Wild Horses
by Dominique de Forest
WARNING
Contains adult themes.
Sexual references.
Some coarse language.
ADULTS ONLY
Text © 2012 Dominique de Forest
Published by Dominique de Forest at Smashwords
All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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1
A song always accompanied my passions. With Gina, my first love I guess, it had been the song playing in the background as we rode in the school bus to some lamentable excursion – ‘So Long’ by some now forgotten 1980’s new wave group. I remembered that song because I remembered her. Short, curvaceous, brown eyes, and long black hair. Italian. How hopelessly I fell for her. How painfully I was humiliated when she (quite rightly) called me a “jerk” for leering at her, and trying to impress her, with long and much embellished descriptions of my wild weekends as I positioned myself near her at the back of the bus. Even that hadn't put me off! I had gone back or more – more “what a cool weekend we had” crap, more playing around like a clown with my mates, more humiliation. Even now, more than twenty years later, whenever I hear that song, I can see her – in tight stonewash jeans on free dress day, or an overly short school dress. It didn’t need to be a girl either! London, the first time! Of course, I’ve been back many times since, but the first time comes back to me every time I hear it, for as I emerged from the tube station onto busy Marylebone Road, passed the bronze statue of Sherlock Holmes on the corner, and made my way down Baker Street, trundling my luggage behind me, in my mind I was hearing that saxophone solo, and Gerry Rafferty singing “winding your way down Baker Street, light in your head and dead on your feet.” The second part was true! More than twenty hours on a plane from Down Under will do that to you, followed by an hour or more in the queue at Heathrow, then another hour on the tube. But to be here, for the first time, having thought about it, and dreamed about it, and spoken about it, for so long – whenever I hear that song, that memory comes flooding back instantaneously – of me, with what must have been a stupid smile on my face, passing the Barclays Bank on the corner as I neared the B&B I had booked months in advance, with the commuters, and the workers on lunch break, streaming around me. I should have known then, a decade ago, as Paula and I sat in some restaurant planning our wedding – or more accurately, as I assented to her plans for the wedding and when nothing seemed to suggest itself for the first dance - I should have known then, it should have rung warning bells, but strangely it hadn't. There was no song to accompany the passion, and that almost certainly meant there was no passion. It was just the next, logical step, in the relationship. To get married. We had ended up with ‘True Colors’ (Cyndi Lauper). I didn't even like the song. My mother liked to say, perhaps sensing that I feared I had made a mistake, that “in marriage, the passion will come, later.” But she was an optimist – God bless her soul. For Paula and I it had not come. We were still together, but living separate lives. The one thing we shared with equal resolve being the school fees for our only child, who was nearing the end of her education, and that, I anticipated, would coincide almost certainly with the formal end of the marriage. And we still didn't have a song, there was still not “our song.” It had been years – more than twenty years in fact – since I had associated a song with a person, and when it happened, it was unexpected, somewhat seedy, quite bizarre, and totally wrong – all in equal measure.
2
I was drunk of course. I worse was worse than drunk – I was totally hammered. It was nearing 4am in the morning, a Sunday morning, and the computer screen was blurring in my vision. Paula would ask me in a few hours time why I had come to bed so late, and I was already rehearsing my story about falling asleep watching a replay of the day’s football game on the sofa. That was when I saw her. I didn't cruise the site much, but I had an account. I found most of the girls average in appearance, and their eagerness to be dirtier, nastier, and to do more outrageous things than anyone else, did not really entice me. I usually went to the “livegirls” site only when the online pornography I sometimes frequented on nights like these became repetitious, or I realized that I was downloading something I had seen before, several times. But when I clicked on my log in page this time she flashed up in a little box on my computer screen, one little square among lots of similar little squares, all in rows, like a chessboard. And it just happened that, as I thought to myself “she’s cute,” the Rolling Stones were singing “Wild Horses” from the iPod dock in the background. The first conversation was not something I would be proud of. I clicked on her brunette face and she loomed large on my screen, inside a square that took up the whole of the laptop now.
“wow u r cute,” I typed.
“ty,” was her answer.
I then wrote something crass like – “see your pussy” – or words to that effect, and we went to “private chat.” It cost about $3 a minute. But I got to see her pussy. At least I think I did. I was very drunk. But two things had lodged in my memory, for when I checked back on the same site several weeks later, I saw a tiny icon with a screenshot of her face, listed as a “recent chat” on my log in page, and I remembered immediately her “name,” or at the least the tag she used for her on screen presence – “sweetgirl34.” And I remembered the song, and that the Stones had been singing “Wild Horses” from my iPod when I saw her the first time. This time the conversation was a little more measured, and more sober.
“Hello.”
“Hello bb,” she typed. “How r u?”
It was like another language I thought.
“Good. U r really pretty.”
Now I was using the dialect!
“ty.”
So it went on. What, I guess, in a pub, or a nightclub, or a pick up joint, would be called “small talk.” The main difference was, of course, all I needed to do was to ask her to “go private” if I wanted to take things a little further. I did. I was feeling especially neglected (by Paula) that night, and highly aroused. I’d already spent about an hour cruising porn sites and downloading some horny three or four minute clips. I’d gone on to the live site for that final spark needed to get me there. I suppose I was thinking the thrill factor, of someone live, whom I could ask to undress, would be that spark. In the past phone sex, with a real voice on the other end of the line, had done it. I supposed this was the most up to date equivalent. I needed to get with the times.
“Hi again,” she said when I had her all to myself on the screen.
“Hey.”
“So, what do you want me to do?”
Now there’s a good question I thought!
“Take your top off bb.”
She did. Her breasts were smallish, and natural. I was pleased. There was nothing worse than the packed with silicone “porn star” look. I should have been looking at her tits – that’s why she was there, I kept telling myself, and that’s why I’m paying $3 a minute on my credit card, right now! – but I wasn’t. This lady had an amazing smile. It seemed to dominate her face. Her teeth were a milky white behind it. And she really was pretty – I hadn't just been saying it. Her hair was shoulder length, and curled at the ends, a very dark brown. Her eyes were the same color, or so it seemed, as her hair.
“U have a wonderful smile,” I wrote. I
felt a bit stupid writing that. I was sitting here in my study, on the other side of the world, in the early hours of the morning, with my dick in my hand, telling an “online model” or “erotic performer” (the terms used on the web site), that she had a cute smile. She laughed. What a laugh! Her head tilted back, and her smile seemed even larger, more engaging, more alluring. She’s much too good to be doing this, I thought. I considered writing that, but didn't. It would have been insulting, patronizing. I didn't know anything about her, other than the brief “bio” she had provided on her page. I made a mental note to read it properly, later.
“ty,” she wrote again. She seemed to write that a lot.
“No problem.”
“hru,” she wrote.
I had to think about that one – “how are you?” I realized.
“Good,” I answered. Then I typed, “Ok, let's get naked.”
“Yes.”
I surrendered to the frustration and to the desire welling up within me. As much as I wanted to stop and chat, I needed release, and in the back of my mind the matter of the credit card statement was making itself heard. It wasn’t a bottomless pit! It had a credit limit!
3
She leapt into my mind again the next weekend. Paula was out. Girls weekend away. Our daughter was on a sleepover. Two nights on my own. The Friday night the husbands had drinks together in a local pub. Four of us. It was a good night, but the three of them had younger children, and the babysitters had their limits! I got in before midnight, took a beer from the fridge, and went into the study, closing the door behind me. I opened the laptop thinking first of porn, but even as I did, her dark brown hair and brown eyes, and that smile, flashed before me. I went to the “livegirls” site and logged on. Damn! She was offline. I spent an hour or so combing through the hundreds of others who were online. I tried to chat with two, but gave up after a few sentences. It wasn’t the same. And they didn't have that smile. I was about to log off when my heart leapt – she was online. The circle in the top left corner had changed form red to green. The message above her screenshot read – “sweetgirl34 is online. Click here to chat with me.” I did.
Hello again,” she said.
I could hear her! I'd left the volume up. I usually had it turned right down, for fear Paula would hear something – she was such a light sleeper. As I was alone in the house now, it didn't matter. It hadn't even crossed my mind that I could hear her, as well as see her.
“Hi sweetgirl,” I wrote. “U really R sweet. So pretty.”
“Thank You,” came the reply.
Her voice was very feminine. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. A pleasant, sing-song voice. Not guttural at all. The accent was there, it was definitely Eastern European (mental note again – check out her biography), but her English seemed good. She leaned toward her camera and blew me a kiss. Then she tilted her head back and laughed. The sound filled the small room in which I was sitting. It was an act, I told myself, this was part of the show. But it was strangely alluring, and exciting, in its playfulness. I knew I was “going private” with her. And soon.
“Well. U R the most beautiful girl here, easy.”
“Oh thank you,” she said again, sweetly. Smiling seductively. She was wearing a very loose fitting, and low cut, red top. As she leaned toward the camera, to blow another kiss, I realized she was not flawless. Who was? The layer of cosmetics hiding the imperfections was heavily applied, but you could see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and the pores that stood out across her cheeks and forehead.
“Love to go pvte with u,” I wrote.
“Yes,” she implored me. “Please. Let’s go.”
I clicked on the button, and waited for the screen to blink, and for her to appear filling the laptop, as before.
“Hey.”
She was waving as she said it, and smiling into the camera. She really was cute, I thought. This was going to be good.
“Ok. Can take yr top off.”
She did, immediately.
“Wow.”
The familiar laugh, head tilting, smile looming large.
“U R so beautiful,” I wrote. Even as I did, I was telling myself – “you're overdoing it. What does she care, what you think of her?”
“Thank You” she said again, her voice cheerful. If it was an act (as I fully expected it was), it was a bloody good one!
