She is a trophy, a prize, a pelt, an achievement, a number.

One more example, living (for the moment) proof of the fact that he himself is alive, that this is reality, that he is capable and more than capable of acting, of imposing his will on the stuff of reality, of capturing, isolating, possessing for himself alone a prime example of nature's bounty.

And of proving that he rules existence itself.

Because there is no question here but that she is his to do with as he will.

There is nothing, nothing, nothing between them.

She is lost to him and no power on earth can save her.

Take that! And that! And that!

Thus does he shout at her in his mind, with each powerful, vicious thrust of his mighty, his unstoppable prick.

He is beating at her with it, the battering ram of his cock head beating down her defenses, destroying them, turning her into a mass of helpless flesh before the onslaught of his vitality.

Strength and strength and strength he has. And he does not want, does not need her love or even her permission.

He is that which rules, that which controls, that which owns without condition or hindrance.

His is the power of life and death, his the ability to render that which is alive and beautiful into nothingness, the ultimate act of possession.

And he despises her for her foolishness, her helplessness.

"So," Cynthia says, looking at the blown up photograph, "it begins."

Nancy, looking over Cynthia's shoulder, shrugs.

"Looks like a regular hump to me," she says.

"Don't you believe it, kiddo, not for one second.

"Right, Vanessa?"

"Right.

"We have here the sicko in Phase One of his nasty little plan.

"The mental trip.

"Right now, he's all ‘night-before-Christmassy'.

"Only believe me, it's not visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

"I've got no sympathy for the creep, but I do understand what drives him.