In Love with the Devil
Prologue
Julian
About twenty-three years ago
I learned early in life not to care what society deems “good” or “evil,” when my mother would beat me to a pulp, accuse me of being the source of all her misery, and throw me in the unfinished basement with rats and roaches every weekend.
There is no true right or wrong, it's all subjective.
In elementary school, I met the object of my obsession, Molly. She was stunning. Not even the sunlight could brighten her black-as-midnight hair. She always had it in braided pigtails but on picture days, it hung loose. Like a curtain, it played with the wind, teasing and luring me.
Where Molly went, I followed, always listening for her giggles, making sure that my love was okay. At night, I’d sneak out of my house into her bedroom, watching her sleep peacefully, making sure she was safe. As the years passed, I grew used to checking her closet, drawers, and journals too, making sure she had everything she needed. Like when I left her heart shaped erasers, glitter ink pens, a new journal, and a copy of The Phantom of the Opera .
Molly had no idea I existed, but I knew everything about her. I watched her from afar because I knew we were too young to fulfill my true desires. Still, I always knew she’d be mine someday, so I waited.
It wasn’t until high school that her interest in other men started concerning me. Of course, she’d had crushes I’d read about in her journals but they’d all been temporary. As a teen, Molly was a black-haired siren, wearing clothes that were too revealing, needing the attention and approval from Ben, the quarterback, and his teammates. It was obvious, of course, her neediness, so they took advantage. Their hands would slide into her bra, pretending they were playing, and she’d fake a smile, then cringe away. She'd hold her sob until she was blocks away from school, on the way home. Like the jealous cheerleaders, I witnessed it all from afar. It was a pathetic and depressing display, watching her throw herself at them, only to be used.My darkness filled my vision with red on the daily, tensing my body with a rage that I myself feared.
Then the day came when the principal commented about the classes she was failing. Gladly, I offered her my tutoring services. She was too naive to guess that my generosity carried a high and sinister price. I’d occupy all her afternoons and nights. No more hanging out with the football team or with her friends. Slowly, I manipulated her into believing she only loved and needed me, and into doing my every bidding.
There was nothing like the sudden whiplashing silent treatment to get her under my thumb. It was a three-step system.
Give her a compliment or pretend I shared an interest that no one else knew she had, making her feel less lonely.
Look at her with disapproval over the most minuscule mistake. She'd apologize and explain herself countless times.
Then, I'd go radio silent and wait. I’d let it stew until her mind was as obsessed with getting me back as I was with controlling every part of her. Most men lacked the patience, but not I. By day six, Molly would cry her eyes out and beg me for forgiveness. It made me feel whole, knowing how much she needed me.
“Please… You’re my only real friend,” she’d cry.Oh, how sweet the words, like fresh honey on hot toast.
That's just it my dear, you've failed me. By now, I should be more important to you than the air you breathe. I kept messing with her mind until it was an absolute spectacular, fragile mystery to anyone else. I knew soon I'd get exactly what I wanted. It was confounding, how I could rearrange all her thoughts so easily. Despite my accomplishment, I would still play into it, compose myself and hide the glee, keep it from shining through my smile.
Instead, I'd scream at her, “You realize that I’m the only person who gives a fuck about you, right? Those idiots you waste your time with? They would fuck you, and then leave you on the side of the road. I’m the only one who doesn’t see you as trash.”
The confidence would melt from her face every time. “Yes, I know.”
Soon, every calculus tutoring session earned me at least a blowjob. A favorite memory of mine, was when she gave me one and I didn’t speak to her for three days. “You didn’t try hard enough. Your teeth hurt me,” I lied when she begged me to explain my silence.
It took everything to hide my shock when she promised, “I’ll do better this time.”
“Show me. Now.” I grabbed her hand and guided her to the school's boiler room. Within seconds, she dropped to her knees, desperate for my forgiveness. I couldn’t help but smile while biting onto my bottom lip the entire time I fucked her throat, wrenching tears and screams from her. I hoped, as she dug her fingers into my thigh, as she gagged, she’d be wishing it was Ben. What fascinated me the most was how she’d do it, even though it was clear she didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t realize the rage from watching her flirt with him had obliterated what innocence I’d carried about our love. The power to bend her to my will had intoxicated me.
After high school, I allowed her to drift away, knowing I’d eventually pull her back into my chokehold. There were a few dates here and there. Sometimes I’d put in the effort and make her laugh during our phone calls. I would always watch her sleep and read her journals when I was in town. But I knew to my core that despite all my efforts and patience that like my mother, Molly never loved me.
In my last year in medical school, I invited her to go camping with me. As usual, the hesitancy in her voice told me she didn’t really want to. “But I’ve reserved the camping site like you wanted,” I protested.
“Okay.” She'd sighed and arrived at my dorm room three days later as we'd arranged.
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 mind for 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 off sessions. 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. Only I could 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, then followed 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, for the one.