Index Chapter 2

Subject:      CODY: RAW FILES  Chapter 1
From: (Mithryl)
Date:         1997/04/04
Message-Id:   <5i3iqe$>
Newsgroups:   rec.arts.prose,alt.prose

                            RAW FILES

                      By CODY ANN MICHAELS
                    (c.) All rights reserved

	"Begin at the beginning and go on til the end, and then, stop." 
          -- the Caterpillar (quoted from memory) 

                            Chapter 1

	Oh God, I hurt so bad.  I'll do anything.  Please.  Please
fellows.  Hurt me, please. 

	I know it doesn't make sense, but I'm going crazy.  I want someone
to beat me up so bad.  I'll do anything.  I'm going nuts inside.  I can't
stand it. 

	I started to comb through my raw files, looking for something to
turn me on.  Trying to make sense out of my life.  I'm burning up inside. 
Oh God, hurt me. 

	I don't want to write any more political bullshit.  I just want to
be me.  Got it? 

	But who are you?  Why don't you tell us the truth?

	I have.  Leave me alone.  *<Slap>*.

	So fucking stupid.

	It's getting dark soon.  I pick a file at random.  "Cody94.1st." 
I got a lot of letters in those days.  Tons.  A lot has changed since
then.  Paul, December 1, wrote: 

"Oh YES, I'm interested in you! I've 
had fantasies of doing this to a girl with 
my friends for quite a while. I even wrote 
a story about it. If you're for real, give me a
general idea of your geographical location and tell
me if you want to receive a copy of my story,
it's fairly hard core, and I'll give it to you.>>>>>>>


So eager.  I wrote back: 

Dear Paul,

	Thank you for your note.  I wasn't sure how people would react to
my advertisement.  I mean, I'm not even sure why I'm doing this.  I just
felt I had to.  I would like to read your story if you will send it.  I
live in New York, but I'm from Florida.

	I never did anything like this before.  But I have always had a
lot of fantasies.  Like, I imagine myself going to a bar where I'm picked
up by a guy, or a bunch of guys.  Sometimes they take me downstairs or to
an apartment, or even in an alley, where t hey raped me.  They're not
gentle or careful about it either.  I try to fight them off, but they beat
the shit out of me.  Eventually, I end up giving them blowjobs.  And then
the next night I go right back to the same place and they do it all over

	In my fantasies, I'm always dressed to kill, maybe wearing a tight
black dress that's so short it barely covers my crotch and fishnet
stockings.  And high heels.  I'm 5 foot seven inches tall and weigh 125
pounds, so you can see I'm not much of a match f or a man.  My red hair is
curly and I have a pretty face with green eyes.  Men are always coming
onto me, but most of them just want to go to bed with me, which can get
pretty boring.

	My therapist says I have a deep need to be punished.  And I guess
she's right.  Anyway, I don't know if this is something you'd want to go
further with.  Please let me know. 

	Yours truly,

	Cody Mask>>>>>>


	I called myself Cody Mask then.  My login.  Now I'm Cody Michaels. 
I thought the pain would go away.  Now it's even worse.  Oh god, I hate
it.  I want it even more than ever. 

	Paul sent me his story.  He was very nice.  He warned me to be
careful.  But this is not what I want, being careful. 

	I look at the pile of disks here.  The thousands of letters.  The
file Paul is on is fifty pages long.  I've written dozens of accounts of
the things that happened.  I lost count.  I'm still insatiable.  Martin,
the shrink I go to now, suggested it might be better if I wrote about
other people.  As if it wasn't me.  Try to be objective.  He doesn't know
what it's like.  Why can't people hurt me the way I want them to?  I've
got to get a fix on reality.  I tried.  I don't feel anything.  I can't
stand it anymore.  Only the pain makes me feel real. 

	Shut up, Martin!  Just let me alone.

	It's too early.  Too early.  I've got to make coffee.  I just got
up.  Everything hurts.  I'll tell you about it later.  Okay? 


	Talk about fucking clones.  I discovered the other night that if I
turn off the tv, the monitor, and just type blind, it frees me to look at
something else, pictures, walls, whoever's in the room.  But here I am,
back at the screen, rummaging through old love letters, trying to find the
real me. 

