From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories
Subject: CODY: MY KIND OF TOWN PART 1

The following story, in two parts, is the property of Mask Operating
System (tm), and all rights are reserved.  All matter which might be
offensive to minors or Christian American values has been rigorously
excised.

   MY KIND OF TOWN.  I DON'T THINK SO.

   PART 1

   "And how will you make them (his fantasies) real?  How will I know that
you have lived what you wrote?  Sweated, bled, screamed?  Mithryl was used
for armor; how do you make yourself vulnerable?" -- email

   *

   The inflight movie had been a bummer.  I mean, really!  Airplanes have
become extrusion tubes for force feeding pate videos de Disney about cute
kids and jerk off adults.  You don't even get a choice.  This one -- I
already couldn't remember the name of it -- had had the extra attraction of
Al Bundy, the guy who plays Al Bundy, as the heavy, an Al Bundy type
character, who coaches a football team -- what else?  -- of junior high
school post-poob jocks.  Their opponents, the main characters, were a
collection of hopelessly cute rejects who wanted, against all reason, to
play football.  God, I hate cute.  I spent most of the flight trying, not
very successfully, not to watch.  Well, I mean, they really shove it in
your face.  It's not like you can go out for a smoke.  The main suspense
had been whether the film would get finished before the plane landed at
Logan.  In fact, it wouldn't have if they hadn't fast forwarded it to the
big game, which, of course, Bundy's team lost to the losers.  I could have
gagged.  It was so pathetic.

   I have to admit it served one purpose, which was to take some of the
edge off my nerves.  I don't know whether or not I appreciate that,
because, after all, what I was going through at the moment was an integral
aspect of the trip.  But I think if I had been keyed up any more, they
would have had to restrain me.  As it was, I kept having sudden panic
attacks each time I remembered that I had been momentarily distracted from
awareness of the fact I was flying half way across the country to meet a
man who was going to beat me up and rape me.

   Staring out the window, I thought about how in a few minutes I would be
turning myself over to a total stranger.  This was the first time I had
tried something like this.  It had been on my mind for a long time. 
Gnawing at me.  Prodding me.  I had met h im on the internet.  We had
exchanged stories.  Like dozens of other people who wrote to me, he wanted
to meet me in person.  Of course, I always said no.  I wouldn't even give
out my phone number.  This was, I always excused myself, because I had made
a solemn vow to my shrink that I wouldn't before consulting with her.  But
after a year of exchanging stories, I realized that I wanted something
more. Finally, when this guy Bill invited me to come to his home near
Chicago for a long weekend, I agreed.  He paid for the ticket.  I didn't
tell Liz.  And, in fact, I hadn't told anyone where I was going.  Not even
my friend, Kelly.

   I was almost unconscious that the plane had actually landed, and that we
were at the terminal.  An aisle full of people scrambling for their
overhead luggage brought me out of my fog.  "Okay," I thought, "this is
it."

   But was it?  I could still back out.  He didn't know what I looked like.
Well, he did.  He knew I was five foot seven, with long curly red hair and
green eyes.  He knew I was nineteen years old.  I told him 19, because they
tend to freak out if they find out your real age.  He was already facing
twenty years the minute he said hello.  I didn't want to scare him further.
I was carrying a small bag.  The stuff I wear doesn't take up a lot of
space.  Most of it was cosmetics.  And boots.  Once I got in th e terminal,
I wondered how I was going to find him.  I never pay much attention to how
men describe themselves.  They are mostly all faceless, anyway.  For all I
knew, he could actually look like Al Bundy.  Boy, would that be a turnoff.
I hate that show.  In New York, persons without tickets aren't allowed in
the boarding areas.  I assumed the same applied here.  It was my first time
in Chicago.  I knew nothing about it, except the poem.  You know, the one
about the city with the big whatsit.  We had to read it in school, and of
course everyone changed the big part to you know what.  It was by someone
named Samson.  A number of people were standing around the foot of the
escalator, holding up signs.  One said "CODY".  Oh God.

   I nearly shit.  I still had time, I thought, to duck out.  I could just
keep walking.  Pretend I didn't see it.  It wasn't me.  Get in a cab.  Go
around the block and get on a plane for New York.  But just then we made
eye contact, and I knew I was stuck.

