open, the music muffled from the other side as she wandered into the dimly lit space.

Two women were giggling and leaning over the sink, golden marble framed by flowing white orchids, chopping up a nondescript powder with a metal credit card, sniffing it into a nostril.

They both looked up, unfazed by Christine. She shut a stall door behind her, sitting on the closed toilet lid and unlocking her phone, tapping hurriedly into her contacts, her nail clicking against the screen. She swiped away OnlyFans notifications angrily, suddenly disgusted by them.

"Please pick up," she groaned, tears finally rolling down her cheeks.

"Hello? Christine?"

"Erik," she sighed in relief, her tears hiccuping louder.

"Christine? What's wrong, my dear? What happened?"

She shook her head, sniffling. "Erik, I'm so sorry. It's so late—I shouldn't be calling you—"

"Christine," he began, voice even and soothing, but sharp. "What is wrong? Are you hurt?" 

"I'm at this party," she explained. "I-I shouldn't have come, I—"

She could hear rustling sounds on the other line, muddled echoing, the jangling of keys. "Where are you Christine? Erik will come and get you."

"I'm at this house—it's almost two hours away from the city, I'm so sorry," her voice rose, panicking, tearful. "I just want to go home!"

"Christine, please listen to me." Erik interrupted her. "Do not apologize. Please tell your Erik where you are. Erik will come get you."

She gave him the address, shivering in the cool a/c of the bathroom, wiping tears away from her eyes.

"I should have never come," she weeped, small sobs rolling through her. "This is so embarrassing. I'm so, so sorry, Erik, I didn't know what to do, I don't know why I called you. Thank you so much for being so nice to me." 

"Shhh," he replied, and she could hear a car door shutting behind him. "Erik will be there soon, mon petite. Ma colombe."

Christine nodded, warmth blooming in her chest. She had never thought to ask him before, but, was he French?

"Thank you, Erik." She whispered. "Thank you."

"Erik will be there soon." He murmured, gentility the color of his voice. "Will you be a good girl and wait for your Erik?" 

"Yes," she replied shakily, nodding, ignoring the other, warm feelings blushing in her body at such a phrase. "I will. I promise."

"Repeat after Erik." He insisted, his voice quiet and hushed. 

Christine sighed, closing her eyes, gripping her phone tighter and squeezing her thighs. “I promise to be a good girl, Erik.”

“Very good.” He hummed. “Erik has to hang up, now, my dear. He should be there in about an hour or so. Erik will call you once he's there."

She thanked him again and hung up, slipping her phone away.

Christine stepped out of the stall, shaking her curls out in the mirror. The women had left, leaving her alone. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, red from her tears. She blotted about her under-eye gently, reapplying more blush to hide the tear tracts on her makeup. Her skin burned with the lingering traces of their conversation, confusion and a quiet knowing simmering beneath the surface, a summer heat. She shouldn't encourage this strange development in their relationship, should she? 

Was his kindness ever for any other reason? 

An hour or so. She could bide her time. She could potentially wait him out in the bathroom, but a burst of cold air told her otherwise. The entire evening had been a complete disaster, and whatever time she had left, she would retain whatever remained of her dignity.

She slid out of the bathroom, back into the party, into the glowing blue lighting, the glintz of crystal chandeliers tinkling fallen stars, the bloated, ambulating bodies, undulating performers. 

She would just have to avoid Raoul long enough.

Her short trek to and from her university was always punctuated, saturated with a kaleidoscope of sound, a tapestry of notes. Sometimes women would roll by in the evening light on her way home, bright pink sunset and frangipani orange framing their joy, chanting and singing along to an 808 beat from an open sunroof, long hair whipping behind them, whizzing past silverfish mirrors of woven glass, reflecting the color of all the world. Sometimes the gentle rhythm of a plucked, high guitar solo of a bachata, the random spurts of soft reggaeton rhythms, or a burst of soca speeding by. But it all faded away into swooping violins and swelling symphonies in the auditorium of her school, hidden harps and sudden flutes trailing along her from concealed rooms like tiled black and white mazes, music of Venetian courts, Viennese opera houses, and palatial Parisian overtures. 

And in the middle of it all, her voice, rising high to intermingle like a clear, silver bell of nacreous resonance, pearlescent and glittering like cut glass beneath the sun.

