Die, My Love Page 2

  “That’s it. Swallow it,” growled Dr. Chaucer.

  The wide head pushes against the sensitive back of my throat, cutting off my air. I fight against the restraints as my body struggles for breath. The short inhales through my nose are insufficient. My lips stretch and split around the gag as he ruthlessly thrusts his hips forward. His zipper bites into the skin beneath my jaw as he pushes in deep. I can taste blood from the cuts on the underside of my tongue as it scrapes along the sharp edge of my own teeth.

  Dr. Chaucer grunts as he twists his fist into the fabric of his tie, tightening his grip on my throat.

  My eyes roll back as air is pushed from my lungs and replaced only with my silent screams. I choke as his cum coats my tongue and the back of my throat. My empty stomach heaves.

  The moment he pulls free, the final reserves of oxygen leave my body in a sputter. His cum spews from my mouth to slide down my cheek.

  I can feel it cool on my skin as he rights his pants.

  “Next time you misbehave on my ward, I’ll fuck your ass raw,” warns Dr. Chaucer as he leaves the room, slamming and locking the door behind him.

  His dried cum on my cheek begins to itch.

  I am no longer the perfect wife.

  The voices are shrill inside my head.

  No longer perfect.

  No longer perfect.

  Better off dead.

  I’m no longer confused. I know what I have to do.

  I grip the top of the screw with my fingernail. The metal edge presses into the pads of my fingertips as I slowly loosen it. It makes a high-pitched squeak as it spins in its tight hole beneath the bed frame. I stop and listen. No nurses come. I continue to slowly loosen it. Eventually it drops into my palm.

  It’s long, black and rough. I press the pad of my thumb against the sharp point.

  The crystal icicle ornament was pretty, smooth and clean. Perfect.

  I don’t deserve perfect anymore.

  I deserve black and rusted.

  Flipping my left arm over, I stroke the thin blue vein which runs along my pale wrist with the tip of the screw. It leaves a tiny white scratch behind.

  I make another scratch. Then another. And another. Each deeper than the last. Blood tickles my arm as it begins to bead along my skin as I spell out the name “Jack”.

  I press the tip against the pulse in my wrist. The skin swells around it. I push harder. Harder. The edge of the screw bites into the pads of my fingers. Still I press harder. The tip breaks the surface. Blood pools then drips onto my lap.

  I don’t even feel it.

  I feel nothing.

  I push the screw in deeper. Wondering absently if it is long enough to come out the other side of my wrist. Gripping the slippery top, I yank it out. My flesh tears. Bright crimson blood bubbles forth.

  My left hand is going numb. I can’t grip the screw as easily. I push in the tip then press with my palm till I feel the skin give way. Slick with blood, the screw slides in more easily. I rest my head against the cinderblocks. As my eyes begin to close, I see the walls transform.

  Bright beautiful tropical birds start to dance and sing as they hop from one branch to another. Large glossy green leaves capture the sunlight. I can almost feel the warmth on my cheek.

  My death will be perfect.

  No. No. There is too much noise.

  Stop. I just want to sleep.

  I’m tired of being confused.

  I’m tired of the voices yelling at me.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Baby! Baby! Don’t do this. Get the fucking doctor. Baby! Open your eyes, baby. It’s Jack, your husband. Open your eyes for me.”

  He slips in my blood as he falls to his knees and gathers me close. It feels like I’m underwater. I can hear him calling to me from a distance. His face is blurry and indistinct.

  My head lolls to the side.

  The ugly linoleum floor is covered in splashes of color. I try to focus through the haze. The colors swirl and contract. The colors are roses. Next to them is a large heart-shaped box of candy.

  I smile as the life inside my body drains onto the flower strewn floor.

  My perfect husband has brought his perfect wife the perfect Valentine’s Day gift.

  I knew the voices had lied.

  I just wish I hadn’t listened.

