Steal You

by KD Robichaux

  Charlie Aimworth is one of the most well-known and respected deans in academia; he would’ve had my fucking balls in a vice and I’d be dead to the world. My reputation would’ve been destroyed, and God knows what my little bird would have gone through. Jacqueline's ruthless, and I wouldn't let my pet suffer at her fucking hands. I sacrificed my life with Lizith for hell with Jacqueline.

  I agreed to stay married and walk away from Lizith as long as Jacqueline agreed to give me a child. I’ve always wanted a family, even though one wouldn't peg me for a family man. I may be dark and my desires even more cryptic, but deep inside me there is still that normal human desire. The darkness surrenders to that light, and if I am going to stay in this unhappy marriage, then I need something to bring me to the surface when I begin to drown in Jacqueline's rip-roaring river.

  “How was your chump in a cup? Did you get enough in there to prove how weak your shitty little swimmers are?” Her eyes narrow in on my cock behind my jeans.

  I scoff, dropping my keys and traveling to the fridge to get myself started on a drinking bender to prepare for the fight of the night. “Darling, insulting me won’t make me insecure. Don’t be so childish. It only ages you.” I throw the lid of my beer in the trash and scorn her with a look over the bottom of my bottle after I raise it to my lips.

  Seething, she hisses her response. “God, I fucking hate you.”

  “There is a door, babe.” I nudge my shoulder in the direction of the door, hoping this will be the time she walks away without a fight. But I would be foolish to think her leaving, even on her own freewill, would be clean. Jacqueline would never let me be happy.

  “I plan to make this worse for you. Don’t you know that?” she asks, rising and rounding the counter to stand in front of me. Her dragon nails still wrapped around the rim of the wine glass, she stops just inches in front of me.

  “You and I both. You think you stand a chance of outdoing me, Jac, but you don’t. Take as long as you want making me wait for my child, but just know the longer you keep up this cruel, miserable bitch act, I will stand on the sidelines laughing.” I step in closer, within an inch or two of her Botoxed face.

  “You sick bastard, I fucking hate you!” She loses the glass, throwing it behind me and letting it shatter against the kitchen wall, her wine staining the paint and hardwood floor. I don’t even flinch, my cares fucking gone. She storms out to the foyer, kicking the metal suit of armor some of my students gifted me with three years ago, as she screams, “And get rid of this ugly goddamn thing!” like she does almost daily before leaving the apartment with her bag and keys. Off to complain to her fucking father, I'm sure, but better for me to have the rest of the night off from her and her mind games.

  Grabbing another beer, I head for my study, ready to blow off some steam. My red-blooded desire to mate has hit me. I’m angry and pent up, and her attitude just reminds me of a certain darker-haired beauty who used to defy me just to rile me up. Lizith loved my heavy hand on her pert ass, my grip wrapped around her throat while I fucked her wildly, and goddammit if she were here, I would do it. I would go to my little bird and fuck her mercilessly, filling her with my cum.

  The dark wooden floors and my floor-to-ceiling windows invite me in, setting the dark mood to match my rage. I take a seat at my desk and close my eyes, letting my breathing mellow out, repeatedly inhaling and exhaling deep and loud. My veins are on fire with hot blood pumping like lava inside me, and my mind is spinning with the images of my possession.

  “Lizith. What a beautiful name. Exotic tasting.” I look over the brunette siren with green eyes standing in front of me. She’s my student; this is taboo, and it’s everything I want. I’ve never fucked a student, but I want to fuck her, mark her crudely with my cum on those pouty lips. My bite marks would decorate her already luscious tits even more. And hidden behind that tiny denim skirt, I know in my very bones there is a virgin pussy waiting to be fucked by a real man.

  Her cheeks have flushed red, and the bridge of her button nose and the tops of her cheeks have also darkened a shade. Everything about her screams virgin.

  “Um, I’m sorry, what?” Lizith’s eyes sparkle, damp with aroused tears. I see the crazy in her waiting to be discovered. I want that crazy, and it’s just sitting inside her, dormant, and I plan to be the one to set it free. Technically still married to a woman I hate will not hold me back. Because the second I saw that innocent little thing step into my classroom, I knew hell had handed over my wild little bird. The devil danced inside me, and Lizith answered to her master’s call for a waltz.