	I'm going to tell you Paul's story.  I don't know if that's
ethical.  So sue me. 

	The pills I got from the doctor did not work.  They only made me
sleepy.  In my line of work, that can be dangerous.  So I stopped taking


	At the beginning, Street is sitting at a bus stop.  Paul doesn't
tell her name, or even for that matter, say much about her, just that she
is "an attractive young lady."  Also, since Paul is from San Francisco, we
can assume that is where this happened. In any case, in New York people
stand, they don't sit, at bus stops. 

	I'm not sure why I chose Street for her name.  It just popped into
my head.  Street Grep.  What I'm really looking for is a concept.  A
treatment.  Something to hang an idea on. 

	A woman is sitting at a bus stop.  Time of day?  What is she
wearing?  Dressed to kill or dressed down?  Age?  Young.  27.  32.  14? 
What is young?  What is attractive to guys like Paul?  Go back and take a

	"I've had fantasies of doing this to a girl with 
my friends for quite a while. I even wrote a story about it."

	Did you, Paul?  Tell me about it.  I wonder what I did that made
him write to me.  Why don't you tell us who you really are? *Slap*. 

	I'm not Street.  I swear, I'm not Street.  Oh dear God, please
don't let me be Street.  But who is Street?  And what is she doing there
at 3 in the afternoon, waiting for a bus? 

	We'll come back to that later.  A van pulls up.  And the driver
asks for directions.  Street stands up and walks over to the car.  She's
wearing a purple minidress under a white leather jacket.  She has long
black curly hair.  She leans down to look in t he car window.  Her behind
sticks up, exposing ...  No, wait a minute, Paul said she was a "young
lady."  Back up.  While she tells the driver how to get where he's going,
a man with a blanket over his shoulder walks up behind her.  The van door
opens and another man jumps out.  The woman jumps back.  And the man
behind her threw the blanket over her head. 

	Street kicked and struggled, but there were two of them, and they
soon had her under control.  She felt herself being picked up and thrown
into the van.  Her head struck the opposite wall, nearly knocking her out. 
While she tried to figure out where she was, a rope was tied round her. 
She could feel the truck starting off.  The door closed. 

	Probably you wonder what led up to that.

	I certainly would.  Like, what happened?  Why'd they do that?  Who
was that chick?  Think we ought to call the cops?  The other girls watched
it happen.  Abducting a school girl is a big thing in California.  People
go nuts about it.  It's in all the pap ers every time it happens.  Plus,
it's a popular subject on talk radio.  Street could picture them talking
about her.  What they would say?  This was Street Grep.  She was waiting
for a school bus.  That's just an added dimension.  You know what school
gi rl uniforms are like.  A cosmic turn-on.  The men had planned it for
days.  I mean, they're just out there, ripe for the picking.  Street's
mother was frantic.  Felony begged the men to return her daughter.  Don't
hurt her.  Please, don't hurt her. 

	Then the first radio station got the first tape.  Street begging
for help. It was in all the papers.  But I'm getting ahead of the story. 

	Street was lying on the floor of the van while the men tied her
up.  The "young lady" as Paul still refers to her, struggles in vain.  She
couldn't see, and the blanket was sickenly hot.  Then it gets worse.  They
turned her over on her back and restrain ed her ankles.  Her legs were
wide open, her young cunt an open target.  She sobbed as they cut off her
panties.  No.  No.  No.  This couldn't be happening. They both raped her. 

	Street screamed, jerking and trying to get away.  "A whiskey
voice" -- I'm quoting here -- says, "'that's right, BITCH, you know I like
it when you try to resist.'" 

	Defeated, she went limp.

	The van kept moving.  The driver could hear the men in the back
fucking the girl.  Her pathetic whimpering.  He was pissed.  He wanted
some.  He drove into a spot behind some warehouses and stopped.  "Where
are we?"  Never mind where we are.  I want some .  He climbed on top of
the sweating girl.  All he could see was her cunt and legs.  The blanket
covered her face.  He pulled it down.  "Shit.  This isn't her." 

	A different story line.  A booted foot kicked her in the ribs.  "I
said MOVE, SLUT!" 