  About Zoe Blake

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  & Amazon Top 100 Author

  * * *

  There is something delicious in our desire for the corrupt, our ravenous appetite for the brutal, the profane, the unspeakable. The taboo. I write the type of books that give you a frisson of unease; that will have you questioning your own resolve as I take you on a dark ride of twists, kinks and perversions of both the flesh and mind. Enjoy the blush and tremble as you read each decadent word. XOXO Zoe

  * * *

  Join Zoe’s Facebook Reader Group for weekly signed paperback giveaways.

  * * *

  Join her newsletter for free dark romance books and release updates.

  Also by Zoe Blake

  Broken Doll

  There is no escape.

  No one is coming to save me.

  * * *

  Fight Me, Daddy

  She can beg and plead her innocence

  all she wants, but he won't stop.

  * * *

  Papa’s Prey

  She was his. His Property. His Possession...His.

  The Connoisseur

  By Addison Cain

  She is perfect. A vision.

  I knew she’d choose that dress for tonight. A floaty ivory thing—not too high on the thigh or too low in the bust. Demure, but overly suggestive in that it shouted virgin, damsel, make me your whore.

  Nervous as she was, and she should be nervous, her bodice strained with each deep breath. The gossamer fabric had no give, and she was generously endowed. Under the right circumstances it would likely tear like tissue paper. Part of the appeal, I suppose.

  Already my fingers itched, and soon enough I’d rend it to bits.

  And what would I find underneath?

  Full breasts caught up in some kind of lace brassiere.

  I could see the scalloped edges press through the fabric each time she took another of those tremendous deep breaths. My angel.

  And yes, she was mine. Had been for over a year.

  Yet she had worn that dress for him.

  He even had the nerve to smile at her as he arrived ten minutes late, pulling out the seat across from the flustered brunette and plopping down like a plebe. More pointedly, she had the nerve to smile back as if his terrible manners were charming.

  And it was a gloriously honest smile. One full of relief. One highlighted by flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

  I did so love to see her smile.

  Honestly, I searched for that expression often. Not the practiced pleasantries that normally passed between us, but the genuine curve of her normally unpainted lips. My angel had a pleasant countenance, symmetrical, wholesome. Our genetics would combine to make truly attractive children.

  My light hair, her golden eyes. British and Nordic, a dash of Hispanic from her grandmother. Obligatory offspring would enjoy my brilliance and her enduring sweetness. The best schools waiting in store for them, and at least one would graduate summa cum laude from Harvard Medical School just as I had. It might take four children to rear the perfect one, but she was young, and we had plenty of time to procreate.

  A twitch in my briefs led me to subtly shift on the cushioned dining chair, my growing erection hidden by the white cloth napkin folded exactly in half and placed across my lap.

  Tailored suit, crisp, white dress shirt impeccably starched, I wore my finest Turnbull and Asser tie. It matched the honeyed shade of her eyes, chosen especially for this evening.

  How had she prepared?

  What color were her panties under that dress?

  Not harlot red. Not on my angel.

  Pink perhaps, or a smooth ivory th
e same shade as her filmy dress.

  Had she bought it new for tonight? For him?

  For me, more like. That dress would be mine; that smile. Her sultry voice that was almost too rich to be considered decent.

  The creamy slit between her thighs…

  Candlelight flickered, the soft notes of the live piano gentling the air.

  She laughed.

  Dared laugh at something the boy had said…

  I knew his name: Buck Cummings. You heard that right. Buck. Cummings.

  Vulgar, just like his overloud guffaws in this five-star restaurant he’d booked for their date.

  Blond hair like mine, a decent jaw. But he lacked my refinement. Certainly lacked education and style. His sport coat screamed used car salesman, bulging where it was too tight on his arms, and hanging loosely where it did not fit his waist. Some women might find the ape former high school athlete turned security guard handsome. By the way my angel flushed at his praise of her becomingly styled hair, she did.

