AI Picture: An Ordinary Girl
Original Picture: An Ordinary Girl
Imagine this: you’re a regular sort of guy, fairly successful, early middle age— let’s say you’re a project manager— it doesn’t really matter; what is relevant here is that you happen to have some particular sexual tastes and strong drives that go with them, and that you have chosen to put these into action without restraint.
Now, imagine the scenario: a consultation at a school, one of the staff delegation is an art teacher, middle 20’s, strikingly pretty— the only reason the word beautiful doesn’t come to mind is that she doesn’t project herself with the assurance of someone who knows how good-looking she is— even though, when she stands, as you set out on a little walk around the site, you see that her dress, although perfectly within ‘teacher’ bounds, and rather elegant, too, is pushing hard at the envelope of ‘provocative’— noticeably high heels, skirt slightly shorter than you’d expect, with a flippy hem, either unbelievably perky breasts or a seriously cantilevering bra, jewellery a little overstated— hoop earrings— and that dark ring, worn so obviously…
You’re suddenly finding it a little hard to concentrate, but you take yourself in hand— tell yourself you’ll check her out later.
So, during the good byes, you make sure that the ring is indeed what you thought it was, and then you tell her you’d be grateful for five minutes to discuss some point she’d made about natural lighting. Your colleague gives you a grin, but says he’ll wait in the carpark, and then you’re alone. She’s a little flushed, but meets your eyes with hers— god, she is beautiful— and this close, the way her cleavage shows in the open neck of her blouse…
Okay,— just— go for it;
“Show me the ring, please.”
Her whole body shifts, subtly— comes alive, comes into focus, accentuated, her movements more precise. Clearly, strong emotions are coursing through her; equally clearly, she is determinedly controlling the expression of those emotions as she elegantly, slowly, lifts her hand, splaying the fingers slightly, offering it for inspection, the muscles relaxed, but tiny trembles indicating just how hard it is for her to achieve this.
Her other hand, is, very obviously, tucked away at the small of her back; she has lifted and opened her shoulders— her breasts are presented, her cleavage invites attention— a pendant on a chain down from a thin necklace chain draws the eye to the soft shadows. A small shift at her belly— yes— she is thrusting her pelvis forward— very slightly, but very deliberately. Her flush has deepened into a burning red. The tip of her tongue appears from between her red, full, lips, then you see the teeth— she is holding her tongue like that, softly biting it, the tip held out, her lips parted— parted for you. Obviously and intentionally.
You don’t really need to look at the ring— all of this is conclusive, but you make a show of it anyway— carefully controlling your own strong emotions now. You take her hand softly, from underneath, lift it, noticing how she lets you take control of her, feel the trembling, feel her attempt to communicate her availability through this simple touch, her fear, her eagerness to please, her shame, her excitement.
You look up, grin a little, let her see your understanding of her weakness, how entertained you are by her vulnerability, how clearly you relish the asymmetry of the situation— a casual encounter for you, which for her promises an impending ordeal of unlimited risk, merciless exploitation of her tragic weakness by a stranger.
Almost, almost, these moments are better than the fucking…
But you know from experience, that they can only ever be moments— that all is movement, that you need to push her forward. You stop grinning, your face calm, serious, interested;
“I want to fuck you; now, and hurt those pretty tits quite badly. I’ll need you for fifteen or twenty minutes. When’s your next class?”
Her face is a picture, cheeks hot pink now, eyes wide, blinking, her lips parted, breathing noticeably faster, tongue tip flicking. Her gaze drops, but she keeps her stance, shoulders back, neck straight. A sort of shiver runs through her, as if she might fall, or faint, but she recovers, flashing you a tiny propitiating smile. She checks her watch, looks up again, her voice is husky, as if her throat is constricted— it’s a sexy effect;
“I … I have forty minutes. There… There’s an alleyway just … just off school grounds.”
You’re grinning again;
“Excellent. Lead on gorgeous, lead on.”
