All Magenta knew was that he was full of himself. Not one question in her direction, not a whisker of interest in her hopes, dreams, or digestion. He was like reader's digest, blithering on about faded historical events as if he had been there. He's nothing but a hunk of meat, tasty, but needs alittle tenderising, and deserved to be treated exactly as HE was treating her, like an object. She would enjoy reversing roles, once she had a more private opportunity.

Oh, God, here come those ninnies, Freda, JennyO and Sandra. A bunch of old whithersticks, busybodies determined to interfere, maybe even hoping to get their teeth into Vlad. Well, too bad, he's mine, they can go home and sleep with their garters on.