  “I know you didn't really come up here to my desk on your first day to ask me if I prefer papers to be typed or handwritten,” I respond cockily, my brow quirked. I take note in the way her breath hitches and the veins in her neck move with her swallow.

  “Professor, I… I don't think I understand. I really just want to know which you prefer.” She bats her lashes and bites her lip, and I see it then. Little bird is asking for her wings to spread.

  “Fine, pretend you didn't come up here to tempt me.” I stand, knowing I am playing with fire. This is the first conversation we have ever had, seeing as she stepped into my classroom barely an hour ago. Yet, little does she know I’ve been anxiously waiting for her, Lizith Morrison, to arrive. Checking the door of my classroom to make sure it is closed, I see shadows pass outside the tapered glass as I step up to her. Her front touches mine and I smirk. Without a second longer, reading her willingness to stay and tiptoe into the water of the unknown, I wrap my hand around her throat forcefully, and she gulps, her eyes widening, but a little smirk tugs at her lips.

  This crazy fucking temptress. She is nothing like I expected.

  “I like my papers in pen when you are the one behind the ink. But make sure you don’t draw outside the lines, Lizith. I don’t like to be disobeyed.”

  A lone tear leaves her eye and her cheeks color, a beautiful shade of fucking rose. “Yes, Professor. I promise to stay inside the lines.”

  And just like that, she becomes mine. I will be her keeper, and I will train her to obey all I want her to. I know this woman has the power to change me just like I have the power to ruin her. And I can’t wait to see just how much she can take.

  I come to, leaving the memory on repeat in my mind. I miss Lizith, and if I could I would find her, touch her, fuck her, and steal her back from whatever fool is probably occupying her time in a poor attempt to replace me. But if my heart is as in tune with hers as I believe it is, I know out there I am still ruling her mind, her fucking soul.

  I need my little bird.

  Chapter 4

  Lizith

  “Please remove your clothing from the waist down. There is a sheet for you there on the examination table to cover yourself with. Press the green button on the wall when you are ready for the doctor to come in,” I say into my full-length mirror that stands next to my closet door, giggling as I pull the string on my scrub bottoms. It’s the usual spiel we give our patients at the beginning of their appointments.

  The blue fabric falls to my feet and I step out of them, reaching for the hem of my top and lifting it over my head before letting it fall to the floor. Seeing myself standing there in nothing but my colorful lace lingerie—the only thing I wear because Xander always loved his little bird’s feathers to be bright and lovely, the opposite of the whore he was married to—my eye twitches, seeing the pool of clothing at my feet.

  “Nothing but perfection, Lizith. You must not disobey,” I whisper as I gather up the scrubs and rush them out to the hallway, tossing them into the washer. My strict routine has been thrown off by coming home from work early. The anxiety lessens as I make my way back into my bedroom, perching upon the edge of my mattress as I reach for my phone.

  Sliding my finger across the glass, I open Glow, my period tracking app, on my phone. The calendar pops up, and I see my last menstrual cycle began nine days ago. I gasp, closing my eyes as I hold the cell to my chest, careful not to di
sturb the syringe still hugged between my breasts as I fall backward onto my bed.

  “Please, God, let this work,” I whisper, and then my eyes snap open as I recite to the ceiling. “Depending on the number of days in a woman’s cycle, which is an average of twenty-eight days, she will normally ovulate on day fourteen, counting the day her period starts as day one. Sperm have an average life span of seventy-two hours. Most die off in the acidic vaginal canal after twelve. But once they are in the right cervical fluid, they can be found with weak motility but still alive for up to seven days inside a woman’s body.”

  Five days. I don’t ovulate for five more days. So there will be no taking the easy way into this.