   Not that it was that hard to spot me.  I guess you could say I make a
specialty of being easy to notice.  In fact, I was suddenly aware that a
dress you might think of as casual in New York was grossly inappropriate in
Chicago.  Ever since I had gotten off the plane people had been staring at
me.  Well, I'm used to that, but this was gross.  You'd have thought I had
escaped from a zoo.  I knew it wasn't my tits, because I was wearing a blue
dyed fur jacket.  It turned out to be because my dress didn't quite make it
to the tops of my stockings.  I mean, big deal.  Okay, it didn't even make
it to my crotch, but it was a cute little Anna Sui blue slip dress, and it
molded to every curve of my body.  The guy looked a little shocked.

   "Hi.  Bill?"

   "Hello.  Welcome to Chicago." He was stocky.  Heavy set.  With big
hands. We stood there looking at each other.  He took my bag.

   "Thanks." So this was it.

   "Any other luggage?"

   "Uh, No.  Just this."

   "Glad you could make it."

   "Yeah.  I'm glad to be here." I looked at him.  He looked back.  I was
also wearing a dog collar with a ring in it.  One scenario might have been
for him to hook a leash to it and lead me out of the airport.  But this was
Chicago.

   "Have a good flight?"

   "The movie sucked," I said.  I started to complain about being forced to
look at movies I don't want to see.  He said the car was in the parking
lot. "Yeah.  Yeah.  I can't stand them either."

   Somehow we got to the car, and started for his house.  He had said he
lived in a place called North Paxton or Packwood.  I had no idea where that
was.  "Ever been to Chicago?"

   "No.  First time."

   "I love your stories."

   "Thanks.  Your's are pretty good, too."

   Well, he tried.  Actually, what made his stories interesting was they
were totally sick.  The fact that he couldn't write just made them all the
more brutal.  I love men like that.  I'm an empath -- did I mention that --
and I get totally off on everything anyone writes to me.  Like it's really
happening.  To me.  Inside me.  The brutality in his pieces was the main
reason I had chosen to accept his invitation among all the others.  I mean,
if you're going to do it, why not go for the best?  I didn't wan t to end
up with a wimp who thought spanking was extreme sadism.  Bill was pointing
out different landmarks of interest as we went by.  I turned sideways so I
could face him, sliding one leg up under the other.  He glanced at my
exposed panties.  They wer e sheer black nylon that did nothing to conceal
my thick mat of crotch hair curling out on either side.  Without saying
anything, he shifted his gaze back to the road.

   "I brought the story." It was a piece I had worked together from his
stuff and some other people.  Bill had said he would only read it if I hand
delivered it.

   "Oh yeah?  I'd like to read it."

   I began to think about some of the things he talked about doing to me.

   "Wham!  My fist slams into your gut," he wrote at the beginning, "This
ain't sexual, it's just mean right now.  You feel your breath leave you,
you dry heave for a few minutes.  Just as you start to recover, just as you
start to draw your first breath, I hit you again in the gut, only this time
about five times harder.  You feel like a fucking freight train just hit
you.  Lights dance before your eyes, and you feel your head getting light.
The last thing you remember is my fist coming straight to your pretty
little model face."

   See what I mean about brutal?  It gets better.

   "I see your tits are just starting to stand up.  Good, now where are
those needles I had...  Oh yeah, here.  Slowly, slowly, I push one into the
right nipple.  The other side of the flesh there stretches a lot until
finally the tip just starts to show, t hen it goes through easily.  I like
the sounds you're making.  Now another one, at right angles, and a little
deeper under it."

   And so forth.  It was hard to believe that the time was coming closer
and closer when he was actually going to do some of that stuff to me.  The
thought gave me shivers.  I had to squeeze my legs together because I was
getting horny.  I wondered if he fe lt anything like I did.  He didn't look
especially brutal.  In fact, he looked kinda ordinary.  I guessed somewhere
in his forties.  The generic middle American.

   I tried to remember what he had said about himself -- not in the
stories, real life.  What passes for it.  I seemed to recall something
about a wife.  Oh yeah, the chick in the airliner.  He had balled a chick
in an airplane restroom one night while his wife was asleep.  Chalk one up
for Mr.  Scuzz.  What else?  They had a hot tub.  Or was that the guy in
Dallas?  He and his wife wanted me to come down.  They'd pay my way.  It
occurred to me that I could see a lot of the world this way.  I wondered if
it was legal.