	Weakly, she struggled.  Tried to fight.  It just turned them on. 
Each one took her again.  They took off the blanket, but not her dress or
the jacket.  Didn't matter.  Her tits were hanging out and her dress was
up to her waist.  Hands fondled her tits, roughly pinching and pulling. 
The driver or one of the other men had started the car again.  Her head
bounced on the metal floor, nearly knocking her out.  For what seems an
eternity, Street was slapped and fucked and slapped again. 

	The men laughed and drunk beer.  The van seemed to be climbing a
mountain road.  Finally it stopped.  The door opened and Street saw where
they were.  They dragged her out and dropped her on the muddy ground.  The
men got in the van and drove off, leavin g her with nothing but her ripped
up clothes.  Slowly, she began to come to her senses. 

	They took her purse, so she could not use her cell phone to call
home.  Sobbing and wheezing, she began to limp down the road in what
seemed to be the direction of town.  After going a few steps, she heard
behind her the sound of a car.  Her first though t was, "They're coming
back."  She wanted to hide.  She crouched down in the ditch, hoping
whoever it was wouldn't see her.  Not like this.  The car went by.  She
realized what a fool she was.  She needed help.  She climbed out of the
ditch.  She was stil l wearing the seven inch heels she had worn to have
lunch with Margaret.  The men had been looking for Margaret, but got
Street instead.  Street climbed out of the ditch, and stepped into the
center of the road.  She could hear another car coming -- "a pa ir of
headlights round the bend," Paul wrote.  So it was already night. 

	"She moves to flag down the car, and...

	Coy, Paul.  Coy.  "To be continued."

	A cliff hanger.

	Like what happens to the girl?

	I don't know.  I never heard from him again.

	My guess is she was run down.  Either the man didn't see her, or
he wanted to hit her.  Her body was thrown seventy feet or he ran straight
over her.  He dragged her into the car. 

	Since I don't know what Paul intended to do from here on out, I
guess I'm on my own.  I have to figure it out.  For one thing, the sight
of Street in my headlights.  Frozen, like a terrified fawn.  In that
dress.  What a target.  That hair.  The hurt loo k in her eyes.  The big
hair.  The long legs.  The big tits.  Yeah.  Real nice.  I'll buy that. 
What did you say she was?  A hooker? 


Hmmm, no.  At the end, Paul wrote: 

"So Cody, tell me what you think of my quick sketch. If you like
you may tell me about your own adventures and/or fantasies. You are also
welcome to ask me any questions you have about technique or protocal. I
will do my best to get you the info you need on this subject.">>>>>>>

I wrote:

Dear Paul,

	Thank you for your letter and story.  You're a good writer.  Also
thanks for the advice and encouragement.  I have to go out pretty soon for
a modeling session, so this will be a short note. 

	I liked your story, but there are a couple of changes I would make
if it was my fantasy.  I hope you won't be offended if I tell them to you. 
First off, the men wouldn't use a blanket.  They would just push me into
the van.  The whole thing has to be qu ick.  And the men should be able to
see what I look like.  The blanket gets in the way.  You might give more
thought to what I was wearing, too.  Maybe a prim little white business
suit but with an impossibly short skirt, one that rides up easily, exposin
g what's underneath.  And a frilly lace or see-through chiffon blouse. 
And black stockings.  No pantihose, of course.  Also, the men didn't tie
my feet either.  The whole point was I fought like hell to stop them,
getting my clothes ripped off in the pro cess, until I was down to just my
panties and garterbelt.  The fact is, in my real life, I wouldn't let a
man touch me unless I wanted him to.  I'm in complete control.  And these
men just destroy that self image.  In the end, they've raped me, beaten
me, and I'm giving them blowjobs and I have to hate every minute of it. 
They've really exposed me for the slut I am.  But it's not over yet. 
That's another thing, I don't think I'd have them dump the girl so soon. 
They'd take me somewhere, maybe an abando ned garage or warehouse, or a
deserted farm where they could really do a number on me.  On the other
hand, maybe that's what will happen from whoever's in the car coming up
the road. 

	The point is, to be as brutal and push me as far as you can.  



	Like I say, he never wrote back.  I wonder.  Did I scare him?

Index Chapter 2