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The Stalker - Part 5

Delusion ... Picnicking on the grass with Suzanne Manet.
The Stalker - Part 5


There is a picture that hangs in my living room, dominating its surroundings. It is famous and I’m sure it will be familiar to you. It is called “Le Dejuner sur l’Herbe” and was painted in 1863 by Edouard Manet. The original hangs in the Musee d’ Orsay in Paris where they have a security system adequate enough to prevent its liberation, so unfortunately mine is a cheap print ... though now that I am an accomplished thief I hope that someday that will change.

Cheap print it may be but I do love it.

The picture depicts a party of Parisian dilettantes picnicking in the woods. The central group consists of two men and a lady, to the upper left of which are tracks running deeper and deeper into the ever darkening undergrowth. Behind them is a stream or pool in which a second woman bathes wrapped in what I can only describe as an ill fitting sheet.

I abhor this woman. I cannot understand what Manet was thinking when he ruined this perfect picture with her inclusion. I adore those tangled and murky paths; uncertain and inviting; where a lady may find her honour forcefully plucked from between her creamy legs, where her bosom may heave helplessly and the delicate porcelain skin of her back be rubbed raw on sandpaper tough bark. Down these dark and twisting ways a girl could lose her moral compass, drown in seas of discarded leaves whilst rough and merciless hands rip the torn and tattered clothing from her flesh and the waterfall of her arousal soaks her trembling thighs.

How I would wish to explore such trails; the cool earth and decaying vegetation uncomfortable on the soles of my bare feet as timid step by timid step my disreputable dining companions lead me deeper into the darkness. What an education I could receive in such a place. To what levels of debauchery could I be allowed to sink?

But her! She isn’t a participant. She stands in the water; head half-turned, keeping her beady little eye on me. She is a watcher, a chaperone, an interferer; and should my stiff, horny, lupine companions decide to lead delectable, delicious me to some place yet more private so that I might free their mighty members from the encumbrance of their trouser; or should I be invited to feast on them with my hungry, insatiable little mouth; or should they desire to devour me entirely; then this woman, this tittle tattle and tell tale will run home and besmirch my honour and my name.

No Edouard you should not have included her in my picture; she curtails all the wondrous possibilities!

In the foreground bread and fruit tumble from an overturned picnic basket alongside an unopened book and surrounded by my discarded clothing. Neither book nor food will be sampled today for this is no ordinary excursion into the forest; the picnic is surely but an excuse for these fine fellows to throw aside society's conventions and satiate their lust with my innocent flesh.

The men recline, weighed down with their worldly experience, extended legs and arms trapping me between them as I sit robbed of all protection; naked and exposed, my skin shimmering luminescent against the darkness of the wooded trails behind me. One of them holds a cane and I can only wonder for what purpose he might have brought it. Surely I have been a good girl; have I not disrobed as they have asked, have I not displayed my soft flesh for their delectation, am I not sat patiently awaiting their instructions, desires and attention? I do not deserve punishment. There is no need for them to flex their muscles, no need for that cane to swish through the air, no need for my alabaster skin to turn crimson at its touch, for I am ready and eager for this body to fulfil their every whim.

I re-enter the room; my hips and arse swinging seductively as my stiletto heels trace perfect 6” gaps between toe and heel, my amorous lovers trailing in my wake. I bring myself to halt before Manet’s glorious vision of delicious debauchery and bring my eyes up to find hers staring back in approval. Tonight we shall be as one; the fleshy, naked me of the picture surrounded by adoring Parisian dilettantes, and the finely toned, pampered, shaven, moisturised, mani- and pedi-cured me of this cold , harsh reality who has besotted stalkers to entertain. We are one and the same, mirror images conjoined and I can feel the warmth of her benediction spreading throughout my tingling body. Slowly I turn, lower myself to sit on the floor in exact imitation of the me in the picture and let my eyes wander across my own special picnickers.

They reek of stale beer.

Author’s Note

She worries me, dear reader. Does she not worry you? 
She seems to have such a slender grasp on reality. She is a picture? A picture is her? Art is life and fact is fiction. 
So what is truth and what are lies? 
Is this all no more than a fragile, brittle world of her own imaginings and what pray will happen when the sledgehammer of truth comes crashing down? Who will there be to pick up the fragments and put them all together again like a Humpty Dumpty jigsaw?
I worry; I really do. 
Thank you for reading. Please do vote, comment or write if you so desire. 
Your humble servant, 
Cum Girl x

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