It wasn't only for her work that she dressed better, chose to care of herself better. While she did snap the occasional, nondescript photo flashing her breasts or parting her legs beneath a short skirt somewhere on campus (alone, always unseen, discreet as a dove), the money allowed her to access finer clothing, well-fitted and cut to her body. She stopped frequenting the dollar store, her closet slowly filling with the woven threads of her new life. 

Her father's long illness had dampened much of her enthusiasm for self-care, her limbs and spirit rendered heavy and somnambulant. The emptiness he had left behind in her life, had also opened space for other feelings and desires to fill in, new points of being. Christine began to pay more attention to her own inclinations, discarding her heavily used jeans and cheap leggings for shorter skirts, chiffon wisps of pastels and shades of the dawn, the lightness of air lingering about her thighs. She began to wear more white, discarding tattered t-shirts from random supermarket promotions, ratty ones stained with coffee splatters, and cut-off shorts that had reached far past their expiration dates. She kept the camis she'd bought earlier in the summer, layering them underneath more plunging necklines for modesty. She rubbed in soft, sparkling oils on her shoulders, her clavicles, a glittering, golden sigh upon her skin.

It felt good to no longer have to wear cheap, flimsy shoes, to no longer have to sprinkle baking soda within their soles to prevent odor because they were so poorly made, to repair them frequently with glue. It felt good to adorn herself to her taste, with finer threads of silk and pure cotton, to finally afford the correct products for her thick, long hair. Christine began to do her makeup more frequently into the mirror of a small vanity's reflection, enjoying her quiet moments at home alone playing into a suggestion of beauty, her face glowing with new ease. In the low light of the candles, she'd hum a song she was practicing for her lessons, tracing brown eyeliner along the rims of her eyes, blotting soft blush the color of rose clay along her cheeks, the flames flickering gently within the shade of towering floral bouquets, their shadows casting living movement into her memory. In an inspired moment, she took one of the bare pictures of her body, her soft vulva, and color-dropped the shades of her own skin, creating a virtual palette. She bought lipgloss and lipstick in its matching colors, liners, all earth-tones and soft nudes; and a soft, sweet pink that matched her deeper interior. It all complemented her face perfectly. She smiled.

On a whim, she had listed a few pieces of gold jewelry on her wishlist—they were all bought for.

A simple gold anklet, tiny butterflies glinting with her every movement; a gold waist chain, a pair of earrings, rose-gold with droplets of pearls like milky tears. No one saw those, however.

They were all bought by her strange client.

His username was only a string of numbers, his profile picture on any account a default gray figure. Over the summer, he continuously contacted her, requesting her for entire days, the price always paid in advanced.

"I would like to speak to you today, my sweet girl."

He gushed over her jewelry, eagerly confessing that in every photo of her displaying a new piece, he would spill over himself almost instantly. 

During those long, languid days, he would content himself with being a lingering fixture, encouraging her to lounge and simply think of nothing, do nothing, to relax, to touch and feel herself. She wouldn't, but she'd pretend.

Why should she argue? It was easy money. And her earnings easily tripled with his attention and generosity. 

He would insist on roleplay, frequently, and always ask for her to respond to him in Spanish, to flatter him and coo into the recording, to pant and whine and beg for him to fuck her. His favorite was student/teacher roleplay, threading together a soft and hazy space in the imagination where she played his impossibly stupid, naïve pupil who just couldn't help always asking him for help, who just couldn't understand. And him, the flustered authority figure who couldn't keep her hands off of him, who couldn't help stare, who couldn't help lifting up her little skirt and fucking her silly into the desk. Papí.

It wasn't surprising that he'd request such a phrase given her profile, and since he didn't speak Spanish, assumed it was just his own particular fetish, a sad wet dream for a lonely man, who was ready to have it in any way he could. At least he didn't fly out of the country to take advantage of some poor girl, like the grimy tourists in her father's hometown, how they'd hover around her the one time she visited during the holiday season. 

"I wish you could lay beneath me and writhe into your sheets and beg for me to stop filling your beautiful, wet, brown pussy with my cock, until you'd give up and cry, so I could kiss every tear away. Your tears would look so pretty."

At certain times her hand would linger beneath her slip dress, stroke slowly, tentatively. She didn't fight her natural arousal, when he somehow brought it out from her. And it only made her job easier.

When their time was up, she did not linger. She closed the chat, turned off her phone, and stepped away. Sometimes, she'd find herself wetter than she could have expected.

Christine had been gifted a rose toy from him, bright red and oddly beautiful. She kept it on her nightstand, innocuous and decorative, often favoring it in her own private moments.

