April was the greatest love of my life. She made me understand all the meaninglessness I was drowning in before we met. She transformed me from an egocentric monster into a man of reason and even tenderness.

So, of course, I had to kill her.

We met, quite by chance, at a local coffee shop. It was mid-morning and I was in a desperate need for a caffeine fix. I had spent the day doing research for my next book, and was drained from the human interaction it required. As I stumbled into the coffee house, the aroma of freshly ground beans perked my senses. I wished I had ordered all the books online and not had to hassle dealing with the pretentious sales clerks who look at me with no attempt to veil their abhorrent disgust at my choice of reading matter. However, my impatience turned out a stronger call than my desire to live as a hermit. And my addiction to caffeine had an even stronger pull on me than all my multitude of insecurities and peccadilloes.

So there I was, ordering a triple shot espresso, when I saw her. Her features, to the average observer, I suppose would be considered plain and ordinary. She had mousy brown hair held back over her forehead with a large faux tortoiseshell barrette. On her nose perched a pair of reading glasses that reminded me of something straight from the 1970s—no doubt purchased at a budget drugstore that specialized in the blue rinse aged group. Her figure was ample—bordering on plump. But two things separated her from any other girl I had ever seen—her lips. They were red, full, pouting and oh so inviting. Plus, the deal breaker was that she was heavily absorbed in a book—not overly unusual in itself; however this book is very special to me—Suffer the Children by John Saul. As my attention returned to the barista who was handing me my fix, I remember thanking him, as my mind tried to frantically search for an angle to create an introduction.

I have had limited interaction with members of the opposite sex. Not that I hadn't had desires. God, have I had those… I just never had the confidence to follow through. It seemed that fate, in this instance, was on my side, for a stumbling business man, too interested in his cell phone call, managed to trip over her feet, spilling a third of his steaming coffee on the table where she was seated. The man didn't apologize but just continued his way mindlessly to the exit, without even pausing his conversation for as much as a glance back. Grabbing a towel from the barista, I sprung into heroic action.

As I dabbed up the spilt coffee, trying to conceal my nervousness, she looked up at me with curiosity.

"Thanks," she uttered softly. "That guy redefines the term 'asshole'." Her perfectly formed mouth fashioned into a welcoming smile. I found, to my delight, that I was smiling back.

"Mind if I take a seat?" I asked, discovering my mouth now dry and not quite believing I was actually talking.

She gently nodded.

And so it began.

We sat there for over an hour—drinking coffee after coffee and discussing everything from politics to global warming, but most importantly we talked about books! It turned out that we had a mutual obsession with the macabre… and even more significantly, the thin line between pleasure and pain. We discussed in great detail the pleasure people achieve watching someone else being hurt. The fascination people have as they drive past a car crash—the one that makes them slow down, almost despite themselves, to catch a glorious glimpse of carnage. It is an impulse etched deep into our genes. Hence the popularity of such movies as Saw and the ilk; the human animal, as a general rule, extracts unparalleled pleasure from scenes of intense gore—and the more gruesome and blood-soaked the victim, the more enjoyment is attained. Yet, whereas most people are in denial of this dark side of them, maybe even ashamed or embarrassed by it, or considered it as religiously taboo—April, just as I, embraced it.

Talking to her was different, unlike any other conversation I had even had in my life. The cliché says there is somebody for everybody—I always mocked the concept, thinking that my passions for the dark underbelly of human compulsions were unique. However, to my delight, it was proving deliciously true.

Our first date was of a midnight showing of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We sat there enthralled, giggling like two adolescents throughout the entire performance. Afterwards was the first time we kissed. And oh, what a kiss! It was as if the movie had acted as some amazing aphrodisiac! I swear, every single part of me, spiritually and physically, became sexually aroused. As our tongues energetically explored each other's, I felt her teeth clamp down, to be rewarded with the sweetness of my blood. I did not pull away—on the contrary, this only aroused me further, and I allowed her to suck away for a good twenty minutes. I almost felt as if my very soul was being drained from me, yet I was savoring each blissful second. Finally, alas, the elongated kiss came to an end, and we stared into each other's eyes, not needing anything as simplistic as words to communicate.

From that point on the relationship progressed quickly. Two months later she agreed to move into my apartment—and my cold, scantily furnished residence was transformed by her decorating abilities into a home. She brought with her Stoker, a black moggie of dubious heredity. Yet, I came to adore that cat, as each night I watched, almost envious, as he went out for his midnight prowl unfettered from social taboos that restricted polite modern society. It hunted, it screwed, and it lived each moment to the fullest, relishing in all the carnal and primeval pleasures life had to offer.

Our love making was also becoming increasingly exhilarating. Our bedroom quickly transformed, in a matter of weeks, into a room resembling more of a torture chamber than sleeping quarters. Through various internet auctions we accumulated bizarre instruments to induce various levels and degrees of pain. The bed itself, a rather mundane four-poster, was replaced by an eight-foot-square rubber mat which was two inches thick; I strongly recommend them. Not only was in incredibly soft, absorbing our sexual acrobatics with amazing ease, blood—and other bodily liquid—stains were remarkably easy to eradicate simply using a cloth and an over the counter disinfectant. The instruments we used for our beating sessions were varied and included various types of whips, crops, canes, a taw, belts and my personal favorite, a leather paddle.

