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From: robin_k <robin_k@mailmasher.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Subject: *Angela*
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Date: 10 Feb 1997 15:16:34 GMT
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---------The Introduction-------------
You can hear yourself saying, "But I don't want to go to
Prostitute School. I want to stay right here at Grady Elementary,
where my friends are.."
But the Principal answers, "Now Angela, you heard what your
father just said: You're in the Sixth Grade now and it's time you
got out and learned how to make a living. Yes, and I agree with him!"
Your mother is weeping. Her face is red as she wrings
her tear-drenched handkerchief with nervous fingers.
"Dad, I don't have to do it, do I? I promise I'll be
the best daughter I know how, if only you'll let me stay and live
at home with you and Mom and Jimmy."
"Young Lady, this is the last time I'm telling you. Any more
back-talk and we're sending you to the Principal's Disobedient Room."
"You wouldn't..."
"Don't push me, Angie. I'm in no mood to listen to your
insolent disrespect."
"Er, suppose, Mr. Bracken, we just let your child pay a little
visit to the Disobedience Room right now. I think after she previews
what's in store there, she'll change her mind."
But your father isn't here anymore. In the exact spot
where he'd been standing you see Mr. Soffit, the gym teacher,
while your mother seems to have turned into old Miss Lafferty, the
Guidance Counselor. They're looking very severe, and both are saying
the identical words in unison. In fact, they're screeching at you:
"Come along with us. It's not far from here, you know.
You're going to be sorry for the way you've acted toward your betters.
Now, step on it, Kid!"
They reach out to take you in hand. You feel your feet
being dragged. The Principal has begun to laugh--a long, malicious
cackle. All the other pupils have come to watch them force you down
the hallway, in the direction of the *Boy's Room*.
"Let me go. Let me go. I don't want to go in there. It's
not nice in there. I'll have to look at things I don't want to see."
The kids are jeering, "Fraidy, fraidy, Lost your old Lady"
and other chants you'd never heard before.
Then Raffles, your pet spaniel, lunges at you out of the
crowd. He is snarling. For a moment you're glad to see him, but
without warning he clamps his jaw on your ankle and digs his teeth in.
You feel the pain. Everything turns dark.
You scream, "No! No..."
And then--you hear a voice saying, from a long distance away,
"Wake up, Ms. Bracken. Wake up."
Then, more distinctly, "It's all right. You're just having a
nightmare. Here, I'll hold your hand until you calm down."
It's Barnesy, your own private night companion. Oh, you don't
call her that to her face, but it's the name you mentally stuck her
with when you first met one another. She's friendly enough, to be
sure, but you don't like having somebody hovering over you, leaving
you no privacy.
Here you are, thirty-five years old and a successful career-
woman in your own right. It's humiliating to have a baby-sitter.
Yet that's just what Matron is. Assigned to you alone, in this
eight-by-ten space you've had to call home ever since they transferred
you here two days ago.
Still, when you've had a bad dream and you waken in the
middle of the night, a prisoner in the Death House, you're not all
that reluctant to have someone's hand to hold...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
*ANGELA'S END*
This fantasy is about Death Row. It contains narrative
potentially offensive to some adults and inappropriate
for children. Although it makes only oblique reference
to specifically sexual matters, it depicts violence and
relates to the inherent eroticism in the Doomed Woman
theme. If this subject matter is unacceptable to you,
please do not proceed with it. If, on the other hand,
you'd like to see where this introduction leads, you'll
need to send me an e-mail request. --Robin
<robin_k@mailmasher.com>
(08 Feb 97)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
--Robin
--
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