As she hitched up her slip and let the vibrator linger about her bud, swollen and slightly edged, she melted into the sensation, relief pouring into her, toes curling, pulsing gently into the soft fantasy parade of roses, slick dripping, low candle on the vanity shaking in time with her breaths. 

It felt good to give up.

The loneliness never really went away.

While Christine was comfortable, at peace in her situation and the stability of her education, most of the time she felt removed not only from herself, but from her surroundings. Everything seemed to be a glittering haze, events tumbling into one another like diamonds unfurling from within a shroud of blue silk. 

She couldn’t really talk about what she was doing with anyone. At times, the comments really did get to her. She took plenty of baths, lined with orange peels, various herbs, and roses, a vague memory for purification, to feel as if she could strip off the miasma of energy that latched onto her. Nothing mattered as long as she was safe, as long as she could continue singing. She’d read that opera singers in the past often took on ‘patrons’, engaging in sex work to support themselves throughout their careers. She saw herself in them, but she had the soft privilege of physical removal. She wasn’t touching anyone. That was a blessing in itself.

She thought about it. But the idea made her so upset, she would close her eyes and shake out her curls, as if to will the feelings away. She was comfortable; she could make so, so, much more, but the money wasn’t worth it.

She often felt guilt, rolling somewhere beneath her chest, at exploiting her grief in such a way. Her father wouldn’t judge her for what she had to do—but the grief of his death, like the loss, was once in a lifetime. It would not return, it would never be the same. Every moment trickled into eternity within sudden bursts of staggering attention, a wavering light behind the eyes. Breath was only a whisper away. She saw his last one. It was always the last one. 

One day, the swirling feelings bubbled beneath the surface all day, re-adjusting themselves incessantly beneath her chest, taught and heavy. She suddenly felt stupid in her cheerful, soft clothing, wishing she could strip off her pink skirt and pretty blouse, to replace it with a slouching, gray sheet of an old ratty t-shirt, a pair of sad sweatpants. Had she done something terribly wrong?

She wished she could find love, not as a means to fulfillment, not a relationship of completion, but rather a certain becoming with the star of true, real love; of doors opening, one after the other, of soft light and sweetest air, of the softest bower and the sweetest peach.

She hoped her lessons today, if not lift her spirits, would at least provide a brief distraction, as she slowly stepped into the basement, the long hallways concealing rooms of a hundred whispers. 

But in the middle of a Fragonardian arpeggio, Christine suddenly felt tears overwhelm her, prickling at her eyes, trickling over her threshold and into small rivulets upon her cheeks.

"Christine?" He began, turning to face her. "You missed—“ 

Erik rose from the piano bench instantly, almost toppling it over in his movement, and even with his face covered, she could tell concern was written into his body language, his frown visible.

"Christine?"

"I'm sorry," She choked, her vision blurry, shaking her curls out of her face.

"No, no my dear—sit down, please."

He took her by the arm and gently led her to the piano bench, her tears and uneven breaths increasing, sadness spilling out of her.

"I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed, mortified and burning, covering her face with her hands. She felt him sit beside her, his body so close—she felt how thin he was from the proximity, his thigh touching hers. She shivered reflexively.

"No, Christine, please don't cry," Erik soothed, worry in his voice, her sobs shuddering through her. He was so nice—he was so nice.

It was as if his gentle voice dislodged a thorn beneath the tender swath of all her hidden emotion, groundwater, a wellspring open.

"I'm just so—so lonely!" She wailed, curling into herself and weeping openly, her body a mess of shivering fascia, tears rippling over her eyelashes, unspoken hurt tumbling over from within her heart, voice breaking with a sorrow of pitch blue obscurity. His low voice continued to soothe her, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back.

 “Christine, my dear…my dear…come, speak to Erik.”

Christine shook into herself, overcome, until she heard a soft, high-pitched voice speak to her.

"Please don't cry Christine. You are too pretty to cry—it hurts me to see you cry."

As she turned from her hands to face Erik, it was as if the entire moment detached itself from her, perforated along the edges of her silhouette, slowly tilting into an out-of-body absence.

In his hand, was a small puppet. 

Christine blinked, suddenly tossed emotionally out-of-focus by the image of her serious, eccentric instructor holding a hand puppet in the shape of a brown monkey, its little arms extended, wearing an embroidered, red and green tunic. Tinkling bells hung off the tail, its fur a wild mess swirling all about its face.

