I understand the difference between real and RP. Therefore, there is nothing anyone can do to my character that would bother the typist. I know many typists are the opposite. Since RP is RP, and since the character is virtual, should she die, another can be created. What I don't like is for other RPers to worry that something done to my character bothers me, the typists. I come here to experience what I cannot and don't want in real life. That is what my RP history has taught me.
Role Play Sample
Mana was on her back on a lumpy bed in a pitch dark room and yet her eyes were wide open, seeing a scene from the not so distant past. Raul, the leader the of nutty survivalist group who had kidnapped her (my version of what had happened), taken her, and made her his girl (his version), was slapping her. Mana still doesn’t understand why he slapped her because she had been completely docile—always was. That Raul liked her was another paradox she still couldn’t understand. He liked women with big breasts, with asses he could slap, and ones who loved to “rut” with him. Mana was close to flat-chested, had very little ass to slap and was near glacial when with him.
Her eyes were wide open already, so the shuffling noise from somewhere outside her small room didn’t shock them to wide open, but the beating of her heart against her narrow chest seemed so loud that she felt any intruder would be able to hear it through the walls.
When the knocking sound came, a knock on the cheap, chipped door, she first wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run, and what she did was even worse—she pulled the stained and god-awful purple colored sheet over her head and with her hands, grasping the sheet. Forearms pressed together under the sheet in front of her face, she waited.
“Mana, are you awake,” came the voice of the Madam, a smoked and whiskey voice that would have been distinguishable in a car crash.
Mana didn’t think long and answered, “No, I’m sleeping.” Mana usually was more obedient, but shaking with fear made her giddy—thus the flippant answer.
“There is a john asking for you.” She clearly didn’t accept Mana’s assertion that she was asleep. “Get yourself presentable and come down—and pronto. You owe me a lot.”
What did Mana owe her? Probably her life! Mana had been taken in and given a bed—even if it was a lumpy one with a stained purple sheet. So Mana got up, applied some make up, though it wasn’t necessary, slipped into the same tight shorts she had worn for two days without washing, pulled a blouse over her head (Mana hadn’t unbuttoned it fully when taking it off) and thought, “I probably won’t get even a minute’s sleep tonight. Damn Raul. Damn the Shift.”
When Mana got to the first floor waiting area, she struggled not to show surprise or stare. The man waiting to use her was Asian, and he was completely and totally frightening, covered with horrible burn scars over half his face, and with eyes that spoke this: “I fear nothing, not death, and I take what I want.” Mana bit her lower lip, gave him a shy and demure half smile, tilted her head towards the room and waited for him to come. He didn’t. He stood there glaring at her. He eyes smoldering and Mana didn’t know what to do. Finally, she walked up to him and lightly reached out for his hand. He grabbed my right wrist with such speed she had no awareness of his hand even moving. Mana winced and said, “You’re hurting me.”
Mana’s longest night was just beginning. Damn Raul—Mana thought, “I should have been deep asleep.”
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