  I sit up, pulling my purse over to me, my jaw ticking at the fact I hadn’t placed it in its proper spot on my couch even as I pull the glass container, pill bottle, and syringe out of its depths. I stand, lining all the items up on my nightstand, before pulling the catheter and speculum out of my bag, setting them on the foot of my bed. Satisfied, I take my purse out to the living room and put it in its rightful place on the couch cushion closest to my front door.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as my body relaxes, knowing my master’s good little bird fixed her mistake. I prance back into my bedroom on my toes before stopping in front of my nightstand once more.

  Pulling the cap off of a syringe, I stick it into the glass container, all the while narrating, “Gonadotropins are hormones—luteinizing hormone, also known as LH, and follicle-stimulating hormone, also known as FSH—that can be given in an injection to stimulate a woman's ovaries to produce follicles, which contain an oocyte, better known as an egg.” I take the prepared shot and walk over to my full-length mirror, tracing my fingers over my stomach, below my belly button. In a trance, remembering Professor Stine’s speech word for word, I continue, “Gonadotropins may be given to women as a fertility treatment if she does not ovulate, or if she ovulates irregularly, in order to stimulate development of a single follicle and ovulation of a single egg. It may also be given to women who ovulate normally. The injection may improve the chances of becoming pregnant by stimulating the ovaries to produce more than one follicle.”

  And with that, I stab the needle into my stomach, pressing the plunger with my thumb, biting my lip as I savor the sting. I dispensed way more than what would normally be prescribed to a woman for fertility treatment, and I’m not entirely sure this will work to bring on my ovulation faster, but it can’t hurt.

  I walk into my bathroom and properly dispose of the syringe before flouncing back to my nightstand. I pull open the top drawer and grab one of the mini bottles of water I keep there for when I get thirsty in the middle of the night, twisting the top off and placing it on the table. I open the pill bottle there, pouring a number of the pills into my palm. “Clomiphene citrate is a synthetic medication that is available in pill form. It is often used as a first-line therapy for women who do not ovulate and exerts its effect on the ovaries indirectly by stimulating the body's own hormones.”

  I toss back the medication and swallow them with my water, replacing the caps on each of the bottles. I take the pills, the glass container of hormones, and empty water bottle into my bathroom, carefully lining the prescriptions up in my medicine cabinet attached to the wall, and throw my trash away, smiling at what a tidy and perfect little bird I am for my master. I think back to a time when I wasn’t so neat, just a messy freshman in college with her things strung around her off-campus apartment.

  “My pet’s cage is filthy. When I return, I want your shit cleaned up and your nest perfectly straightened. Do you understand, little bird? I will not tolerate anything other than your space being as bright and lovely as you. If not, I will not hesitate to punish you.”

  My punishment always equaled the severity of my indiscretion, so occasionally I’d leave my shoes outside their place next to the front door just to provoke a light spanking. But the pleasure I received when I was his perfect little pet far outweighed the dark indulgence of pain. So I did my best to keep everything obsessively clean.

  Giggling at the memory, I twirl back into the bedroom and over to the mirror. Grasping both sides of the curved stand, I carefully slide it across my lush, perfectly white carpet, wincing as the feet of the mirror mess up the triangles made by the vacuum moving back and forth across its fibers. I will fix them later, because right now, the most important thing is lining the mirror up with the bed so I can see how to do what I’ve only watched trained medical doctors perform on other people.

  When I have the mirror butted up against the mattress, I skip over to the opposite side of the bed, tilting my head to the side to take in my setup, and grin. “Very good,” I chirp, and then pull the pillows from beneath my colorful comforter, stacking them in front of my hips. Taking hold of my panties, I slide them down my legs then place them flat atop my dresser. I leave my bra on, as it holds the syringe full of Xander’s semen to my body, against my heart. Climbing up onto my bed, careful not to disturb the instruments at the foot of the mattress, I lie back, propped up with my pillows in order to see my reflection. I spread my legs, seeing my pussy lips glisten with arousal knowing I will soon be once again full of my master’s cum.

  I reach for the speculum and, watching in the mirror, I insert it inside myself. “The doctor will use a speculum to hold open the patient’s vagina in order to get a clear view of the cervix. Depending on the tilt of the uterus, this can determine whether it will need to be manually readjusted in order to reach the opening. The catheter will then be inserted through the cervix, and using an X-ray, will be fed into the uterus until it is lined up with the fallopian tube expected to drop the follicle for that cycle. The washed semen will then be injected through the catheter.”