"Please don't cry Christine." It repeated, its hands covering its face, gently weeping into its tiny little monkey paws. "I hate to see you cry!"

Her tears still streamed, yet she felt herself tilt, her outpour of sadness stunned into shock and silence, the sudden jarring surreality of what was happening flipping her into an uncanny incredulity. She vaguely felt nothing.

"Please don't be sad, Christine!" It continued, its little voice emanating precisely from the tiny plush figure, holding its arms out. 

And then, in a slow, steady movement, as if to not frighten a small animal, Erik began stroking her hair with it, the little monkey making soft, cooing sounds, burying its face into her thick waves and curls, right above her heart. "You are too pretty to be sad, Christine!"

Christine blinked, looking back and forth between the two of them—somehow they both fit into one other. The little monkey buried itself deeper into her hair, weeping. "Christine! Christine! Sweet, pretty Christine is so sad and lonely!"

"He was very worried, Christine. He insisted on speaking to you—you don't mind, do you?" Erik's voice curved into tentative hopefulness, a ribbon of bashfulness coloring his question.

She sniffled, sincerely confused, shaking her head and blinking, as if it would drive the image of him away into some semblance of normality. 

"What?"

"You don't mind, do you Christine?" The puppet repeated, drawing back from her hair, gently brushing her tears away with its little hands. Christine, amazed at Erik's completely frozen lips, gaped. 

"How do you do that?" She asked plainly, pointing at the little puppet. 

Even sitting down, Erik was still taller than her by a head, his masked face looking down directly into hers, his eyes piercing. "What do you mean?"

Christine stared at the little monkey, Erik shaking it from side to side, the little bells tinkling. 

"How do you...your lips don't move at all! And the voice, it's so different! It doesn't sound like you!"

"No! I have nothing to do with him! Nothing at all, mademoiselle!" The monkey cried. 

Christine giggled weakly, her life an absurdity. A complete absurdity. 

Erik smiled. 

"What's his name?" Christine asked, drawing circles into the floor with the point of her sandal. She jingled one of the bells with a nail.

"Bongo the Magnificent!” The little monkey chirped, flinging its little arms out. 

Christine giggled again, hiccuping, drying the tears on her cheeks away with her finger, her outburst of sadness somehow a sudden summer storm which passed quickly over the horizon. "That's so cute, Erik."

"You hear that, Bongo? She thinks I'm cute."

He whipped the little monkey around on his hand, the little bells tinkling. "What!" It shook indignantly. "No! She thinks I'm cute!"

Erik huffed. "No, Bongo, she said I'm cute." He placed his hand over his chest, looking quite pleased with himself. "You know, I always did say I was quite the Don Juan."

"No!" 

Christine sat there amazed as they both somehow began to argue and interrupt one another, their voices overlapping at the exact same time, both raising their voices and speaking over one another, bells tinkling in erratic harmony.

Christine felt laughter bubble, covering her mouth with her hand, her tears drying. "A Don Juan? Erik, that's so amazing, really, I've never seen that before. How do you even do that?”

"See? Even she knows that's ridiculous!"

Erik shook his head, tsk-ing in rhythm. "Now now, Bongo, no one likes a sore loser. She's clearly impressed."

"Impressed with how ugly you are, maybe!"

“Bongo!” Christine huffed, exasperated. "No, don't be mean!"

His little head whipped around to her. The little puppet giggled into its hands. "But just look at him! He's ugly as sin! He's never been on a date, or even kissed a girl before!"

"Bongo is just a spoil sport, and insanely jealous." Erik sighed, tinkling one of its bells. "He's positively head over heels for you, you know."

The little puppet yelped, covering its face in its hands. "Shut up!"

"That's very sweet, Bongo."

The puppet slowly uncovered one of its eyes. "I can't help it, Christine. You are just too pretty. You are so beautiful."

The little puppet sighed, placing its hands on its heart. "I'm in love with the most beautiful girl in the whole world, who sings as sweetly as the nightingale of all my dreams inside of my heart."

She laughed lightly, absently, patting it on its head—or rather, patting Erik's hand. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you to say." Looking up at Erik as she leaned close to the monkey, she covered her mouth with the side of her hand as if to whisper a secret. "You're very cute too. But don't tell Erik!"

It shook from side to side, as if dancing. "Hooray!"

Then before she could react, it very quickly pecked her on the lips. “Mwah!”

