I'm Sawree

By B.B. Blaque

★★A VERY DARK & PSYCHOLOGICAL EROTIC-THRILLER
WARNING: Graphic adult content that may be very disturbing to some readers. May contain triggers, proceed at your own risk. This book is extremely dark, please take this warning under advisement before deciding to read.

★NO HERO but 1 EVIL VILLAIN
★NO ROMANCE
★NO HEA OR HFN . . . Happily never after maybe

★★• ́ ̧.•* ́ ̈) ̧.•* ̈)

I’m Sawree Reese and one day I happened to find the mutilated bodies of nine people—crazy right? Shit like that changes you into something you never imagined and we all cope in different ways—mine is art

Bloody

Gruesome art

When that doesn’t work I turn to the most evil and sadistic man I’ve ever known—Master Sterling

He has ways of helping me exorcise the demons that are totally heinous, but they work . . . until they don’t

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

I’m STERLING—I’m the closest thing to a demon you’ll ever find in a man

I have a vested interest in Sawree Reese that goes well beyond the atrocities I relish in my dungeon.

Some fear me . . . others respect me . . . and those who choose to deny my existence will ultimately pay the price

Sometimes you know the game . . . Sometimes you know the players . . . Then there are times when everything you thought you knew is thrown out the window

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.B. Blaque
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370639274

B.B. Blaque

I'm a hopeless romantic. Even when I think it's hopeless, it always woos me back . That is the power of hope and with hope anything is possible. I believe in the transforming power of love, even when done wrong, it always leaves its mark on your heart, coloring how you will love in the future. With these things in mind, I write about transformation, acceptance and overcoming--through and with love. I choose to write about Domination and submission and the subtle nuances of these relationships that take them beyond role play. I'm inspired to write by things I see, smell, experience and largely by what I hear. Music and the sound of someone's voice are two of my favorite indulgences. I've written for as long as I can remember and now, I'm truly inspired to do more.

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Copyright © 2017 B.B. BLAQUE

All rights reserved.

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Thank you for your support

DEDICATION

Thank you Crafty for leading me into the darkness and then following me down the rabbit holes—don’t deny it—it was fun! Love you!

Thank you Gypsy girl for loaning me your eyes and brain when I needed it most. Love you!

Diamond Plate Divas (street team) I thank and love you all for the support.

The Beta Beauties—thanks for letting me know I didn’t miss the mark even if I lost my mind.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

1

2

Doc 1

3

4

5

6

7

Doc 2

8

9

10

Doc 3

11

Doc 4

12

13

14

15

16

17

Doc 5

18

19

Doc 6

20

21

Epilogue

Playlist

Prologue

Every year I bring them cupcakes. I know, it’s a little weird, but I’ve never claimed to be normal. Nothing has been the same since the murders, and the least I can do is pay some sort of tribute to those poor people. Cupcakes are usually for celebrations—my sister never fails to remind me. I get that, I do. What happened couldn’t be further from a reason to party, but what would be upper echelon appropriate?

Oh, I do bring a flask, filled with my libation of the month. I can barely use that word without laughing. This time I decided to go with a fine honey whiskey. I’m in an autumn mood and the flavor fits.

After I place a cake in front of each door on the long hallway, and put one aside for my sister, I sit, in the dead center—poor choice of words huh?—and eat the last of them myself. I toast to the lives so brutally taken that day and lick the frosting from my fingers. It’s my ritual.

When the ceremonial stuff is done I jam music and start painting. The place has been deserted since that day, but I come every year anyway—adding art to the graffiti tags and feces smeared on the walls. I always choose red—like the gushing blood that day.

Sawree . . . you’re so predictable.

And there she is.

Part of the yearly festivities was the visit from my sister. I didn’t have to hear her click down the halls to find me and she didn’t need to follow the music to make her way to my spot.

If I was predictable, what was she?

Come on . . . sit . . . eat . . . drink . . . celebrate the lives those people lost. I blew smoke onto the dilapidated wall and watched it vanish over the fresh paint. I’d already had a few good slugs off the flask and was feeling the effects. I tried to get her to take a sip with me each time. She always declined. It never changed.

