Page 2 of In Love with the Devil

Despite her disloyalty in high school, I'd never looked at or allowed another girl to touch me. I was hers. As we drove to the camping site, I'd wondered if she'd expected me to only fuck her mouth like always. In the day, I made her hike twenty miles, knowing she wasn't used to exercising. Not only was she too exhausted to move, but it confirmed and re-established how weak she was compared to me. I had to carry her back for the last two miles. Gratitude looked beautiful on her, but not enough to save her from my plans. At night, it was brisk. The place was desolate.

It still fascinates me, how even with my dick destroying her ass, she tried to convince me to be a better man. “It hurts, Julian,” she wailed and screeched.

Every day since, I’ve hungered to consume each and every one of her pleadings for my non-existent mercy. They were too delectable. The more I hurt her, the more tangible the return of that innocent love felt.But, it never happened. There was nothing innocent left in me.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart.” It was a lie. I’d taken a mild dose of a drug to make sure I could fuck her delicious, too-tiny, forbidden hole until sunrise. I could’ve never guessed how addicting it would be to break a woman to the point of making her come, feeling every muscle in her body reject her mindfor me. Even after she came, I kept fucking her 'till both of us were raw, wanting her to come again. Poor Molly. Why had she made it so euphoric? Every thrust… so delicious.

It was the most luscious night of my entire life. The sensation of her body breaking under my will, her tears, her cries, screaming at the excruciating pain, her pleas, her weak attempts at escape… Those are the only memories that bring out my full genuine smile.

When I told a patient she was pregnant after three years of fertility treatment, I never smiled at her joy. No. It was always the memory of how I forced Molly to come while I raped her ass. Those are the most treasured memories of my youth. Still, to this day, it gets me hard. The way her asshole spasmed on my cock while she released the loudest, most tortured screams. Some people peak in high school, but that night was it for me. It has always gotten me through random fucks and jerking offsessions. It was the wince on her face, the beautiful fat tears, the occasional sobbing that rewarded me with the scenery of my come oozing from her cock-choking ass.

I thought she was the one. My perfect eternal victim.“Make sure you call me when you get home, so I know you’re safe.”Safe. What a riot.

She'd nodded while sitting in the driver's seat of her car, gripping the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white, biting her already broken bottom lip, dying to go home. I smiled at her and she rewarded me with pure terror filling her eyes.

In the end, I discovered something else had been crushing her, something much crueler than me. Cancer is a bitch, and how ironic that the object of my affection died of ovarian cancer, of all things when I had already decided to specialize in women's health and reproductive care. Sometimes my anger surpasses my grief. Why did she not tell me? Her death felt like karma sticking its tongue out at me.It took days to recuperate.

Maybe I never did.

Even when I doubted I’d ever find another girl I could obsess so much about, I vowed that if I found her, she’d only be vulnerable to my brutality. If there was suffering for her to endure, it would be by my hand, by my side. OnlyIcould hurt her.

By helping rich people give birth to perfect children, I built a well known, respectable reputation and career. I discovered three drugs that helped circumvent different causes of infertility. I used patent royalties to open my own fertility clinic, thenfollowed up on some investment advice from my grateful, wealthy patients. And just like that, within a few years, I’d earned enough money to live three lifetimes in Monaco. The work kept me busy enough to shut down my dark thoughts, but after five years, it burned me out. Was working really all I wanted out of life? No. I left most of the management of the fertility clinic to my colleagues, only attending the annual board meetings, and opened a tiny family clinic in a college town where no one knew my name.

Did I slowly and subconsciously plan to fulfill my darkest fantasies? Probably. But I didn’t realize it; not when I bought the huge farm on the outskirts of town with acres to separate it from civilization with the unfinished basement for me to reconfigure. When I planted the maximum acreage of poppies (God’s gift to humanity) and gathered all the lab equipment to extract chemicals from them, I told myself I must be bored.

For two years, I basked in my fantasy by building what looked like an eighteenth-century prison in the basement. Thick iron doors with a slab to slip the food tray into prison cells, each with a small bathroom.

I’ve never had a wandering eye. So I don’t know why I built four cells when I only needed one for her, fortheone.

Chapter one

Prettiest of Birds

Julian

Present

Pretending to be the good guy is slowly pushing me to a psychotic break. After eight hours of dealing with patients, I start losing it. I can feel the rage right under my skin, my blood running hot with it. The craving to burn all of my patient's cervix overwhelms me. Instead, I collect tissue for the Pap Smear and hand everything to my assistant, Kristin, then walk back to my office. If any of these people had a clue how much I despise mankind, they'd smarten up and run.

Exercise is how I've maintained what remains of my sanity, but it's no longer enough. Lately, I've acquired a much darker habit. In my office, I listen to audios that I extract from the dark web. This one in particular is the screaming and cries of the woman Iwatched being tortured last night. With my head resting on the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling, I let out a long breath, feeling my muscles relax and the craving subside as the sound reminds me of the images.

Sometimes there’s a drop of empathy that makes me hope everything I watch and listen to is fake. I guess those are my good days, but most of the time, the notion of it being real is what calms me. It’s the only thing that keeps everyone around me safe.

I pause the recording when I hear two knocks on my door. Kristin sticks her head in. “It looks like the last patient isn’t going to make it. She’s fifteen minutes late, so I’m gonna head home. Everything is prepared for Monday's first appointment.”

I clear my throat, and increase the pitch of my voice a full two octaves. It’s exhausting, but it’s one more thing I have to do to appear harmless and normal. I learned early after puberty that my natural voice tends to grab people's attention. It's too memorable. “Have a great weekend, Kris.”

“Hey, Doc?”

“Yes?”

“Get some rest, you look exhausted.”She likes pushing my buttons. It makes her feel closer to me, reassuring her that I'm satisfied with her work.

As usual, I roll my eyes, bringing out her smile. “Bye, Kristin.”

I can’t hold the sigh of relief when she finally leaves. With my chair leaning all the way back while listening to the recording, I wait for most of the building to empty so that I don't have to interact with anyone in the elevator or lobby. At six thirty, I pack my laptop to catch up on new procedures and findings at home, change from my lab coat to my suit jacket, and head out to the lobby, where I find the prettiest face entering the clinic, trying to catch her breath.

The long, shiny curtain of black hair makes my heart skip a beat. Slowly, her pale face, big brown eyes and plump, strawberry-red lips turn to me. She has absolutely no make-up on. Interesting. I don’t have a chance to mask my shock at her natural beauty.Fuck!

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