Christine squeaked in surprise, closing her eyes reflexively.

"Alright, that's enough Bongo."

In a single flourish, with Bongo going Noooo, he slid the puppet back into his suit jacket.

Christine shuffled in her seat, the silence softly ticking away with the clock on the far wall, her tears long dried. She felt dizzy from the sudden whiplash of emotion, her mind numb to her previous state of sorrow.

Erik weakly smiled. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

She tugged at a curl of hair. "...confused?" She offered, looking up at him. 

He laughed softly, sadly. "I'm sure."

He scooted even closer, sighing. She blinked.

"Christine, this may be inappropriate, however..." He reached back into his coat, sliding out a phone; an old Nokia brick phone. She stared at it.

"If you ever need someone to speak to...please, call me." He handed it to her gently, with both hands. "Do you live with family, or...?"

She shook her head slowly, every gesture, every detail he revealed about himself, only reinforcing how bizarre he truly was. "No..." She sighed. "Both my parents have passed. I have no siblings."

"You don't have to be lonely, my dear." He murmured. "How about I call you sometime later today? Bongo would love someone else to talk to. Aside from your Don Juan, of course. Moreover, crying is dreadful for your lovely voice."

Christine smiled at him, sniffling, sliding her bag closer to pass him her own phone. He was so strange. "Okay, Erik. Okay."

She took the phone from him, adding her number. The buttons were clunky beneath her touch. "You're so weird, Erik.” She laughed gently, shaking her head. 

If Christine weren't so fazed by the entire exchange, the shift in his voice would have made her pause.

"Yes, Christine. I am."

Chapter Text

"Erik, why did you insist on tutoring me?"

He turned his head slightly towards her, his hands lingering along the piano keys, humming as his fingers gently played up an octave the color of a pastel fantasy, crème of verdant arbors, the sigh of crepe roses.

“Erik saw your audition tape." He replied, quietly. 

Christine's eyes widened, her mouth opening in gentle shock. "You...were on the admittance panel?"

He hummed again, in assent. "In fact, Erik saw several recordings you have made public on your youtube channel. I understand, now, why your voice had taken such...a drastic change."

He turned to her, his eyes matching a rare, full smile. It took her aback. "Christine...you must understand, it doesn't matter whether or not you had significantly weakened, deteriorated. Your voice, it is made of all the colors de l’aube. La alba, as you would say, in Spanish.”

She blushed. This was his first, genuine compliment. 

“Speaking of which,” he continued, his voice now cool, turning back to the piano. “We must practice your French. Your pronunciation is absolutely dreadful, mon chérie.”

Christine laughed lightly, brightly, covering her mouth with her hand, and he turned back to face her again, shocked, sounding as if he were burned. 

“Ah—what is so funny?”

She laughed harder, shaking her head. "You're just so unintentionally funny, Erik."

He gave a weak smile as she continued laughing, his hands on his knees. "Yes. I suppose I am.”

It was an easy, vibrant morning in the middle of rainy season, and Christine intended to take full advantage. 

She had taken a weekend off, set her phone to Do Not Disturb, and booked a hotel stay along the beach, the wooden slats of the blinds cool in the early hours of the dawn, the grey sky breaking into golden oranges as the palm trees in the streets below her swayed in the breeze. 

She had dressed in a simple, translucent robe and bikini, walking out towards the beach as the sun broke over the water, the tide high and crashing, a lone swimmer a black figure cutting through the water. Seaweed and bright white shells lined the shore, tourists taking photos of themselves framed by the vast, pale celeste of the Atlantic, seagulls crying high overhead.

One of the hotel workers had just finished setting up a small section of the beach with the hotel chairs and umbrellas, and she settled into one, laying a blue towel over its wooden back as she silently watched the sunrise, the sun a marigold disc of molten gold pooling onto her skin.

It was the first time she was able to have any sort of vacation in years. 

Her hair floated gently about her in the breeze, strands of curls like the dark brown algae strewn about her from the tides, and she coated herself in shimmering body oil, her gold cross and chain around her neck glinting in the light upon her breasts. She had just gotten a pedicure, stark white, and in an inspired moment, took a photo of her feet against the sky, thinking of her strange client who begged for and requested such content from her, as a small thank you for his last, very generous tip. The gold butterflies on her anklet shimmered, and she smudged the camera lens with her oil, her body out of focus and soft. 

