Love Online(2)

On the bottom of the screen was a selection of cam girls. I always bypassed that option completely. The idea of competing with other men to interact live with a girl had never interested me. I preferred to not have to deal with my porn talking back to me. There were way more efficient ways to get my rocks off.

There was really nothing a cam girl was gonna do that I couldn’t get in a previously recorded video without having to keep shelling out money to see so much as a fragment of her nipple. Although, I’m sure there are some lonely dudes who are easy targets to get sucked into something like that, because they needed attention even if it was fake.

No thanks.

I was about to move past that section as I normally did until one of the cam-girl images caught my eye. The preview featured a still shot of her playing a violin.

A violin.

I laughed.

What the fuck?

Had I come across the female Yo-Yo Ma of the porn world?

Montana Lane. That was her name.

A violin. Just when I thought I’d seen it all. If I wanted to listen to music, I’d go to the symphony—not a porn site. Not to mention, I preferred sex with “no strings.”

That was bad, but I couldn’t help myself.

Nevertheless, this whole thing made me curious. So I did what any bored dude avoiding a house full of people would do. I clicked on it.

Famous last words.

There she was, live in the flesh in real time. Unlike the preview, there was no violin in sight.

I laughed to myself. False advertising!

Instead, she was fully clothed and…singing. Well, fully clothed was a relative term in this case, since her boobs were busting out of her pale pink tank top, her nipples like buckshot pellets through the fabric. But she was covered.

I closed my eyes and listened to her acoustic performance for a moment.

Her voice.

Her voice was sick—breathy and completely in tune. Hypnotic. The song sounded familiar, and when I realized what it was, my body froze.

She was singing “Blue Skies” by Willie Nelson.

No effing way.

My heart thundered against my chest. That’s the song my mother used to sing to me when I was a kid. Mom died a few years ago of a rare cancer. She sang it to me shortly before she died, too. I wasn’t expecting to connect with my mother on a cam-girl site. Nevertheless, it was happening—no way I could turn away from this now.

Montana was really into it, closing her eyes to concentrate on hitting all the right notes. And it was flawless.

Several minutes went by as I listened to her smooth, buttery voice. It calmed me in a way very few things could lately. In a weird way, it felt like my mother was with me. (Although, I hoped to God Mom left before I started jerking off.)

Montana Lane was naturally beautiful in a way most women out here in L.A. were not. She wasn’t wearing a drop of makeup, and yet her skin was flawless on camera. You could tell her breasts weren’t fake, either. They dropped and bounced naturally as she moved. And her hair was a color of brown that wasn’t bottled—a muted color, like sand. It was really long—down to her waist—and wispy, almost reminiscent of a hippie in the ’60s.

It seemed like she was from another time or something. Her thin arms were toned. She was almost too skinny, apart from her voluptuous breasts. Those eyes, though. Her eyes were the lightest shade of green, and they glowed through the screen. It was as if I could see through them—I was sure as hell trying to. Damn. That violin preview photo definitely did not do her justice. This girl was a knockout.

When she finally stopped singing, comments lit up the screen, one after the other.



LordByron114: Amazing!



SpyGuy86: Your voice is just as beautiful as you.



FranTheMan10: You are a fucking goddess, Montana.



Most of them were respectful. Of course, there were some that weren’t.



Rocky99: Bravo. Now show us your tits.



Show us your tits?

I spoke to the screen. “Fuck you, asshole.”

This girl had just sung her heart out, and this dude was asking her to show her tits? Granted, that’s what many of these guys were here for—maybe even me—but how fucking disrespectful at this point in time.

Everything on this site was tip-based. Users were paying Montana tokens to request different acts. There was a scrolling menu at the bottom of the screen that summarized the pricing: Fifty tokens and she sang a song. One hundred and she took her top off. Two hundred and she removed her panties. Three hundred and she masturbated on camera.

Fuck.

The thought of that made my dick stiffen.

Five hundred for a one-on-one, private “chat.” Sure. I bet there’d be a lot of chatting going on in that scenario.

I really wanted to ask her why she’d chosen that old song. It nagged at me.

While it was free to watch her, if I wanted to interact, I had to register with the site.

After entering my email to sign up, I chose the username ScreenGod90, an ode to my movie-making roots and my birth year. Then I started typing.



ScreenGod90: What made you choose “Blue Skies?”



Montana was answering someone else’s question, offering a guy advice on pleasing his woman. I wasn’t sure if she’d even noticed my question. It was getting buried, lost in a bunch of scrolling sentences from various people.