And twenty five minutes later, you’re on your way back to the office, having had her suck you, on her knees in a grimy alleyway, her tits roughly pulled free of her bra, nipples harshly twisted until she cried out, helpless despair mingled with the hurt in her cries, until you pulled her up by the hair, then pushed her, head down, over the side of some old tote bin and fucked her for a while before thrusting your painfully stiff cock aggressively into her tight asshole, ramming her hard there. You came like a train, threw her to her knees again and had her clean you up with her soft mouth, every touch of her tongue communicating her abject dedication to your pleasure, before walking off without a backward glance, leaving her to clean herself up ready for afternoon school in whatever way she could.
A “reader’s letters” fantasy, surely— ridiculous; you can’t just meet a pretty looking girl for the first time, an ordinary young woman with a day job and a position and responsibilities, then simply announce that you’re going to fuck her, and not only get away with it but use her like a street whore. However appealing a fantasy it might be (to some), it’s just not how the world works.
Except that I— me, Lorna Flannery— I happen to be that ‘ordinary girl’— that teacher. And that guy— a complete stranger to me, did say exactly those words to me, and I did, I did just look at my watch, and say ‘OK’. Did lead him to the alleyway in the next door lot, walking carefully to emphasise the swing of my hips, let him push me down and fuck my face, hurt my poor breasts and fuck me like a dog, force himself into my ass without lube, come inside me that way, then have me suck his cock clean again, tasting myself, before walking off, just abandoning me, clothes and make-up in disarray, without some much as a backward glance, let alone a ‘thank you’.
Despite everything, it still shocks me, too— seems unreal, mad, that such a thing can happen to me— and not just the once, mind, but, truthfully, quite often. And that still, somehow, I remain an ordinary girl, live in an ordinary flat, do ordinary shopping, have ordinary conversations, .
Whatever is done to me, whatever I offer myself up for (and I do, I have, I do, I continue to), I somehow never think of myself as anything but that ordinary country girl, from an ordinary, country family, that has somehow acquired this, this alter ego, this unbelievable, utterly improbable extra life.
I mean, I sometimes stand, looking at myself in the mirror, naked, or dressed like some fantasy prostitute to meet some cruel person’s tastes, and call myself names; cunt, whore, slut, fuckpig, trash, skank— tell myself that that is what I am, make myself cry, collapse in despair, wracked with tears, sobs that leave my throat sore for days, come to the edge of real self-harm, trying, I suppose, to shock myself out of this impossible dual existence.
But it never works. Somehow, after it’s over— whatever it is, however devastating— I will clean myself up, and go back to my apparent life, and feel newly free— look with new joy and appreciation at trees, birds, sunlit clouds, rain, the city— and smile. A sad smile, perhaps— for I do of course understand that I am doomed, that this insanity cannot end well for me— but a genuine one.
Even now, when it is the alter ego that is living my life mostly, and the ordinary girl who waits in the wings, for her increasingly brief interludes, I am, still, in my centre, an ordinary girl.
An ordinary girl who willingly advertises herself as available— without restraint— to cruel strangers who will fuck her ragged, degrade her for fun, who does her very, very best to have each of those strangers find abusing her as entertaining as she can make it be.
I met him at a launch party. I nearly didn’t go. I’d never have met him if I hadn’t— we had so little in common.
I think about that often— the chance encounter that turned my life inside out. How easily it might not have happened. Where I might be now if it hadn’t.
Not that it was any sort of a lightning bolt, that evening. I hardly registered much at the time— just a chance encounter, a slightly unusual conversation, rather interesting, but not the slightest sense that a new pathway had opened up, still less that it would swallow me whole.
I was 25, an art teacher, recently split from a long term partner, Terry; working hard, living in a flat I couldn’t really afford without my ex, but essentially, one of life’s lucky people. Things had always gone mostly right for me; although I didn’t have rich parents, wasn’t brilliant academically or super sporty, I had mostly been able to do just as I wanted, had a solid, decent, loving family, good friends around me, had been happy and content. I didn’t quite understand people who were troubled, although I tried to be kind to them. I’d never really worried about my looks, which I sort of knew was because I was born lucky— the sort of body, face hair that lets you sail by, just being considered beautiful without making any serious effort. In short, without boasting at all (really— you’ll see how little to boast of I have, if you read on), I had very little in the way of neuroses, hang-ups, stress, even after my breakup.
Distressing as it was to have broken up a long-term relationship, deep down, I knew I would be OK— I just knew. He’d been a college boyfriend, and wasn’t ready to settle down. We’d had fun, grown up a little together, but for some months we’d both known we were at the end of the line.