Christine had not felt this lazy in so long. Her earnings had doubled—tripled—and she could hardly believe the status of her bank account. She had enough money to cover rent for the rest of the year, and could even begin to think of moving elsewhere, out of that sad, sloping box of a death shroud that was her apartment. She would sometimes glance out of her small balcony onto the courtyard below on Sunday afternoons, feel a sense of warmth at the scenes before her—the old men playing dominos on a creaky table with a crushed pack of cigarettes wedged underneath, children running through, still in their best from church, a wayward rooster crowing somewhere beyond the entrance. 

She would be happy to leave, such a place kissed with the lingering sallow of death, pallor of the spirit, goodbyes whispering around every corner, the smell of decay beneath her nails.

Couples walked along the shore together, hand in hand, and she felt a sudden pang of longing in her heart, loneliness her companion. 

Everything was so fleeting. She could float away in the wind, just like love, a dove riding on high.

Christine closed her eyes and put on a pair of sunglasses, content to shroud herself with the breaching sounds of the surf. She faded in and out, half-dozing, the sun rising higher in the sky casting a metallic sheen over the water, pale silvers upon the air.

The sound of a man jogging along the sand near her woke her out of her reverie, and she clicked her tongue, annoyed by his noisiness, shifting in her chair.

His was a figure of a minor Adonis. He was blonde, tan, tall, and handsome, dressed in nothing but tight white swimming shorts. She cringed—it left little to the imagination. It was noticeable.

She pretended not to notice as he slowed his step, gazing at her, hoping he would go away and leave her alone—

"...Christine? Excuse me miss, are you Christine Daaé?"

She bristled at her name, a sudden landslide of fear and paranoia gripping her, her skin turning clammy in the warming sunlight, her heart beating, beating, did he know, had he recognized her, did he—

She looked up at him, peering over the rims of her sunglasses, ignoring the frankness of his figure looming above her, the sun hovering over his right shoulder, and—

She saw the memory in his face.

Her father had given him lessons as a young boy of 13, after performing in a small ensemble on his brother's sprawling, great mansion north of the city, inquiring over his rates and availability.

They had spent the afternoons afterwards running through the great maze that was his home, chasing after one another through gilded corridors lined with tiles whose bodies encased the wind, shining mirrors and vases full of fantastic pink and orange bouquets, across the great lawns before the sea beneath the shade of a multitude of high palm trees, sailboats drifting across the horizon. 

“Raoul?"

She sat in his car with the windows open low, the sunset glimmering low over the water beneath the bridges, the skyline sparkling like brilliant diamonds in the pink sunlight, and Raoul spoke cheerfully, low music playing over the radio. 

His brother, Philippe, was always gracious, welcoming of Christine and her father, and he would gather his sisters around them for the pleasure of hearing her sing a simple, starlit memory, melodies threaded with the sweetness of guava and sugar apples.

It was a soft, easy interlude within the austerities of their life. Two years were spent this way.
 
But then, Raoul moved away.

"My sisters and brother want me to finish high school in France..."

That was the last time they had seen one another, golden hour tinting the windows and her sadness. Her father performed once or twice again for Philippe, but that was it.

And now, they had ran into one another almost by chance, like a mirage during high tide above the surf. 

It was such a great surprise, she rose instantly to embrace him, and he returned it easily, laughing into her hair, his hand splayed across her back. The skin-to-skin contact warmed her more than she realized—nothing about it felt too vulnerable, or intimate, or inappropriate; and she relished in it, her cheek against his chest. 

It was the first time anyone had hugged her like that in months. Her father had become too weak to really embrace her—at the end he couldn't even lift his arms.

"It's so lucky we ran into each other! I didn't have a phone then, so I couldn't keep in touch with you."

His head whipped to hers momentarily away from the road, frowning. "You have one now, right? Do you need help getting one?"

"Yeah, yeah!" She replied quickly, waving her hand. "Yeah, I have one now!"

"Good!" He huffed. "I really missed you, Christine. When I thought of you, and that last winter we had together, I couldn't help but smile. I felt free with you. France was nice, but..." 

He sighed, a tired sound. "It came with a lot of expectations. I missed it here."

Expectations. She could relate, somewhat.

"What brought you back?"

"I needed a break!" He rapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "Well, I thought I would have one. My brother asked me to come for moral support, I guess. It will give me a break from managing our family estate in France, at the very least."

They really lived a world apart.

"And your dad?" He asked, his voice chipper. "How is he? I'd love to see him again! I kept up with violin, as much as I could."