Fancy schmansey bitch!

I can’t believe you . . .

Ooo now for her finger pointing—the scolding of Sawree.

Look at you! You’re a disaster . . . you can afford better jeans . . . when was the last time you brushed that hair.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

I stood up, kicked off my boots, and aimed my full paintbrush in her direction. Bright red paint, cherry I think, splattered past her and landed against the wall.

These are my favorite jeans . . . rat holes . . . paint splatter and all. They’re comfortable and look great on my ass if I do say so myself!

I hate it when she pulls this shit. What does she care how I dress or how I decide to undo my hair?

Really, Sawree . . . don’t you have any respect . . . for yourself . . . or anyone else?

She hates who I am—everything about me—to the very core of my core—she loathes me.

Sawree, your shirt is in tatters, falling off your shoulders . . .

That totally haughty tone just ripples off of her. I do the ‘spider down your shirt wiggles’ every time she does it.

Bitch!

Bex, what do you care? It’s not as if I’m asking you to wear it! I’m not trashing you for wearing your ugly uptight pantsuits. That shit makes you look like you think you’re fucking Jackie O.

Well, at least my breasts aren’t falling half out of my clothes . . . you stink of cigarettes and alcohol . . .

It was the same fucking shit every year with the same outcome. She’d rant and leave in a huff. I’d stay, drinking and painting by candle light until whatever I was working on felt done.

I dared to mock her usual diatribe, Sawree, how can you go out like that . . . Sawree, why must you walk around barefooted . . . Sawree, why won’t you take pride in your appearance?

I felt the disgust roll off her upturned nose, the grimace was disapproving.

Bitch!

I’ll see you at home . . . whenever you decide to get there.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Gone!

The outcome was always the same. You’d think she’d figure that out, but no, not Miss High N. Mighty. Maybe Becky was drawn to it too. Maybe she just wouldn’t admit it—instead she sneaks out of the corner all detached and bitchy.

Nothing had been the same since that day.

She hadn’t been the same.

I hadn’t been the same since I found nine people slaughtered.

So excuse the ever living fuck out of me . . . I’m not normal.

Splat . . . back to making art out of murder.

1

I got home with a nice little buzz, okay more than a little, and Becky was sound to sleep. Thank Christ! It’s one thing for her to show up at my party, but to do her whole condemnation thing like she always does.

Every.

Fucking.

Year.

The shit just gets old and tired like her. I’d rather be dressed in my torn up rags, and doing my art than dressing like I’m going to a fucking cocktail party. The nine to five grind just doesn’t work for me. I’m what they’d call a free spirit but with a lot more fuck you.

If I painted Bex, she’d be in white, pinks, and pretty yellows. On the other hand, if I was to paint me—and I have—I’m black, blue, and many shades of red. It’s my favorite color. I know . . . morbid . . . but whatever.

I crushed out my cigarette—I’m sure she was bitching in her sleep because of the filthy odor—and pulled off my jeans. I left them in their usual spot—on the floor. Then, I slid into my messed up bed and barely stopped before banging myself on the headboard. My shirt still smelled of paint, alcohol, and the musty rancid smell of that place.

I reached down to double-check between my thighs. Yep, panties still there.

I hadn’t hooked up somewhere in between in a drunken haze—which did happen from time to time. I’m not a slut but when the mood strikes—why not right?

Since everything was present and accounted for, I could nod off to sleep before the inevitable headache crept upon me. For some people hangovers start when they open their eyes. For me, they can start whenever I stop drinking.

I let the whiskey float me away. The dream would come tonight—it always does on the anniversary. This is why I do my best to be drunk enough to fade off and make it deep.

As soon as everything was turning black and soft I was jolted awake. It never fails—There always has to be one.

I hadn’t lived in the complex for long, but I had that one fucking neighbor who insisted on blaring music at all hours. I wouldn’t mind it if I could actually hear it, and if I didn’t know it was some fucked up la-dee-dah shit. It was always muffled, on the other side of the walls—loud enough to annoy the ever living fuck out of me . . . quiet enough to be like a dog farting from another room—silent but deadly. I banged on the walls, as if it would matter.