  Carefully, I get the speculum adjusted, cranking it open as far as I can stand so I can see what I’m doing. It’s uncomfortable, almost to the point of pain, being spread so wide, but I know my effort will be worth it if this works. It takes me a few tries, but I’m finally able to insert the catheter through the tiny opening of my cervix, but without an X-Ray machine, I have to just pray for the best when it comes to the placement deep inside me.

  I let go of the thin, clear tube and grasp hold of the syringe between my breasts, feeling its warmth in my cool palm. I tug the cap off and close my eyes, pressing the plastic filled with Xander’s cum to my lips in an emotional kiss. “I’ll give you what she won’t, my love. I’ll make your dreams come true and give you the child you always wanted. It’s up to me to help you keep all your promises she forced you to break,” I breathe.

  Attaching the syringe to the open end of the catheter, I take a deep breath before letting it out and completely relaxing, and press the plunger. I melt into my pillows propping me up, my body going dead weight as I imagine the clear liquid swirling inside my womb. I feel my heart explode with love for Xander Stine, and through that overwhelming onslaught of emotion, I plead with my organs. “Please. Let this work. Give the man who owns you everything he’s ever dreamed of.”

  I remove the catheter and speculum, and carefully lie perfectly flat on the bed, not wanting to take the chance of expelling any of the liquid gold from my uterus. I have to fight with all my might not to properly dispose of the instruments, knowing I can’t rise from my horizontal position just yet. So to distract myself, I remember back to Xander’s and my first time making love, when I gave him my most precious gift.

  My eyes water after my third spanking for tempting my keeper. I shouldn't talk to boys just to get attention from Xander when he isn't spoiling me. He has played me like a fiddle, bouncing me back and forth like a stress ball between his heavy hands, making my mind go crazy and my heart rattle loose.

  I love him.

  I have loved him since the first day he tempted me with the hiss of his tongue and the cruel enticing words that dripped from those lips. The lips that have only ever kissed me, nothing more. Lips that have never touched me past where I speak of all the ways I would love him
and worship him if he would just let me.

  I’ve begged him to be my first touch, but he keeps pushing it off, telling me I’m not ready to break yet, not ready to be numb inside. “I’m not ready to watch the light leave your eyes or the sanity leave your mind. I will destroy your heart, Lizith. But first I need to make sure my bird can handle her wings being broken.”

  I am ready, and today I tempted the beast, poked him with a stick, and now he’s angry. He’s fuming, and hell is wreathed in a cloud of smoke around him.

  “Dominic, stop!” I giggle louder, just a few minutes until class starts. My classmate, who has drooled at my feet since the first day of class, is sadly the pawn in my twisted and petty little girl games.

  My keeper hates games.

  I’m not sure what Dominic says, but when he laughs, I join in, using it as a way to get Xander’s attention. I bite my lip and take the tip of my finger, trailing it up the length of Dominic's decent-sized bicep. It is a hot dog against a slab of succulent meat compared to Xander’s. He is nothing compared to my owner.

  I peer over and he isn't looking up from his desk. My entire body erupts in goose bumps, both an indication of my annoyance and arousal. I’m turned on that he isn't giving me the attention I’m looking for. He’s made me crazy.

  I used to be such a nice girl. A normal girl. Now I’m stumbling foot over foot to gain attention from the man with enough danger in the tips of his fingers that it should make me run. I used to spend every night playing violin, or drawing in my notepad. But now I spend it naked, in the middle of my bed, reading poems of a dark nature with words of dangers in love and ownership.

  He towers over me those nights, touching himself while I softly whimper the words of wishes that I desperately want to feel and not just hear and wonder. Before he leaves at night, he binds my hands behind my back and kisses me from the top of my head, down between my strained shoulder blades, along the thin trail of my spine, and over my wrists and fingers. Xander whispers praise against my butt, biting the skin and bruising it.