Restless Ch. 03-04byspence5969©
Note: 3rd & 4th in a series. BTW, some of you have asked why certain comments get deleted... comments which have no critical value but are merely a rant regarding the poster's hangups are summarily deleted.
Chapter Three. Interlude
At this point, I'd like to mention that I also loved to take erotic photos of Bridgett. This had started with other girlfriends before her, and we had begun it on our honeymoon in Tahiti. From time to time, we would schedule a "shoot", and spend a few hours taking photos of her in various outfits and poses. I kept several albums of these photos, and some of the more artistic ones I had framed and situated around my desk at home. I used to get many of my ideas for the poses, and the outfits from professional magazines. I didn't care much for the more graphic poses, you know the kind, women with their crotches spread wide enough so you can see their tonsils. I went for the more subtle poses, the artsy touch. Many times Bridgett would go through the magazines with me, helping me pick out the shots she liked as well.
Once while I was moving some boxes in the storage area, the bottom of one had become rotten and all the contents fell out onto the floor. It had a lot of items from Bridgett's acting days in L.A.: old head shots, programs, scripts. There was one large manila envelope, clasped shut with the flap taped down. At least the flap had been taped down. It must have been in the bottom of the box, and some moisture got in, for the tape was all coming off. Curious, I undid the clasp and opened the envelope. Inside were photos of Bridgett. And what photos they were. Professionally done, they had her in a series of outfits and poses which could only be classified as erotic. Short skirts, undone blouses, bra and panties. The last sequence of shots had her draped in only a translucent scarf.
I asked her about it, and she laughed it off as one of those "mistakes" young actresses make. She hadn't known the scarf was so sheer (which I'm not sure I believed. To be that sheer in the photo, it must have been quite see-through in person), and the guy had turned out to be a real scumbag. He had tried to come on to her, but nothing had happened. After the pictures were taken, she had had to send her brother and a couple of his friends to get all the photos and the negatives, because the photographer wouldn't give them to her.
This discovery led to a new way for us to play. From that point on, during one of my photography sessions with her, we would have a "fantasy" that I was someone either she or her husband had hired, and we would end the shoot by having incredible sex.
This motif expanded, so that other times, we would have a fantasy while we were outside the house. This all started that summer, when we took a cruise around the Caribbean. We decided that it would be decadent if we pretended not to be married for the cruise. No one knew that we were sharing a cabin. And we spent the whole first day, flirting with one another, while I tried to "pick her up." This, of course, gave her tremendous opportunity to flirt with others as well, and she took great advantage of that opportunity.
After that, when we got back home, we would occasionally go out and pretend that I would pick her up, or sometimes that one of us was paying the other as an "escort". These were incredibly erotic, and usually ended in incredible sex. She had elaborate stories made up of prior conquests, and could be quite specific about them, which turned both of us on. It was during one of these fantasies where the next phase of our lives together opened up.
Chapter Four. Expansion.
We had set up a scenario where Bridgett would go to a local club and hang out for a while. At a certain point I would go in and meet her, as if it were a blind date being set up by a mutual friend. After meeting, we ended up going back to the apartment, of course, and continued the fantasy. She had chosen to be a very close persona of herself: an actress from L.A. staying for a few months at a friend's place in N.Y. while she auditioned for plays. While we were leading up to the sex portion of the evening (really, that's what we called it), the phone rings and she answers it. It's her mother from L.A. They talk for about ten minutes, when her mother tells her that she'll never guess who called her up out of the blue. Jim Murphy. My wife's ex-fiancée. The guy she dated for three years and never slept with. He had just been thinking about her, and was wondering how she was doing, that sort of thing. Bridgett's mother told him that she was married and living in New York, but that she might be coming out to Los Angeles in a month or so. He asked her mom to give her his number, just in case she felt like having lunch, catching up on old times.
Bridgett finished the conversation with her mother, and we continued on with the fantasy, never breaking stride. Afterwards, when we were both spent and lying in one another's' arms in bed, I kissed her neck, "Are you going to give him a call?"
"Who?" she asked, knowing full well who I meant. "Oh. Maybe." She smiled, then began nibbling on my lower lip. "Would you mind?"
"Of course not," I said, running my tongue lightly along the outline of her lips.
"I mean, when I'm out there next month."
"I know." I let it lay there like that, our mutual oral sparring getting us both aroused enough so that we made love one last time before falling asleep.
Bridgett was scheduled to fly out to L.A. for a week to ten days about a month after that. Actually it was closer to two months. Over the next couple of weeks I asked her as unobtrusively as possible as to whether or not she had called Jim. The first time she said she was probably going to, but she was waiting until she got out there.
The second time was as I was giving her a massage one evening. She lay naked on the bed before me, my oiled hands running down the long muscles on either side of her spine. My grandfather had been a trainer to several fighters, and he had taught me when I was very young the art of giving a proper massage. I used that as a foundation, then read up on how to turn a massage into one of the most sensual of all experiences (not really a difficult leap). Once I had all that information at my disposal, I did the only thing any red-blooded American male would do: practice, practice, practice. Which naturally came in quite handy during my dating days. Plus my wife loved my hands. Absolutely loved them. If there was anything I wanted her to do, all I had to do was ask her while I was giving her a massage.
As I was saying, while I was rubbing her back down, my thumbs and the heels of my palms kneading into her back muscles whenever I discovered a knot, I said, "So, you're definitely going to call him?"
She purred a little as my hands found a good spot before answering, "Probably."
"You think you two will get together?"
I could hear the smile in her voice, "Probably."
"Well, almost definitely. