Message-ID: <19750eli$9902070428@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Joanna De Brito" Subject: {Joanna} The Code Of Tawr ( 3/10 MF rape, caution) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19990207015334.8000.qmail@hotmail.com> Standard Disclaimer: Over 18s Only. This is part three of a serialized story. If you haven't yet read parts one and two, I strongly suggest you go back and start there. As this is a serial I don't want to give too much away in the story codes. What I am prepared to say is that the story will be (almost) entirely MF, and that there will be n/c, rape, and what are to me, macabre themes developed. Do not read if such things squick you. However, no pedo; no incest. On the other hand, if this kind of stuff turns you on: enjoy! Joanna The Code Of Tawr by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) February 1999 Perhaps you may yet find me: I am so close; just the other side of the Portal... Part Three The next day I had to work. I work a four-day on, three-day off pattern in the sales department of a major telecom company. There, I spend much of the day ringing prospects, touting for their business; and just a little time I spend trying to close deals at customer sites. It is a high-pressure environment in which you're only as good as the last month's figures. And right now I was struggling, perhaps it was the turmoil in my private life that was affecting my work, but I was well down this month. In an effort to claw back some of the deficit I stayed late, trying to pin down some people that were proving elusive. So by the time I got home I was well whacked, Paul had been home for a couple of hours, but of course hadn't fixed us anything to eat. I shoved a couple of quick meals in the microwave thinking to myself that all I wanted to do was shower and get to bed: to sleep. He was very quiet as we ate; I was too tired to really take much notice, maybe I thought he was embarrassed because of not having prepared something himself. Anyhow, what was on his mind only became apparent after my shower as I pottered about in my dressing gown. Paul said, "Haven't you forgotten something?" Of course he meant the story. I was becoming increasingly unsettled and unhappy with the direction of the story line. I was concerned about what I might unknowingly be unleashing by pandering to the demons in Paul's head: if these were his fantasies, where did that leave me? The next part, the end of chapter one was particularly making me uneasy and right then I just didn't want to deal with it. "I'm just too tired," I said, by way of excuse. "You haven't written anything, then?" he asked, obviously disappointed. I couldn't lie. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do have something." I admitted with a sigh. We have a bedroom that has been converted into a study. It's mainly me that uses it, though Paul has been known to write the odd letter and pay the occasional bill. I went in and turned on the computer. While it was booting Paul came in and watched as I found the remains of the chapter I had written the previous day. A couple of clicks and it began printing. "There you are," I said, lifting the pages from out of the printer tray, and giving them to him. "Now you'll have to read it on your own, I'm tired and I need to sleep. I've got an early start tomorrow." I returned to the bedroom next door and got into bed. Paul followed me, sitting on what had been his side of the bed before I had chucked him out. As he started to read, I complained. "Do you have to do that here? Can't you go downstairs?" "It won't take long," he muttered, and not wanting to create a scene, I sighed and gave way. Turning my back on him I tried to sleep. ************************************************** The Code Of Tawr Final Paragraphs Of The Last Section... Paul waited. Joanna was squirming in undisguised humiliation, arms drawn tight across her chest, hands cupping her breasts, swaying nervously, but otherwise unreactive to his obvious expectancy. Eventually, he prompted, "Take off your knickers, Joanna. This changes nothing." "But you've got your message," she wailed. "What more do you want?" "I promised not to touch you. But that was conditional on our not finding this" And he gestured to the paper. "But we have found it. You failed the Trial by Divestment. So, all bets are off. You know jolly well what I want now. So let's start by seeing you pull those knickers down those nice long sexy legs of yours." **************************************************** The Code Of Tawr Chapter One, Part Three "No!" she cried. "I'm not doing it. You can't make me!" He knew he didn't need to. Surrounded as she was by eleven lusty men, it would be so simple for them just to pluck her knickers from her body; she was in no position to resist. But that was not the way he wanted it. He wanted her to pull them down herself, as he had said she would. So, bluffing, he said, "Then I guess four of us will have to hold you down, while the others do it for you." He turned as if to delegate. "No!" she cried again. Her spirit immediately broken. "No. I'll do it." He had indeed been right. There was nothing worse than what she was being forced to do right now. She held her left arm tight across her bust, her left hand clasping tightly her right breast as with her other hand she hooked the waist band of her knickers. She felt as if the ground would open up and swallow her whole as she pulled her knickers down. She just didn't have a spare hand with which to protect herself. She felt the eyes penetrating, all concentrating on the same region, what she had successfully hidden from all men for so long. Someone wolf whistled behind her. She could say nothing. If only they weren't so obviously enjoying it. But wasn't that the point? Wasn't that why they were humiliating her in this way? So that they could enjoy themselves? Get their kicks out of her? And she hated them all the more. "I've often wondered whether it was possible for someone as cold to have the same apparatus as normal women," Paul teased cruelly. "I rather thought it wasn't. Obviously I was mistaken." She kicked her pants off her feet and let them lie, holding her right hand protectively across her pubic region. He couldn't expect her to pick them up. Surely he wouldn't embarrass her that far. "Pick them up." He would. "She might have the apparatus, but can she use it?" someone giggled. Joanna bent down to pick them up, keeping hand in place until her crouched body afforded some natural concealment before quickly grabbing the discarded garment. She tried to ignore their remarks, but couldn't help from reddening from head to toe as she heard another wolf whistle from behind and knew that from the rear she was totally exposed, that every eye was penetrating, boring into her exposed flesh. She held the crumpled nylon in her hand, her hand instinctively reverting to its role of shielding her nudity as she rose. "Give", he said, forcing her to lift the arm slightly away from her body. She stood upright, proffering her precious knickers. Bradley didn't move, which compelled her to lengthen her gesture of donation. The gesture allowed them to see her pubic area clearly for the first time. The dark triangle of soft hair contrasted so perfectly the pure white of the surrounding skin. Slowly, he sauntered up to her, but rather than take the garment he circled to her side. She shuddered as he reached forward and allowed his hand to brush gently down her back, her muscles tensing at his touch. Suddenly and unexpectedly, at that touch her body spasmed with uncontrolled emotion. "Please," she sobbed. "Please leave me. Don't destroy me totally." He took the briefs from her, not giving them a glance, not saying a word. He couldn't take his eyes from her nude body. He cast his admiring eye over her buttocks, and then her front, peeking a glance at that magic triangle. She was so available. What he had always wanted. He desired, and knew the others did too. It was now time to execute punishment on sentence already passed. Casually he let the briefs fall to the ground. "So sorry," he said with sugary sweetness. "If you would be so kind as to pick them up again. I seem to have dropped them." She threw a vicious glance, and tearfully bent down to retrieve the pants once more. Bradley glanced at the proffered backside. "Hold it a moment," he ordered without bothering to provide a reason. She held the pose. Her hanging labial purse neatly and explicitly framed by her tautly stretched buttocks. "Excellent," he murmured. "I'm sure you are able to imagine the kind of explicit view we have of your naughty bits as well as the kind of reaction that is having on our naughty bits. They're getting hard and insistent." He took a bag from his pocket, and carefully placed all her clothes in it, watching for her humiliation as she realized he was not going to let her dress. "Please let me have something to cover myself." "Cover yourself? Do you think us mad? Having at last got a La cepern virgin naked and cowering before us, whatever would inspire us to free her from the hook? Or, perhaps you had something in mind? Perhaps you were thinking of performing for us so that we would give you your clothes?" "Perform?" "Yes. Perform. Will you do a dance? And excite us? And tease us?" She shook her head slowly, her brows furrowed in a concentrated look of consternation. "When will you let me dress?" she persisted. "When will you dance?" he countered. "If I do what you want, then you'll let me dress?" "When you've done all I want." There was an unmistakable emphasis on the word 'all'. She hesitated. "What kind of dance do you want. Exactly." "A peach of a dance." He smiled. "In which you writhe around in your nakedness with a plug containing a tail stuck up your bum". It took a moment for the verbal picture to translate itself in Joanna's brain into an actual picture of herself doing what Bradley had suggested. Her mind in its sheltered existence had never had to bring itself to consider the possibility of such a perverse act. In all the horror stories she had been fed of the excesses of what men did to women this had not featured. Such was her shock that she did not respond. However awful the alternative, she would not humiliate herself to such an extent. However, perhaps even now at this late hour she had a savior. A small gruff voice from behind her said, "Sir, this isn't right. We're going too far." Bradley glared at the intruder. "In what way have we gone too far, Simmons?" Simmons, a tall, lanky teenager stepped forwards self- consciously. "It's not right, sir. What we're doing." Paul rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness, but within him a sudden temper was brewing. This upstart was assuming to be his conscience, and at this moment the last thing Paul desired was a conscience. "So perhaps you can explain to your superior officer why his actions are not right, Simmons." The words were icy cold. "Because, well, she's La cepern." "And?" "And La cepern are, well, special. To Tawr they're special. He wouldn't like it." "Listen, Simmons," Bradley said, anger erupting. "La cepern is what La cepern does. And this," he pointed at the cowering Joanna, has by actions relinquished all claim to be treated with honor and known as a La cepern. She has acted as a spy. She is being treated as a spy, and will be treated as a spy. Understand?" "No, sir," the youth contradicted. "That is not for us to decide. That is for Tawr." "Tawr!" Bradley exploded. "This spy will be punished, I will see her punished, and as a Guard you will do your duty by acting as I command. I have one prisoner at present. I could cope equally with two. Don't force me, soldier. Do I make myself clear?" Simmons decided that his bottle was not up to taking this principle any further. "Yes sir," he said sheepishly. Bradley continued to glare at him. "Since you are so concerned about the welfare of our guest," he added sarcastically, handing Simmons the bag of her clothes. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to look after these until she should have need of them." Joanna anxiously followed the movement of the bag as it passed between them. Simmons clutched it to his chest. He looked through her; full of emotion; upset, Joanna guessed, more at being dressed down in front of his mates than for her. Still, despite her own troubles, she felt sympathy for him. He had stuck up for her, and she knew what it was like to be dressed down. Bradley had been whispering furiously to a couple of the others; two who had shown greater bravado. Now he spoke to Joanna, his voice full of emotion. "Now as I was saying, you're having an unhealthy affect on our naughty bits. An affect I think we're all," he glared at Simmons. "Going to have to do something about. I was going to exercise some self control for old time's sake, and stick to that dance. You wiggling your ass in our faces seemed like a good deal. But now for some reason my ire is hot. I've changed my mind. Now we're going to be more adventurous." And as he spoke, he looked with such undisguised venom, not lust, but hatred at where she was most naked that she knew in that moment he was going to do it. That whatever else he had planned, at that instant he decided irrevocably to go through with it. "No, please, anything. I'll dance if you want. Not that: it will be the end of me." "Rubbish. It's been happening for millennia. And it's never been the end of anyone yet. Don't worry. You'll enjoy it." "You don't understand." She paused, anguished. "If I'm touched they will kill me." Bradley agreed. "That's right. They will. Sex is a capital code violation." She was horror struck. "You know?" "Of course." The anger had become cold and cruel. "That is what makes the torment so unendurable. I know as well as you the awfulness of what they will eventually do; the shame involved; and that the verdict of the trial they will inevitably give you will have been determined before it ever begins. They're going to burn your lovely body and that's so certain even you don't doubt it. Today is only the beginning of your nightmare. But the nightmare has certainly begun." There had been movement behind her; she now looked round, and her jaw dropped in horror. A Guard was pulling down his underpants; he was erect and waiting, and it was obvious for what he was waiting. Mesmerized, she stared in morbid horror at his tool, purple and bulbous. The man smiled at her attention, taking hold of the object with his left hand towards its base and he gently started rubbing. "That's right, take a good look, baby," he teased. "It likes you." She knew she should look away, she must look away, but she could not. She was in a trance. The purple eye seemed to open and shut hypnotically to the rough strokes of his hand. Every nuance of her body, every turn, every ripple of the smallest muscle, every inflection of her being was incitement to this beast. She was the red rag; it was the bull. In her trance she could no more take her eyes from its rhythmic pulse than the prey can turn from the stare of its predator a moment before its pounce. She was vaguely aware that about her all were undressing: that the red uniforms were making way for a red uniformity of a more sinister kind. The army had now definitely become a mob, an uncontrollable, faceless, anarchic mass with only one thought on its mind: the violation of Tawr, the desecration of her virginity. She turned to run, left hand still across her chest to prevent the violent and painful swinging of her breasts; her right hand still instinctively covering below; but she was far too late. A man, naked and erect, grabbed hold of her arms and pulled her to him, trying to kiss her, holding her tight with one powerful limb. She turned her head from his searching lips. She could feel his free hand crawling down her back, down the crease of her backside, and his penis pushing hard into her stomach, and she struggled to get away. In the distance the faraway mockery continued with laughing and giggling. The hand between her legs moved relentlessly forward, and she could feel a finger invading. She struggled some more and almost escaped him, because she was strong. But the man had reinforcements. There were people everywhere, crowding round her, naked people, men, throbbing penises swinging awkwardly from side to side. The excited mob was bearing down on her, pinning her arms to her sides, rough hands had hold of her ankles, were lifting her bodily from the ground. They had hold of both her arms and legs, and inevitably her legs were being pulled apart. She tried to pull them close, to remove her genitalia from display, but made no impression on the immovable constraint. Above her, around her, everywhere were the ugly phalluses, longer and thicker than she could have imagined in her sheltered existence, contracting and pulsating in worship of her open sex. She felt a rope around each of her wrists and then it tighten. She felt her arms being drawn inextricably away from her body, above her head, until they were taut, held by the ropes. She looked up and saw what had happened. The rope stretched from her wrists to the trunks of two adjacent trees, where it was being secured in place. She struggled further, but knew that it was in vain; that there was nothing she could do; that the writhing of her body, unobstructed due to the ropes, was inciting them further, was sending all the wrong signals. But what else could she do? Someone was forcing her legs further apart, she screamed for them to stop, but that was even funnier to them, there were hands forcing her open, exposing her, feeling and caressing. Other hands were mauling her breasts, pummeling and kneading them, squeezing her nipples. Suddenly, the crowd about her parted to the sides, and there was Paul, naked, his face hard. She had never seen him so determined. Neither had she seen him naked. He looked so different without his clothes. She moaned as her gaze lowered and fixed on his bulbous penis, massive and stiff, its tip glistening. Her eyes focused on it in horror, for she knew that not only was its anger for her, but its objective was her violation, and she was not sure that her virginal vagina could hold such a beast. She had never seen him like this, uncontrolled, animal, as he dropped down between her legs, his torso moving into the gap. His expressionless eyes were meeting hers, ignoring the nakedness of her body, the openness of her legs, the rise of her breasts and the hollow of their cleavage, the soft down of her mound in its pubic plateau, his eyes were raising the challenge of her spirit. She struggled like a demented brute, wriggling and arching her back and limbs, desperately attempting to clamp her legs. She had to get away from him. She couldn't bear the humiliation of him touching her, of stealing from her something as precious and unique as her virginity. He was stealing her soul, her life, and what made the blow so unbearable was that he knew it and was gloating in it. But her struggles were useless. Her legs were effortlessly forced even wider apart by the teasing guards holding her ankles. It was as though her inwards were splitting. Her grimaced and agonized face attracted ridicule rather than sympathy. And still the lethal weapon closed on its target, guided by the hand - gripping its base so firmly - that she knew so well. And the gates of her own sex, she knew, were gaping a welcome that she could not prevent. For she was powerless to close her legs, to lock them shut as she so desperately needed. He allowed its tip to stroke her slit, dry, tight and inviolate, savoring the sensation, teasing and tormenting, its eye eyeing up its conquest, licking at the roughness of her puffy flesh. She screamed for him to stop, to cease this torture, but he was breathing deeply, catching his breath at the warm sensations stemming from his tool, and he was oblivious to her anguish. There was no holding him back now. It was sensing her furry mat, probing and tickling, as it searched for the opening, preparing for its big assault. Paul's eyes greedily were roving across what he could still see of her spread-eagled body, devouring the sight of her soft breasts that bobbled uncontrollably to her struggles, her nipples hard and bulletlike from the probing and squeezing. His foreskin had an air of transparency as it stretched ever tighter across a penis now at straining point: caused by the sensations of her closeness and her nakedness feeding into his brain. And then it came. He plunged into her, his penis ripping her virginity apart as a knife: a virginity that would never heal. Penetrating deep inside. She screamed in pain, yet still the alien dug deeper, deeper, until it had utterly punctured her womanhood: fractured her femininity. Yet still the hands groped about her flesh, exploring and groping. His tool was pummeling her insides, rubbing abrasively as if it were coated with sandpaper. His breath came in short pants as he lunged time after time into her. He was crazed, bent on taking out ancient frustrations, like a psychopath repeatedly striking his victim with a knife long after death, thus was the frenzy in his assault. And she could feel his intent to hurt, to rip and tear her genitals. He didn't want sex; he wanted rape, to savage her. It was the one way to hurt her more than anything else, far beyond a physical pain that was only incidental. More important to him was the breaking of her vows of chastity, her humiliation, her shame, her embarrassment, her submission, her fear; these were what was driving him on, what had engorged his penis, was turning him into the demented tortured animal that was repeatedly battering against her bruised labial lips. His hands clawed at her breasts, roughly mauling and kneading her flesh as a baker would knead his dough. Without gentility, kneading into submission. His breaths came in short heavy pants, he was proving his dominance, and he was grinding her down. She could sense his excitement, his elation, and the pleasure he was taking from his cruelty in every blow he thrust into her womb. She was unaware of herself and her own actions. Of how she was crying repeatedly out loud, "No,no no...". Not to him, or to them, for that would have implied that she knew what she was crying, and she did not. Perhaps it was to the heavens she appealed, to Tawr, that he forgive this betrayal, or maybe the words were an appeasement of her own conscience. For how she had brought this onto herself by her unwise actions in acting as go-between. Again, if this was so, it was not consciously done. For she knew not what she said or what she did. She knew not how she struggled against the ropes; struggled against Bradley, against them all; of the frenzy that such struggles were inciting in her audience. But deep inside, her body was beginning to betray her. Despite her certainty of the depravity, of complete wickedness of their actions, there was an instant of utmost horror, worse than any experience of that day of horrors, at the realization that her body was turning traitor. From deep inside there was an agony that was not pain. And the dryness and the abrasion was lessening. She wailed, this time at herself, because she knew that her body was adapting to the experience, was protecting her, but that Bradley would misinterpret. He was slowing; the pace of his strokes had slackened. He had noticed. She could see it in his eyes. She could not look. The others did not yet know, but he knew, and this would be a torture greater even the rape she was enduring. He was enticing her towards this final humiliation. This would be his greatest victory. For this would be the one she could not excuse herself, the one for which Tawr would not only have her cremated alive, and have her ashes scattered to the winds, and she would have no dispute over his actions. His slow strokes were deliberately drawing lubrication, were making her body react in the way it had been designed to react. She tried to resist, but this was as much in her control as the beat of her heart. Her body was pouring its secretions upon his invading tool, and she could not prevent. She tried to breathe slower, why was her breathing so heavy? Paul's hands stopped mauling her breasts. Instead his fingers worked their way gently to her nipples and began to softly tease, gently stroking and sensitizing. She knew what he was doing: that his movements, now gentle, had intent every bit as cruel and malevolent as the rupturing of her virginity moments ago. That he was attempting rape in different guise. But she was despite this knowledge, as helpless in preventing its completion as she was in preventing the physical act itself. Her eyes were still closed. She could not look at them. Could not look at Paul and see his delight in the effect he was having on her. She gasped as he tweaked her nipples, she was a bitch in heat and they all now knew it. It was written in her face, the concentration and the desire. She was moving in synchronization with his movements; grinding her pelvis into his penis as he drove it into her, groaning and panting at each sensation induced. It was forbidden; it was what she had always believed she could never have; what she had never had; yet she was past control. With eyes closed, the engorged penises around her became even longer to her imagination, and thicker and harder. Blind, she became all the more sensitized to their chants and catcalls, but now these were inflaming her even further. And all the while that penis ramming into her insides. She could feel it begin to pulsate, and pump, and as she began to receive its load, she finally also began to spasm. She gasped, her body stiffened, her fists clenched tight and she pulled on the ropes holding her limbs in place. She rode with him, squeezing the invading penis, strangling and constricting, milking its dying thrusts. Her face was a perfect reflection of her mingled inner agony and ecstasy: intense and impassioned, pained and anguished. Her eyes had opened, concentrated and unseeing, disconnected from a mind with thoughts elsewhere. Each labored breath came at the expense of an audible grunt: animal and earthy; gone any mask of femininity, daintiness or La cepern heritage. She was blowing and puffing, thrusting her tensed body against the man atop her, faster and faster, the circles ever decreasing in the whirlpool of desire. She was orgasmic; for the first time experiencing emotions and desires that her whole life she had spent suppressing. A Pandora's box had been released, and she was no longer in control, either of Bradley, herself or the repercussions of it all. She was orgasmic and all around her knew it. Suddenly Paul pulled himself from upon her. He had finished; she tried to prevent his penis from withdrawing from her by gripping it as tight as she could with her vaginal muscles, because she had not yet finished, but it was a Punic action, she had no more control over his withdrawal than over its original entry. She gazed at it longingly, now looking tired and deflated and sticky. Climax had become anti-climax. Her breathing began to slow, her eyes to focus. He was getting to his feet, solemn now, not triumphant. He withdrew to the outside of the group of hysterical Galsips, looking away. Not looking at her. The reason for the hysterics now became clear. They were pushing someone forward: a reluctant punter. She recognized it to be Simmons, her erstwhile protector. As they pushed him on top of her their faces came level and his face looked into hers. She could hear him apologizing profusely for his erection, but 'this is my first time' she heard him mumbling as the others positioned that erection between her legs. She smiled weakly; she could not help it. It was a thank you for trying to save her. But that smile was a mistake; it encouraged him. He thrust his member into her. "No!" She screamed at him, but he ignored her. He rammed himself home and she grimaced again because it hurt, another thrust and then he came. There was a loud jeer from the soldiers around her at the speed of his bout before they roughly pulled him off in their eagerness to take their own turn. It was a production line, nothing more. She satisfied them all; was used by them all; successively; without break, letup or pause. She had looked into their faces as each of the young guards came and was satisfied. She had almost come too, but had been refused satisfaction: the final humiliation. END OF CHAPTER ONE ************************************************** Paul was in the bed, attacking me. "What are you doing?" I cried furiously, forcibly woken from the doze into which I had fallen. He was under the covers and his sweaty hands were pulling at my nightie. "Get off," I yelled. "That's the last thing I want." "But look what you've done," he accused, taking my hand and placing it on his raging hard on. For a moment I wasn't sure what he was referring to, what I could have done, then with a feeling of dread I thought, "Oh, no, the story." We still hadn't had sex since his affair with Rebecca; he was still sleeping in the spare room. I certainly didn't want him now. He had pulled my nightie up to my waist and was pulling my knickers down my legs. "Stop it," I ordered him, to which his only answer was "I need you." He had never been demanding like this. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or frightened. He rolled over on top of me, trying to find my lips, his hands grabbing my tits. I could feel his erection pressing against my pussy. Desperately, I twisted my face away from his searching tongue, trying to roll out from under him, but he was pressing with his arms, his weight heavy upon me. With every sinew within me screaming against him, I summoned all my energy and assertiveness and commanded him with aggression and force. "Get off me! Get off me right now! If you don't stop now I'm leaving here tonight!" He seemed stunned and for several seconds just looked into my eyes as he tried to work out how serious I was. I stared back defiantly and I guess he must have got the message, because he rolled off, again becoming very sulky, as if I had done something to offend him. I took several deep breaths: I felt confused, I felt used. But could I complain? After all, I was the one that had deliberately set out to turn him on. I had accomplished what I had set out to do. Was it now fair to blame Paul that he wanted to release some of that libido on me? I would certainly have been upset if he'd turned to Rebecca. But then I was close by and she wasn't. Wasn't it a case that he simply wanted a woman, any woman? "I'm sorry," I said, putting my hand on his arm. He moved the arm away at once. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that I'm not quite ready yet." Despite my apology, he left in a huff and when he had gone I groaned inwardly. What had I done? But I knew that at that moment I didn't want it; I didn't want him. The Code Of Tawr End Of Part Three Part Four ....Coming Next Week! -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----