Turn.

That.

Crap.

Off!

Sleep . . . that’s where I was . . . well almost. I was just a few breaths before knowing nothing at all. The pillow over my head trick wasn’t working as well as I’d hoped, but I had to try something.

At some point between la-la, ooo-ooo, and dee-dah, I fell asleep to the high-pitched sounds piercing my eardrums.

2

When I woke up it was sunny and cool outside. I felt remarkably well. The dream had come and gone. I’d seen the blood.

So.

Much.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Peering through the windows of that fucking dollhouse I saw the dead remains of nine people—again . . . Then . . . the police were there. There were no sirens, but the lights always spun in circles in the dream—blue—red—blue—red. Like lights at the county fair, the colors swirled like a fast ride. I didn’t know anything and told them like a nervous stutter.

I don’t know what happened! I don’t know!

In the dream I could never hear my voice. My lips would move, and no sound would come out. The words were always the same even without my screeching exclamations . . .

I don’t know what happened! I don’t know!

I ran my hand through my near dread-locked hair, and went to the bathroom to pee. The neighbor with the music was still at it. I banged on the bathroom wall and laughed.

Really asshole? You must be kidding!

My morning started with residue of the dream still coating my brain, but this dimwit’s music was driving me nuts. I guess bad music is worse than murder to some of us.

I looked at the clock—noon. Fabulous!

It was Doctor Dingbat’s day to visit. She’d pushed, with Becky’s help, to make me continue with the stupid therapy. It was total bullshit. Becky refused to acknowledge any of it—she needed to see the doctor more than I did. Hell, what I do every year on the anniversary is proof. I found a way to deal with it head on. She was like an ostrich standing around with her head up her ass and buried in the sand.

Becky worries since I don’t work a regular job—so fucking what? My art is morose—so fucking what? Oh, and the fucking—she thinks I fuck too many people too often. To which I say—so fucking what you frigid bitch? I think she envies me. She thinks her whole gig is the proper way to live life, but deep down, under her stupid, gray, dry-clean only outfits—she wishes she had the balls to live my life.

I filled a big mug of coffee, poured a glass of soda, and lit a cigarette—the morning grind. Walking around the house I blew smoke in as many nooks as I could, to intentionally annoy her uptight ass as much as possible.

Dingbat would be here by one, and I had no intention of showering on her account. Me, and the doc had a deal—she came to me and followed my rules when she was in my space. Today, I felt like painting and not showering until I was damn good and ready. If I had to do this shit, it was on my terms. I went to my studio and cranked the music. Now the asshole in #7 would have to listen to whatever struck my fancy.

By the time I’d finished the coffee and soda—and sufficiently smoked out the apartment—I heard the buzzer for the arrival of Doctor Dingbat. If we didn’t have an appointment any other day of the year, we had it on this day—the day after my solo exposure therapy.

I lit a cigarette and walked to the door barefooted. Being in the special jeans without shoes was my version of a second skin. Add a dab of paint here, a glob of it over there, and I was in the zone. Seeing the doc was never my favorite thing to do, but if I had to, it was going to be as comfortable as I could get.

When I opened the door and she put a foot on the metal stripping, I was already walking nonchalantly toward the studio blowing a stream of smoke behind me. She knew the deal and wouldn’t expect a different greeting.

Sawree, I see you haven’t dressed up on my account.

Doctor Dimwit looked me up and down with a fascinated smirk and small laugh.

Be careful, Doc. I took a drag on my cigarette and pointed in her direction. You’ll start sounding like Becky, and you know how much I love her.

Yes, forgive me . . .

She took a seat on the beanbag chair in the corner—her spot—and continued to give me the once over—again.

But, have you seen yourself lately? You’re more disheveled than your usual.

I’ll admit, her observation was irritating, but true. I was getting tense already.

As a matter of fact—no—I haven’t spent hours preening in front of the mirror today. I didn’t realize we had a date or something.

I straddled my stool and spun around before taking another drag of