We delved deep, through text after text, in the deliciously wicked mind of the Marquis de Sade, delighting in his delicious, and flagrant, licentiousness. This not only elevated our sexual exploits to amazing new heights, but also proved to be excellent fodder for a novel I was writing which revolved around an autoerotic theme.

We also experimented with asphyxiophilia, taking it in turns to limit, by the use of a crimson silk kerchief, the amount of oxygen reaching our brains to both extend and heighten the pleasure from orgasm.

Yet, after several more weeks, and after pushing our insatiable bodies to the maximum, even this began to lose its desired impact, our lovemaking exploits and experimentations almost becoming dull, tedious, and worst of all, predictable. We both desperately craved more—the ultimate sexual experience—at, and this is an important point to interject, whatever cost.

We experimented with electricity next. Quite the experience, let me tell you! We plugged in a transformer and attached the positive connection to the big toe of my right foot, and the negative to April's left toe. She giggled in apprehensive anticipation as I turned the transformer on. I had the dial on low—nothing more than twenty volts at first. Wherever our bodies met, there was the tingling sensation of the current being completed. I blindfolded April with a black scarf and she lay down on the rubber mat. And then ever so gently I allowed my index finger to gradually explore every enticing curve and crevice of her sumptuous torso. She trembled with delight and delicious expectation as I ventured into her most sacred of places. She wiggled and moaned in pleasure, and as I withdrew, she begged me to continue. I knew that we were on to something—that none of our previous experiments had come anywhere close to the thrill of electricity.

Then I increased the voltage to eighty… and embraced. The sensation was erotically sublime. Every nerve in my body tingled with pleasure, and she screamed my name repetitiously in pleasure as her eager mouth navigated to my left ear and her teeth bit down hard. She was rewarded with the taste of my blood and simultaneous orgasm.

Yet still we craved more.

I turned the dial to the maximum—240 volts.

April was still blindfolded and was unaware of what I was doing. But she kept murmuring under heated breath... "More, more, for God's sake, more…"

I realized that what I was considering was risky. Damned risky, in fact. However, a small part of my brain kept insisting it was the right thing to do. Perhaps that was a little devil inside of me—or perhaps, more likely, the real me, the me that I all too often tried to suppress. The very same me I try to tame and control as I use his screaming voice to write my successful horror books. But now I could not censor or manipulate it, as it screamed repeatedly and assertively within my skull.

"More, more, more," begged April. "Give it to me, baby. Give me all you got…"

So once more I allowed my finger to caress her soft skin. However, this time she did not moan with pleasure; her body literally convulsed at my touch. I felt the electricity surge through my body causing me pain I never even dreamed was possible. Yet, despite this, I was exhilarated more than I had ever been before. I was fully aware that I was playing with death, almost taunting it. Yet this only aroused me further. April's body reacted to the jolt more dramatically than I did. For where I was more or less able to maintain a steady hand, her body continued to convulse and dance at my touch. I could see her trying to formulate words; her mouth, that luscious, inviting cavity, hung open. I slowly allowed my finger to crawl up her stomach, gently brushing her belly button. Then I realized that I too was starting to convulse—I felt as if my heart was about to beat out of my very chest. It took every ounce of self will I could muster to maintain contact with her. Agony and pleasure filled my every sense. Every memory of the past, every dream of the future was extinguished—all that remained was the powerful now, eclipsing every sensation I had ever experienced. My finger made it to the enticing cleft between her heaving breasts. I could tell by the twisted smile on her face that she was experiencing ecstasy as much as pain. Her shaking was intensifying now. All at once I plunged my finger into her mouth, and she reflectively bit down, again causing me to breathe. For a few moments we were joined more than I ever considered it possible for two people to be connected. She met my gaze; her eyes told me she was experiencing intense pleasure that neither of us had ever even contemplated up to that point.

Then she stopped moving.

I withdrew my bloodied finger and methodically turned off the transformer.

I was drained from emotion at this point, and was very matter-of-fact about the whole experience.

As I wrapped my bleeding finger with tissue, I examined April's motionless body. There was no question in my mind she was dead. But there was no doubt in my mind that this is precisely what she had wanted. Her contorted mouth appeared to still be smiling—and her eyes, despite being dead, still appeared to be filled with more life than I had ever seen in them. My only regret was that I, somehow, perhaps miraculously, had survived the ordeal. It was then a seed of emotion began to grow and fester in my gut. Not one of regret—but one of jealousy. Through death, I had given her the ultimate experience that life can offer.

I am writing this account to explain the bizarre circumstances that are surely soon to be uncovered. Some of you, reading these words, might consider what I did was an act of cruelty—and almost a deed of premeditated murder. And perhaps to a degree you are correct. But I am also equally sure that at least one of you grasps it for precisely what it was—the ultimate expression of love and sexuality.

I am now about to take the transformer to the bath tub. I am intent on filling the tub with water, climbing in, and dropping the transformer turned onto its maximum output into the water. This time death will have to envelop me, and I shall once again be joining April—almost certainly in Hell—for all eternity.

And I have to confess—I cannot wait.