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

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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.

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!

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.