  Fortunately for her, I had never been lacking in that regard. No paunch like most men past the age of thirty possessed. Trim and trained. I looked as good under my suit as any man might. She would appreciate that when I held her down and worked my way inside.

  Watching him from where I sat, I imagined he was doused in drugstore body spray, felt it tickle my nostrils even from this distance. And felt pity for my angel to have to sit there and tolerate such a cretin. But she had a lesson to learn.

  One she would learn over candlelight and cheap wine. The bottle their waitress had just delivered was the least expensive offering on a rather impressive menu—and considering her knowledge on the subject, how she must internally cringe. She would learn her lesson over poorly chosen hors d'oeuvres. Learn it when she was expected to order her own food.

  What had become of men to even allow their female companions to glance at the menu? The man should order. Always.

  Reading the boy’s lips, I shook my head in distaste. Everything he had requested was wrong. No, the best dining experience on this fine menu was clearly the first course of escargots, followed by an heirloom tomato and burrata salad. For her, the seared sea scallops would follow, while I dined upon steak au poivre. Only a Neanderthal would order tenderloin as he had. And she, she had been far too generous, ordering a thrifty pasta dish. The swine had not even thought to order sides. The waiter had needed to gently suggest he do so.

  Disgusting.

  My own jacketed server came to interrupt my musings and block the view. “Would you care for more wine, sir?”

  “Yes”—I leaned back to see past the grinning mustachioed man—“thank you.”

  A Gabriel Rausse Cab Franc out of Virginia. Irregular, I know, but my angel had suggested it the first time I’d patronized her place of employment. That rainy day, she had whispered to me as if sharing a secret that this particular vintage was her favorite. Tonight, I drank it in her honor, sorely tempted to send her a glass so she might be saved from the swill he’d ordered.

  But punishment first, then breaking. Followed by a strict regimen to cleanse her mind of anything outside my sphere. Once that was through, my sweet girl would be spoiled befitting her station as wife of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow’s medical director.

  The ring had weighed down my pocket for weeks.

  A sapphire worthy of a princess. Not a commonplace diamond, not for her. Diamonds littered the beaches of Africa, common through and through. The ring that would grace her finger is unique, like her stunning aquiline nose.

  The bow of her lips.

  The way she smelled when I covertly leaned over the counter of her wine shop to bask in that glory.

  She was good enough to eat.

  And sweet.

  More importantly, she was smart—yet not over-educated for a woman. High school diploma, a few courses at the local community college. We’d share splendid conversation over lovely dinners she’d prepare.

  Across the five-star restaurant, their first course was delivered. While she poked at mussels in the typical white wine butter sauce, I enjoyed a warm crab soup. How I pitied her, watching her fingers grow slippery fighting the shells.

  That dish had a time and place. Even I enjoyed such steamed shellfish with a beer while watching the game. But never, never, in a restaurant of this caliber. She would be flicked with sauce when the shells came apart. It would mar her tissue paper dress.

  That barbarian boy was eating them with his fingers and no doubt dripping on his tie!

  Disgusting…

  When she was properly trained, obedient, and docile, I would reward her by seating her at that very table they shared in her shame this night. Dazzlingly her with the manners of a true gentleman. I’d see she ate the perfect collection of dishes. I’d see her smile at me as she smiled at him. And when eyes were averted, I’d see her on her knees under that white table cloth, sucking my cock for dessert.

  I’d chose her underthings, her dress, the shade of her lipstick.

  But first things first…

  My angel declined a second glass of that atrocious wine, and from my shadowy corner, the corners of my lips turned up.

  She had once given me the strangest and most appealing of compliments. My angel had claimed I had a dangerous smirk.

  That’s my girl.

  Refined, poised, completely wasted working the counter of the chic local wine shop. Utterly too good for the filth talking with his mouth open across from her. But she didn’t seem to grasp that. Smiling, attentive.

  God… she looked happy.

  Unacceptable.

