She stood in front of the large french doors of her studio, contemplating the magnificent view below. Studio was an apt name for the space as she created art within it, art though that few would recognize as such. Her art was her ability to raise excruciating pain, abiding fear, and ultimately graceful death. She was a vampire, not the caricature of fiction, not an animal that fed upon blood, but a goddess of power that fed upon the pain and fear she was able to inflict upon others.

She wore little, patent leather stiletto heels, black with red trim, and a PVC waist cincher to match. She knew that her trim body looked spectacular, and she was dressed in such a way because her latest plaything was scheduled to arrive at any moment.

She mused that intellectually he knew what she was, and what he would experience, for she found it easy to be perfectly honest with her potential victims. She learned centuries ago that the world was filled with men who needed to be hurt by the women they loved, better yet that some of these men could not find personal fulfillment in anything less than the most extreme torture and humiliation. Men who sought annihilation at the hands of a woman. She also knew though that the reality would be a tremendous shock to him, that nothing could truly prepare him for the short lifetime he had left. Intellectually he could embrace what was to come, but his emotions would be much less strong.

She thought of their shared future together. She would use him physically in ways he could scarcely imagine, cause him to feel exquisite pains beyond any level of human endurance, day and night he would experience long periods of horror for much like the drinking of blood, sunlight's disastrous effects upon vampires was a human myth.

Mentally too he would suffer. She was expert at humiliation, verbal abuse, and emotional torture. He would cry as she laughed, despair as she smiled, loose himself under the assault of her words.

These times of activity would be interspersed for him with times of loneliness and fear. Times when he would be given nothing to distract him from his thoughts of what he would next endure. When he had recovered from her previous games, when his fear had again reached a fevered pitch she would return to him, force him to suffer actively once again.

She knew that his body was young and powerful, yet it would not remain so. She would change it, modify it to suit her twisted imagination, weaken it through abuse and deliberate harm. Eventually, as she always did she would grow bored with him. She would again desire a strong male body instead of the wreck she had wrought. When that happened she knew that he would have to die. He would finally, and in the most painful yet artful way possible be annihilated by her.

She turned from the glass doors and was snapped out of her reflections by a soft knock at the door. Her victim, her food, had arrived.