   The drive took about an hour.  The house was on a street with others,
all on big lots.  It was the sort of neighborhood that made you wish you
were black.  Naomi Campbell walking up the driveway for afternoon delight.
Wouldn't that cause a sensation?  He took my bag out of the trunk and we
went inside.  "Well, this is it," he said, setting the bag down.  We were
in the living room.  I said it was very nice.  You don't really want me to
describe it, do you?  If you have a computer and live in middle Amer ica,
you're probably already looking at it.  Right?  "Thanks.  My wife made the
curtains." Okay.  That's enough.  He said she'd be home about six.  Would I
like a beer?  Or a drink?  Or would I like to freshen up?  He showed me the
guest room.  And the bathroom.  I had to pee.  He said he'd be downstairs.

   I fixed my makeup and went downstairs.  Again, he offered me
refreshments.  He showed me the back yard and the screened in porch.  And
told me how much they had paid for it, and how long they had lived there. I
realized we were making conversation.  I asked for a diet Coke.  He got me
a Pepsi.  I wondered if he'd freak if I smoked a joint.  It was too cold to
sit on the porch.  I had taken off my jacket.  The dress was pretty low
cut, and I know that Kelly has told you how big I am.  So okay, I was
practically hanging out in it.  Even in New York people stare.  He glanced
at me, and looked away.  I asked if he had any children.  He said his son
was at his grandmother's.  Oh?  And their daughter was staying at a
friend's house for the weekend.  That's ni ce.  She was a cheerleader.  I
could have figured.  The girl in the movie was as pretty as a cheerleader.
But she wanted to play football.  She hadn't been much older than me.  She
was the nerdy coach's daughter.  She scored the winning touchdown against
the jocks.  She was just starting to get interested in boys.  At one point
she decides to become a cheerleader to attract the attention of the team
hunk, but when the moment comes, she does the right thing and puts on a
uniform.  So gross.  Not even spandex.

   Bill and I talked about the weather.  I had come all the way to Chicago
for this?  To tell you the truth, I wasn't in any hurry.  Neither was he.
He asked did I go to school.  I had already told him I worked for a mag. 
Not which one.  That would be a big no no.  But he could guess.  Or at
least narrow it down to three.  He said he didn't know much about fashion,
but he knew what he liked.  He looked at me.  I felt a little self
conscious.

   Okay, I was sort of exposed, but I mean, I'm not like a tramp.  That
stuff I write about on the net, that's fantasy.  It's not really me.  We
talked about his computer.  He had all the latest stuff.  Then I remembered
our story.  I went and got it for hi m.  He was reading it when a car drove
up in the driveway and a door slammed.  "That's my wife." I heard someone
in the kitchen, and then this woman walked in.  Grace was maybe forty. 
Blonde hair.  Nothing special.  She looked like someone's mom.

   "You must be Cody," she said, as if she was welcoming her son's girl
friend.  "How pretty you look."

   "Uh, thanks."

   "And so young." Uh oh.  I wondered if she was going to make a stink. 
But she didn't.  Just looked me up and down.  How old did I say I was?  I
said nineteen.  She let it go.

   Instead, she asked if Bill had offered me a drink.  I said yes.  She
needed one.  She said she thought they'd order out tonight.  I didn't mind,
did I?  She hated to cook on Fridays.  "uh, no.  fine." How about pizza? 
"uh, fine." What did I want on it ?  The Groveners would be over later.

   Who?

   The Groveners.  Ham and Ella.  We told them all about you.

   "oh."

   I looked at Bill.  He said he forgot to tell me.  He'd invited a few
friends to meet me.  I didn't mind, did I?

   To tell you the truth, it took a little bit to get used to.  I hadn't
counted on this.  But I said no.  Fine.  The more the merrier.  Bill went
on reading my manuscript.

   In the original story, we had met in a bar, and I had been snotty to
him.

   "It had been in a bar, after work.  I had met Kelly there.  He had been
with her.  Some stupid thug she had picked up at the place where she table
dances.  I don't know if she said his name.  I probably forgot it.  He was
definitely not my kind of person .  I was wearing a white Calvin Klein
suit. The skirt was pretty short.  And it slid up, exposing the tops of my
stockings when I slid up on the bar stool, but that was no reason for him
to come on to me that way.  I told him to keep his hands to himself.

   "I didn't like the way he looked at me.  The way he kept eyeing me up,
staring at my breasts.  Under the jacket, I was wearing a sheer black
blouse.  It was almost see through, and it was unbuttoned enough to show a
lot of cleavage.  I got big early.  I was already in the high thirties when
I was thirteen.  But my mother thought I should be bigger.  She took me to
this doctor in Maryland who gave me the pills.  My tits mushroomed.  A lot
of men get the wrong idea.  Just because a girl has huge tits, they think
she's a whore.  Of course, the pills had the side effect of making me horny
as hell.  But I try to control it.  Just having someone look at my breasts
can make me start to run.  I had to cross my legs, which exposed a wide
expanse of creamy white thigh.  Nervously, I jerked my skirt down.