And that was it. I’d be sad for a while, but not crushingly, and I’d meet someone, someone more adult, more ordinary perhaps, and we’d like each other well enough to say that we loved each other, and then that would be it— we’d have a lovely, friendly, nice marriage and perhaps some kids, and I’d be happy and ordinary.
Except that it didn’t turn out that way.
A friend of mine— an up-and-coming curator— invited me to a launch of something she was doing about art and engineering, and as it was a Friday night, and as it was time I started to get out and socialise again, I went.
The show was interesting enough I suppose, but nothing there was really my ‘thing’, so I mooched about, chatted to a couple of other friends of Jenny’s who I knew by sight from other events, sampled the (rather good) champagne and (rather awful) canapés. and decided I’d leave early, as soon as it wouldn’t look odd.
I’d noticed him earlier— he had contributed to the project, it seemed, and Jenny had mentioned him in her little speech with gratitude. He looked to be in his mid forties, on the tall side, decent looking enough without being remarkable, quite well dressed— something stylish about him, even though he was wearing a dark suit like many men there. Beyond that, he had made no impression, until I did decide it was time to leave, and found myself heading for the exit at the same time as him. Since the event was taking place in a gallery of the Science Museum after hours, we had to find our way back through the rest of the building. It was a little creepy— the large spaces with the lights dimmed, strange shapes and shadows from the exhibits, and some doubt in my mind as to the exact way I’d come in. I was happy to have someone else going the same way, and asked him if he’d mind me following along with him.
“It will be a pleasure. Perhaps, while we’re walking, you’d tell me any impressions you have of the project, if that’s not an imposition?”
I looked at him more carefully, then; his voice was beautiful— dark and deep and steady— a voice of certainty, with an implied kindness, too— and his language— so measured, slightly archaic, but immediately comforting, solid. His eyes, his calm, open expression completed the picture, and I decided that I would be happy enough to talk to him.
“Oh! Sure— although I can’t comment much— I’m just a friend of Jenny’s— no expertise at all.”
“But that makes you the exact expert on the questions I’d like to ask— ” he said, smiling lightly; “if non-experts— interested members of the general public— don’t respond to this, we shall have missed our mark, so please, I am, truly, most interested in anything you might have to say— anything at all.”
And somehow, we were away; he was easy to talk to, listened carefully, thoughtfully, and came back with interesting, open questions, so that I found myself saying rather a lot more than I had known I had been thinking.
We arrived at the exit, and, realising that this was probably where we would part ways, I was conscious of a slight sadness— I hadn’t had such a relaxed, interesting conversation with a man since Terry had left on his round-the-world-on-a-shoestring-to discover-himself trip. This was nothing to do with any romantic or sexual interest— just a realisation that this sort of serious, male-flavoured discourse was something I missed— most of my friends, male and female, were artsy types, and while I loved them dearly, I needed more variety.
Perhaps he had been interested too, a little, because he stopped, turned to face me and said;
“I don’t know your name, I’m sorry— I’m John Cord.”
And so I responded, of course;
“And I’m Lorna Flannery. Pleased … pleased to meet you.” And I really was, I realised, and gave him a smile.
“Well, thank you, Lorna, for some interesting observations. “
And, when I shook my, head, looked down, denying the likelihood that this could be true, he said;
“No, really— I’m serious. Look, Jenny has your details, right? Well, I’ll get her to send you an invitation to a small discussion group we have going. Maybe you’d like to come along and see how boring our conversation is?”
I flushed with pleasure at the compliment, and his obvious wish to be pleasant. He was being kind, I thought; so I shook his hand, said;
“Well, perhaps… But, thank you all the same. Goodnight!”
“Goodnight, Lorna. Safe journey home.”
And that was it. Or nearly it. I thought about him a little on the tube— maybe he had appreciated my comments— he certainly had some interesting ideas himself. Maybe life wasn’t so boring, being single. I resolved to go out more— to interesting events. Maybe I’d meet someone interesting— and closer to my own age.
I didn’t think about him again, until ten days or so later, came an email from Jenny, with an invitation to an evening at some pub in town— the discussion group.