  Grinding teeth that had been expertly straightened by the best orthodontist money could buy, I felt a growl catch in my throat.

  Fucking slut! Traitorous bitch!

  My angel was lucky I had slaked my urges before I had left work on that insane menace. Lucky I had seen the blood-drained corpse of Mrs. Boyd and reveled in the sight before I showered, changed, and arrived on fucking time, to see her. How dare she look at any man but me in such a way!

  I would carve these rules straight onto her ass if I must. Make sure she saw it in the mirror every goddamn time she was naked.

  In the near future, she would only look at me. Only speak to me. No other. Ever.

  A deep breath, blown out slowly between pursed lips slowed my heart rate. Now was not the time for anger. My angel would face that later.

  But I knew I’d go soft on her. How could I resist those eyes?

  I’d hurt her, yes, but in a gentle manner. Lick her cunt, nibble her clitoris, finger her ass, and come down her silken throat. Teach her to relish the edge of pain in pleasure.

  She would worship me.

  And because I love her, I would expend my more aggressive tendencies on those at the asylum who deserved to be cowed.

  I’d face fuck them, and then I would go home and make love to my wife.

  I’d fuck their asses dry, then scrub clean of their madness and tend to my wife’s every physical pleasure.

  She would worship my cock.

  The fucking lunatics would fear it.

  The perfect balance of a man of my prowess and skill.

  And that boy with her tonight. If he ever so much as looked at her again, by the time I was done with him, I’d hire five disease-riddled crackheads to expend their filth in his every orifice while I broadcasted it live on the internet.

  Their main course arrived.

  In five minutes flat, my angel’s date had gluttonously cleared his plate. Standing to excuse himself for the restroom, he forgot to button his jacket. More importantly, she had not even eaten half of her pasta, and he thought it decent to leave her unattended.

  Seeing her so slighted cooled my temper and made my arms ache to pull her to my chest and tell her what a good girl she was.

  The best girl. My girl.

  Corners of my mouth blotted, I set the pristine white napkin to my table and rose. Unlike the poor excuse for a man wasting her time, the top button of m
y jacket was closed. Shoulders back, smooth as silk, I too eased my way toward the men’s room.

  Couples paid me no mind, not when they were wrapped up in the ecstasies of their Valentine’s dinner. Low conversation surrounded my easy walk to the hall where I’d end my angel’s interest in this man.

  The perfect day to stake my claim.

  He was at the urinal, shriveled cock in hand. Head thrown back, Buck projected a loud sigh toward the ceiling. Letting it all out.

  Pig.

  Managing the criminally insane required more than a keen mind. It required a body honed and trained in takedown protocol. I knew just what kind of pressure to exert when my forearm circled Buck’s throat. The expired jock thrashed, piss missing the porcelain and dribbling down his pants when I cut off his air.

  Lucky for him, not a drop was splashed on me.

  I would have cut his fucking throat if he’d ruined this suit. After all, I’d had it made in the very shade of gray she’d chosen to paint her bedroom walls. It complimented my tan skin. It fit like a glove. And it was hers. Just as I was.

  I already had a long list of peasants who would be left in a shallow grave for speaking rudely to her at the store.

  But this boy, this wriggly fish already going limp in my grip… I needed this piece of human filth to live.

  A breathing example my angel would have to face.

  Calm, the dulcet tone I worked over riled patients drifted from my lips to caress Buck’s ear. “When you were fourteen you convinced your anorexic sister to suck your tiny cock. Told her you’d teach her what boys like and swore you’d make her popular like you.”

  Face going red, hardly able to speak, Buck grunted, “What the fuck, man?”

  “What would the world think if they knew? How about if they knew about your love of animals? You don’t even want to get me started on the horse cock plaguing your browser history. Tsk tsk, Buck. Not sure your buddies on the force would look so kindly at your love for donkey shows. You’d never get that dream job as a cop, Mr. Mall Security Guard, nor would you ever live it down. I’d make sure of that.”