   "I squirmed on the barstool, wishing the guy would stop staring.  I just
wanted to get out of there.  When the guy reached over and put his hand in
under my jacket and lifted up my left hooter, I exploded.  And slapped his
face.  Kelly giggle

   Later, he came to my apartment.

   I decided to change.

   While Grace ordered pizza, I went up to my room.  I had a black fishnet
leotard with bare arms and a t-neck.  You could see everything through it.
And it pulled up tight into my crotch, separating my labia.  With it, I
wore a black tube skirt and a black silk shirt tucked in and unbuttoned.  I
fixed my makeup again and stood back to look at myself in the mirror.  I
looked fantastic.  My long hair cascaded in long loose curls over my
shoulders.  I put on long glittering earrings and the dog collar.  And
short black leather gloves.  And a pair of high heeled black boots.  They
came up to my thighs.  Around my waist, I strapped a wide leather belt that
cinched me tight, separating my hips and rib cage.  Bill glanced at me as I
came downstairs.  "The pizza 's here.  What'd you order?  Anchovies?"

   His had pepperoni.  Grace had everything.  We sat at the counter between
the living room and kitchen and talked.  They said I'd like the Groveners.
"uh, yeah?" They were a lot of fun.

   Bill rested his elbow on the manscript.  I wondered if he showed his
writings to his wife.  I wondered if she knew about the scene in the
airplane.  That might be interesting to find out.  I wondered where they
kept the hot tub.  It wasn't on the porch.  Bill had said they had a game
room.  Maybe it was down there.

   Okay, I thought, what's happening?

   Grace had a martini.  I think it was her fourth or fifth.  She was
starting to get belligerent.  I hadn't thought about this.  I mean, I had
come to Chicago just to get beat up and raped.  An abusive alcoholic
housewife I hadn't counted on.

   "So, Cody, what's it like being a whore?"

   "I'm not a whore."

   "Sure you are.  Isn't she Bill?"

   "Yes, Grace." He said it sort of as a joke.

   I looked at him.

   "Cody's a real stinking whore.  Aren't you slut?"

   "No."

   To tell you the truth, I was embarrassed.  She had seemed so nice and
friendly at first.  Now she was being so mean.  I asked her about her kids.
She said they were away for the weekend.  I tried to think of something
else to say.  I asked what she did.  She was a secretary.  They couldn't
put their kids through school on what he made.  She meant Bill.  Bill
leaned his elbows on the counter.  The Groveners arrived.

   Then we sat around the living room.  They all had drinks.  I had another
diet Pepsi.  It was only eight o'clock.  I thought, my God, how am I going
to get through this?  They were so boring.  I would have given my virginity
if even Al Bundy had walked in to the room.  Anyone.  Rescue me. 
Pleassssse!

   It went on til past nine.  They talked about a girl who had been raped
at their daughter's school.  I sat on the arm of a chair, one leg bent up,
and watched them.  Ham and Ella were both in their late thirties.  She was
thick set with bangs.  Ham was skinny.  They said the girl asked for it. 
Sure.  Right.  Tell me something I don't know.  Bill had sank into a deep
morose state.  They didn't pay much attention to me.  It was almost like I
wasn't there.  Maybe, I thought, it's the costume.  Maybe it's too much. 
Some people can't handle high fashion.  Maybe if I dressed up as a
cheerleader -- their daughter was a cheerleader -- maybe they could relate
to that.

   From time to time, Grace would pass me, and run a friendly hand over my
shoulder or down my back.  Okay, I thought, she may be lez.  Then the
others started doing it.  Whenever they'd get up to take a pee, I'd feel
this hand gliding over me or touching my hair.  It would stay there a
little, and then be gone.  They seemed to be closing in.  I glanced around.
They were all smiling at me.  I decided I had to go to the bathroom.  While
I was there, I smoked a joint.

   When I came back, Ella asked if I had had a nice pee.

   "uh, yeah.  Thanks."

   I also noticed they made a number of remarks.  Ella asked if I had to
have my bras specially made.

   Grace asked how she knew Cody wore a bra.  They both laughed like it was
the funniest thing anyone had ever said.  She also wanted to know if I got
paid a lot as a callgirl.  I said I wasn't a callgirl.

