My Mess is Your Gain: A Test for Readers

Or Can You Tell Which One was Written by Something with a Pulse?

Google recently sent me a message advising that I was about to run out of space in my G-Drive, so in spare moments I’ve been cleaning the thing out. There’s a lot of random crap within, from abandoned projects to student recommendations to WIPs people have asked me to critique to PowerPoints I’ve made to little bits of research I’ve squirreled away. I’ve been adding to the mess recently with experiments I’ve been doing with the Google chatGPT thing and “Sudowrite: the AI Writing Partner.” Please note: I will not use such things in my own work, but as an educator and writer, I feel like I ought to know what they can do.

For your “enjoyment” I’m offering two writing excerpts: one written by me, the other by Sudowrite. Can you tell the difference? P.S. Both these pieces are in the To Delete folder.

Photo by Matt Jones on Unsplash

The Sintaur

He was handsome, she decided. Strong face, tousled brown hair a little on the long side. An archer’s body, his left shoulder a little higher than the right, his upper back muscles sharply defined. His forearms and wrists were thick from swordplay.

She let her gaze travel down his lean chest and stomach. He had no navel, the coarse hair from his lower body ended about a palm’s width below his solar plexus. 

“You have nipples,” she said.

“I do.” He smiled. “I imagine you do, as well.”

“Do female centaurs nurse from their human breasts?”

“You are full of questions,” he said.

“I’m an anthropologist,” she said. “A scientist. Asking questions is my job.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “Our females, they are called centaurides, nurse from their human breasts. They do not have udders the way horses, do.”

She made a note on her tablet. “I am surprised they can provide enough milk. A centaur foal outweighs a human baby by --” She flipped pages looking for the number.

“By quite a lot,” he said. “A centauride produces about 15 liters of milk each day. I believe that is fifteen times what a healthy human woman will produce.  A centauride’s breast size may double and her appetite is often enormous. “

“Double?” Her jaw dropped. 

“However, our children are usually weaned before five months.  Yours usually nurse for a year or better.”

“True.” She cleared her throat. “And the male centaur -- I mean the centaur’s anatomy. Is is it true that the average centaur penis is 22 inches long?”

He smiled. “Would you like to see?”

She cleared her throat. The room felt oddly warm. “Strictly for scientific purposes.”

End

Photo by Gregory Hayes on Unsplash

The Farmer & the Dom

The farm looked like a lot of them did in those days, one part green to three parts dust. Twenty or thirty head of cattle worked the scrub to the west of the house. Rusted steel slumped on flat, rotting tires, and a rickety-looking catfish tank perspired beneath the chicken coop.

The farmer pushed the much-mended baseball cap off his forehead. “How much you charge?”

The young woman, who had been standing in front of the farmhouse, took a deep breath before responding. She was a professional dominatrix and had been looking for a new client in this small town for days. “It depends on what you're looking for,” she said, with a sly grin.

The farmer hesitated before answering. He had never ventured into this world before, but the woman's curves and her confident body language had him intrigued. “I want to be dominated,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The dominatrix smiled wickedly. “Well, that can mean a lot of things. But I think I know what you need.” She walked towards him, her hips swaying seductively.

The farmer couldn't take his eyes off her as she approached him. She stood in front of him, towering over him, and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “You're going to do everything I say,” she said.

The farmer shuddered with anticipation, his heart racing as he nodded in agreement. He had never felt such a rush of excitement before.

The dominatrix led him into the house, which was sparsely furnished with a few pieces of mismatched furniture. She instructed him to undress, his hands shaking with nervousness as he complied. She watched him with a predatory gaze, relishing in the power she held over him.

“On your knees,” she commanded, and the farmer obeyed, his eyes locked onto hers.

She produced a length of rope and began to tie him up, expertly securing his wrists and ankles. He was completely at her mercy, and the thought sent a thrill through his body.

She began to whisper in his ear, her words both soothing and commanding. She told him what to do, how to move, where to touch himself. He followed her every instruction, lost in a world of pleasure and pain.

She walked around him, staring at him from every angle as his body twisted and writhed in ecstasy. He was completely at her mercy and it turned her on. She straddled his face, leaning forwards until her breasts were in his face, then encouraging him to bite her nipples.

This was something she had not done before. She had been a professional dominatrix long enough to know that this was the level of intensity she had been looking for. She felt her excitement building and worked harder to arouse him.

Her skin tingled as he licked and sucked at her, the sensations causing her to quiver. She let out a stream of nonsensical words as she let go and gave herself over to ecstasy.

They both lay on the floor, spent and exhausted. The farmer kissed her body from her breasts to her ankles, thanking her for their time together.

She looked into his eyes and saw the look of a man who had been broken. "You will come back. You won't be able to help yourself.”

He nodded and she untied him, leading him to the door. When he was dressed, she opened the door and shoved him out.

The farmer stumbled away, not entirely sure what had happened, but not caring. He had felt something he had never felt before, and he needed it again.

The dominatrix sat in her room, wondering what was next. She had enjoyed using him, but she wanted more. She wanted to control this whole town. She took out her cell phone, called an old friend, and started making plans.

In the days to come, the farmers and their families would creep out in the night and meet in the church graveyard. They would work themselves into a frenzy of animal-like lust and passion.

They would be under her control, and she would make them do things they never imagined. She would embrace her new position as the queen of this small town.

And when everything was ready, she would unveil her plan.

End