“Do u have panties on?” I wrote.
“You want to see?” she asked. Still smiling.
“Of course,” I said to myself.
She adjusted the camera, so it was panning over her body. She wore very small, and very tight, red panties. She was taking them off as I watched. Her legs were long and beautifully shaped, and her hips were rounded. Her stomach was not flat but if I remembered the parts of her “bio” I had read rightly, she was over thirty. If she was not lying about her age, and why would she make herself older than she was? She had a pretty spectacular body!
“Great body,” I wrote.
“Thank You baby.”
She parted her legs, slowly and deliberately. There was not a shred of hair on her body. Not under her arms. Not between her legs.
“Are you excited to see me?” she called, from her room, on the other side of the world, her voice coming down the internet connection and out of my laptop speakers.
“Oh yeah!” I wrote.
“I want to see you too,” she said.
“What?” I wrote.
“I want to see you baby.”
She was gently fingering herself. I had a raging hard-on, but it was still in my jeans at this stage. That was going to change pretty soon. But what did she want me to do?
“What do I do?” I wrote.
“You can turn on your cam and we can be cam to cam,” she told me. “Then I see you too.”
“Ok.”
I didn't know what was going to happen. I had never done this before. When I clicked on the icon that operated the camera built into the top of my laptop screen, I saw myself appear in the bottom corner of the screen. My room was dark. I was a grainy image, pale and bearded, wearing jeans and a pullover. And by this stage I had my dick in my hand.
“Nice to see you,” she said, applauding gently. “Nice to meet you baby.”
“You are so cute,” I said.
“Thank you.”
She said that a lot.
“Do I make you excited?” she asked, knowing, I’m sure, the answer.
“Oh yeah.”
“I make you cum baby.”
“Please.”
It occurred to me that it wasn’t the most dignified thing I had ever done. But by that stage I didn't care. I watched her masturbate – or, at least, pretend to, for my benefit – as I did, leaning back in my chair, not taking my eyes off her fabulous body and sensuous white skin. When it was over, I reached for the exit button, and said, before I clicked on it - “thank you, good bye, you are gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” she said (again). “Come and see me again.”
And then she was gone. The screen went blank. And I had some cleaning up to do!
4
I was at work when I thought of her again. It was a slow day, during the course of the following week. My PA had gone home early, claiming to be unwell, and most of the work stations were vacant. I had my own space, behind frosted glass. There was a case on the go, that needed to be finalized, but it could wait until next week. I leaned back in the reclining leather chair, and stared into the desktop computer, aimlessly. I could leave. I was the manager wasn’t I? I worked on my own time. But what was waiting for me at home? Paula was already pissed off. I wasn't even sure what I had done or said this time. She was always pissed off. I thought of “sweetgirl34.” I hadn't read her biography properly yet. The laptop was in a carry bag on my desk. It was mine, and it pretty much went everywhere I went, but I had brought it into the office today specifically to transfer some files from the desktop I used at work, that I intended to work on over the weekend. I opened it,
went straight to the livegirls site, and logged in. She was offline, but I could still access her page. There were some photos of her, in various states of undress, all wearing lingerie or underwear. I flicked through them quickly. They served only to remind me of how attractive I found her. I clicked on her profile page, and read it at length.
Basic Profile
Name: sweetgirl34Age: 34. Gender: Female. Sexual Preference: Bisexual (That surprised! Maybe it was to invite female clientele I wondered). Country: EE (I had noticed a number of the girls on this site used the generic EE standing for “Eastern Europe” as the location indicator). Zodiac: Capricorn
Appearance
Height: 1.63m (5'4"). Weight: 60kg (130 lbs). Hair Color: Brown. Eye Color: Brown. Build: Petite. Ethnicity: White. Cup Size: C. Pubic Hair: Bald. Measurements: 97-66-97cm (38-26-38")
Features
Languages Spoken: English
What I do in my show
Here she had typed in what looked to be the lyrics to a song. I didn't know the song, so it appeared pretty meaningless to me. Some of the girls, I recalled, would list here their specialties. Some of them were kinky, some extreme. Some disturbing. I felt like a I knew a little bit about her now. I closed the laptop, and reclined again in the chair, to sit with my thoughts as I gathered them. What was it that I found so attractive, so enticing, so “special” about this girl? This lady? This woman? Who lived somewhere on the other side of the world, and stripped for men online, for money? She was probably a stripper. A prostitute. A porn star. No, I reasoned. Maybe she was a hooker, or had been, I couldn't discount that, but most of the strippers and the porn stars I had seen (and I had seen a few over the years!) had the telltale scars underneath their breasts, or were pierced in unlikely places, or had perfectly toned bodies and clinically enhanced features. She seemed to be entirely natural – breasts sagging over her chest, flawed skin, slightly overweight. She was a hooker, I told myself, or a recently retired one. I didn't care. I would be online tonight!
Wild Horses Page 1