   "You could have fooled me." She read some of the things I wrote.

   Gradually, they were becoming aware that I was totally available.

   Ella said she'd be ashamed to have tits as big as mine.  They must be
pretty heavy.  I said she didn't have to worry.  She asked what I meant by
that.  I said nothing.

   Then Grace tried to get friendly.  She riffled my hair.  "Cody's so
pretty, isn't she?"

   I pulled back.  She slapped me.  "Don't pull away from me, bitch."

   I started to say something and she slapped me hard across the mouth.

   "Oooowwwwww." My head snapped sideways.  She cut me with her ring.

   "Hey!" I jumped up.  The next thing I knew, the two men were holding me
by the arms.

   "Hey, what's up?"

   Grace walked up to me and punched me in the belly.  Aaagggh

   And then again in the face.

   I tried to struggle.  Bill and Ham slammed me up against the wall, and
twisted my arms behind my back.  I could feel my tits squashing against the
cheap paneling.

   Then they dumped me into a big armchair.  "Just sit there, bitch," Bill
said.  I glared up at him.  My skirt had slid up, and I tried to adjust it.
Was this it?  What they intended to do?  How lame.  They were a bunch of
lamers.  Midwest hicks.  Then I saw th e look on their faces and I wasn't
so sure.

   "I don't want her up here," Grace said.  "Take her down to the
basement."

   The men picked me up.  I struggled all the way.  My shirt had been
pulled open, exposing my breasts under the black mesh.  They took me to the
top of the cellar stairs and threw me.

   I twisted and somersaulted all the way down, slamming my head on the
steps.  The four of them came downstairs and stood around me.

   I was half unconscious.  "uuuuo.  please don't."

   What Bill did to me in those stories was nothing compared to what those
mothers did to me the next two days.  By the time they put me on the
red-eye Monday morning, I had been totally destroyed.  I was thoroughly
defeated.  I couldn't believe that any Am erican teenager could be made to
feel so dirty and depraved as I was.  They demonstrated it over and over
again.  They made child molesting defensible by comparison.

   I won't bore you with the details.  You have to understand that real
torture is not exciting.  It is not even sexy.  In fact, it has nothing to
do with sex.  It is mildly like reading the phone book.  Or having it read
to you.  Or being told about someone's brilliant kid.  Or watching
pro-bowling.  Being tortured by someone like Ella was almost as sensational
as taking orders at McDonald's.

   Please, big Al, I thought, come back and rescue me from this mess.  And
in between, there was the pain.  Oh, the men both raped me.  But that
wasn't the worst.  That was nothing.  It was the women who kept explaining
it was because of what somebody else wanted.  I mean, why didn't they just
say they hated me and get it over with?

   Nobody takes responsibility.

   Bill beat me to a pulp.  But he kept insisting that I had asked for it.
I had begged.  Hadn't I?  Well, technically, yes.  I had even dared him to
do it.  Because Grace was twisting my arm up behind my back.  And WHAM.  He
did.

   I started to get up.  They let me get so far, and then one of them would
hit me.  And I'd go down again.  The women were as tough as the men.  Grace
had a good right hook.  She also had a foul mouth.  It soon became evident
she was seeing someone other than myself.  "You stinking little whore. 
I'll fix you." I don't care who it was.  I was getting it.  Ella also had
some gripes to get off her chest.  Whoever it was had been very pretty. 
She wanted to take that away.

   Then it was the men's turn.  Ham hated women.  He knocked me across the
room.  Bill picked me up.  And nailed me to the wall.  He had an air
hammer, and it happened so fast I didn't know what he was doing.  Then I
remembered having written something exactly like that.  I stood there with
my arms outstretched, nailed through both palms to the wall.  This was
heavy pine.  I was not going to be able to pull out of there and keep my
hands intact.  They stood around looking at me.  "Wha what are you doing?"
I asked.  My toes barely touched the floor.

   At the same moment, I realized this was not it.  This was not what I had
come to Chicago for.  The pain was nothing like the way it was in my
stories.  There, it had been exciting.  It had been real.  "Let me down.  I
don't want to do this.  Please.  It hurts."

   At that point, they didn't seem to know what to do.  Bill said they were
going to wire my tits.  But the women weren't interested.  They wanted to
rip my skin off.  My shirt was hanging open and I was taking deep breaths.
She came for an abortion.  Oh y eah?  Well then, go on in.

   nnaaaaawwwwwww

   And then she went home.  She was dead inside.  The girl had been seven
months old.  She struggled for survival.  Ella ripped it out.  I had a
right to an abortion, didn't I.  Susan's daughter.  They pinned her down.
She was just trying to get out of dia pers when this happened.  "wake up,
pig."

