Free Wild Horses by Dominique Defforest Page A

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,