Christine shifted in her seat as he kept speaking about his poor technique. "Oh...oh, he passed away."

"Oh no. Christine, I'm so sorry."

She nodded, tracing the left-over shimmer on her forearm with her thumb, her body hair. "It was about two months ago, now. It's been hard."

He reached his hand out to hers, taking it in his, squeezing. 

"I'm happy I came back."

She changed the topic, a sudden flash of emotion running through her. "I started singing in the conservatory here."

"Really?" He drove into the parking lot of a small park, overlooking the waters of the bay, the lights glowing in the early twilight, the reflection of the sky and buildings shimmering upon the water. He shut the car off, sighing and turning to her. "I still remember how beautiful your voice was. Really. You deserve it—and I'd love to listen to you again."

They spent the evening walking beneath the glowing lamplight, the humid haze of thick, late summer cut with the cooling breeze of the sea.

Christine had began texting and calling Erik more frequently.

She couldn’t deny that it did make her feel less lonely. He was always attentive to her, receptive and reciprocal, and he often initiated, which in the absent-minded flurry of her days, she was thankful for. It was nice to have someone think of her. She wondered how he could text so quickly with that clunky phone of his—full sentences, no abbreviations. The image of him with it speaking to her made her laugh at times, this aloof, out of touch man, obsequious to her.

She sat in her bedroom, curtains draped over her bed, cool, cream fairy lights strung on the wall above her headboard, the long nights drawing into the first airs of autumn. She had bought a nicer bed frame, ornate and tastefully rococo, white with pink flowers painted on the wood, her old stuffed animals propped next to her. She had not wanted to part with her old comforter out of sentimental reasons—frills, bows, and all, charmingly outdated in their pale and faded lilac pastels. Her computer sat open to a youtube video she had emailed him, since he couldn't open it on his phone.

He had given her his personal email, a string of letters and numbers. A little strange, but somehow fitting him. Impersonal, yet available.

"It's so cute, I promise." She smiled over the phone, letting it play on her screen. She could hear it open over his end, too.

"Yes, very cute, Christine. A shame they burnt the bunny."

"Bnnuy." She corrected, laying back into her pillows. "The bnnuy."

He sighed in exaggerated exasperation, and she smiled, humming back at him. "Yes, my dear, they burnt the poor bnnuy. Better?"

Whatever line they had been treading, it faded in and out of thought, easement into this shifting relationship their new normal. 

She didn't want to think about that one night when she spoke to him with a vibrator between her legs, how much it made her wet, how she rode her edge with him for almost an hour until she could feel the last traces of her inhibitions drip out of her pussy, swollen and sensitive, blanking out and shaking. 

She hadn't come. She only kept speaking to Erik in higher tones, barely hiding her whines, goaded on by her client and all his demeaning yet encouraging comments, rolling through her laptop screen. At some point he stopped directing her.

"Stupid, slutty, empty girl. Getting wet and making a mess for anyone. You sound better this way, you're better this way. It's obvious what you are. It's obvious to anyone. Needy, dependent, too slow to keep up. You need someone. You'll always need cock."

It bothered her more that...it didn't really bother her anymore. She had, somewhere along the way, grown immune to the insults, to the harsh words. Numb wasn't the right word—she expected it. It had become a lingering tone throughout her days, sublimated somewhere beneath her phone screen, a magic mirror for cruel delights.

Erik only indulged her. He must have realized she was behaving strangely—her behavior unusual, and voice wavering between nonsense and politeness—but he never commented. He only spoke to her in the kindest way, his voice comforting and soothing as a balm, asking her to repeat after him:

"I am beautiful, and sweet, and I don't need to be lonely anymore, with my Erik."

When she had risen from the sofa on shaking legs, she had completely soaked the blanket she had been laying on, a large wet spot of her own arousal the remains of whatever was left of her better judgment. She stumbled into her bedroom, catching a quick glance at her face; emotionally and physically exhausted, baby hairs sticking to her forehead, sweat at her temples, eyes glazed and unfocused, out of breath, and out of her depth. Her bed was welcoming, and she fell asleep instantly, holding her pillow to her chest. 

It did make her heart beat faster, when she saw him for their following lesson. Her skin felt warm, tingled with something beneath that she didn't want to name so easily. He had not treated her any differently, greeting her as he usually did, inquiring after her day, and beginning promptly. 

She ignored it.

It was better this way.