   Endless story lines flooded my brain.  I stared at them.  They didn't
move.  The gun had convinced them to cooperate.  "Am I getting through to
you?" Naturally.  I can't figure this out.  This goes where?  The men were
arguing over a drill.  In there.  The girls talked about Kelly's wedding.
Bud came home and asked if he could borrow the keys to the car.  I went out
with him.  When we got home, his dad was waiting.  I knew all the rules. 
And broke most of them.  Six-gun.  She shot her in the belly.  Grace went
down on the floor.  Grinding them out.  Come on, Kelly, get up.  You set
this up.  What do I do now?  The two bimbos had conspired across straight
lines to turn the plane around before flipping over and gaining ballast
right there.  Cody!  Oh, hello, Dwayne.  This is your father's.  You can
imagine the fight the night Kelly tied her to the school lockers and took
her towel away.  Cody stood there, half naked, everything hanging out.  BAM
he hit her again and again and again.  See that?  Divertimento.  Chicago.
My kind of town.  Not!

   She groaned as the log hit her.  "Where'd you say we were going?" The
big muddy.  Under the bleachers.  That wasn't me.  Who was it?  Clayton. 
Clayton who?  SLAM Up against the wall mudderfucker.

   Bill came down to look at her before they went to bed.  She was
freezing. Her whole body shook.  He smiled.  "Not at all like on the net,
is it?"

   'no.'

   That's nice.  He slapped her.

   'get me dow.  pls.'

   slap

   He had the manuscript.  He sat down on a chair and started to page
through it.

   "You know, Cody, you got me mixed up with some other dude.  Maybe this
other guy, whatever his name was.  I'm not the one who turned your tits
into pin cushions.  Not that I have anything against it.  But it wasn't me.
I'm the guy you ripped off.  Remem ber?  I gave you ten thousand dollars to
take care of your bills for a month while we partied, and you split. 
Remember how I caught up with you in Miami?  Remember now, babe?  Yeah.  I
can see you do.  I have to say this other guy, whoever he was, he had some
right on ideas about what to do with a betraying pig like you.  Ooooeeee.
I'll say.  Like take this:

   *

   "I left her hanging there for a few minutes, while I rounded up some
more equipment.  I stuffed a half dozen oranges into each leg of a pair of
pantyhose; then ripped the two legs apart.

   "I saw her stiffen as I entered the room.  I started one leg of the hose
spinning faster and faster, then, at the right moment, I swung it under her
gut.

   "Wham!  Like being hit by a fucking car, she couldn't breath, she
couldn't move, her whole body went rigid, and her mouth moved like a fish's
mouth, only much more horribly so.  Some blood trickled out, I'd probably
punctured a lung with a rib.

   "Boy, I hoped she'd live to the end of this, I'd hate to lose such a
cute little piece of meat.  I splashed her face with some water, she was
starting return to this planet.

   "'What?  What?  Why?  What did you?', she sputtered.

   "I grabbed my baseball bat.  Wham!  Wham!  Into her shin bones, one at
time.  Broken, shattered leg bones stuck out through the skin.  Cody
exploded in pain, screaming as each leg broke.  Her weight now supported by
dislocated shoulders and broken legs, she thrashed about for only a few
seconds before passing out.  I had Susan shoot her up with Crystal Meth to
keep her alive a little longer."

   *

   "You keep some pretty interesting company, slut.  This gives me a lot of
ideas for tomorrow.  Know that?  You're real cute, you know.  The way you
trick people and set them up.  The way you were always tricking me.  I hate
cute, you know that?  I especia lly hate cute little whores like you who
think they're so damned smart.  Just shake your ass and think you can get
what you want.  That's it, isn't it?  You come in here, dressed like a
whore, embarrass me in front of my wife and friends.  I'll show you, cute,
slut.  You'll wish you'd gone to this guy before I'm finished with you."

   "Honey, come to bed," Grace hollered from upstairs.

   He stood up.  "Well, tomorrow's another day.  I'd better turn in.  Me
and Cal, we want to get started on you real early.  Thought we'd have some
of our other buddies over, too.  We wouldn't want you going back to New
York and saying we didn't treat you right.  That is, if you live long
enough to get there.  Have a nice night, sugar."

   * To be continued.  *