She felt good. Strong, in control, with the constant urge of her hunger to keep her on edge.
She looked good. Her costume, her body, her presence were the bait for the trap that she was. The trap had never failed. Soon it would spring again.
She searched for a man. A certain kind of man - a man who would fall beneath the spell of her imperious will, who would follow without question or hesitation to the ecstasy she promised. That the path would be dangerous would not stop such a man. The man she wanted would be captivated, rendered without will by the strength of her hunger. He waited for her appearance in the night, never suspecting what he was awaiting, only knowing it would come.
She had dressed with her usual care for the evening, her stockings hugging the long, sensuous legs with their full hips. Her garters were unadorned black, and she disdained other under- wear. Her blouse was black silk, endlessly caressing her imper- tinently erect nipples. The skirt and jacket, both short and tight, were of thin, supple, black leather. Her only concession to color was the blood-red scarf around her throat. She was a beast of prey, and the night was her hunting ground.
Her entrance into the bars and nightclubs of the city was always dramatic, though no one could say precisely why. She dominated any room she was in, but remained aloof from most who tried to speak with her. One man would be favored - for no apparent reason - and they would leave together. Soon, the evening's victim would be found.
Frank Jones was a loser. He hadn't started out that way, but life and his temper had brought him to this state. He had run away from the orphanage at thirteen, and survived on his wits until now. He liked to fight, he liked to drink, and he had been in and out of jail more times than he could remember. He had been living with a cocktail waitress until he had come home a little too drunk and knocked her through the bedroom wall for some unremembered reason. He was at his favorite bar, drinking his whiskey, unknowingly awaiting his date with destiny.
Frank suddenly realized that the bar had grown quiet. He looked up to see a timeless vision of sensuality gazing at him from the door. There was something dangerous about her, something that shouted in his alcohol-fogged brain, vainly trying to get his attention. He only knew that this was the most interesting woman he had ever seen, and his desire to know her increased even as his penis thickened in his pants. His drink forgotten on the bar, Frank Jones rose to meet his fate.
From the moment they left the bar, he never had a chance. The aphrodisiac of her scent (he thought it was perfume) kept his body and mind lustfully occupied. The small liberties she permitted as she drove them to her house were enough to keep him focussed on her, and not the route. As she pulled into a garage, he realized he had no idea where they were. The closing overhead door gave him no clues. His earlier apprehensions began to return, but before he could do more than get out of the car his last opportunity to escape was lost.
Out of the public eye, she no longer needed to maintain her masquerade of humanity. With the strength granted by her trans- formation, she twisted Frank's arms behind his back and propelled him toward the stairs at the side of the garage. She was already beginning to take her sustenance, feeding on his growing fear. He was a strong man, and would last a long time.
Frank's fear grew worse as he realized he was being taken into a specially prepared cellar, with massive soundproof walls, no windows, and many conveniently placed iron rings set into the floor, walls, and ceiling. He experienced a flare of hope when he was released, shoved rudely into the middle of the room. As he got to his feet, she closed and locked the door.
