Chapter 1, A woman and her detective partner/lover helps to catch a serial killer that has been a fugitive for 3 years.

Author's Note: Hello guys, I had a dream about this. I don't know...it was weird as hell. But I decided to write a stroy about it. Not an erotica this time which is shocking. lol. If you don't like women being killed (Who does?) don't read this. those chapters are coming up soon. Bye guys.

Chapter 1: A page from the journal of Blake Calliker

April 3, 2003

My name, Is Blake Calliker. I am twenty four years old.

And I like to watch people die.

I haven’t always been sick but since seeing my brother die right in front of my eyes, I’ve become obsessed with the whole concept of death.

I didn’t realize that watching females die was even more satisfying than watching a male.

I decided to go farther in with this experiment.

I kidnapped a girl. She was twenty and was best friends with my brother in high school.

She was….pretty.

Very pretty actually.

I can still recall that moment.

I had her chained to my bed.

Her screams and cries were loud in my ear and I ripped her panties off and continued staring at her.

“Blake. Blake.” Her voice squeaked and it made me feel something.

The sudden sense of control turned me on more than I’ve ever been.

I stared at her and I suddenly felt a strange urge to just…..

I walked over to her and let my finger slide down her body, from her forehead down to her womanhood.

And once again, it turned me on.

“Blake. Let me go. Please.”

She whispered.

“I can’t.” I whispered breathless.

I shake my head and slowly unbutton my pants and exhales as I pull them down.

She stiffens and then shakes her head. “No please. Blake. Please.”

Right now, all I see is red. I don’t even feel like myself at this moment. I feel beyond that.

As I pull my pants down, I stare at her.

As I walk over to her and get onto the bed I stare down at her.

“No. Blake, you don’t have to do this. You don’t. Just unchain me.” She whispered.

I sighed and climb on top her body.

She starts to scream and squirm underneath me but I don’t move. I stay where I am not meeting her eyes. I stare forward at the wall as I dive into her tight heat.

And these memories are things I write into this journal. Because I want to be found. I want the people to know about the victims I’ve killed. About the terrible things I’ve done to teenage girls.

About the things I’ve done to women.

I aim for the youngest ones.

I’m lost

I feel no fear.

I’m cold.

I’m heartless.

I’m dead inside.

And I like it.

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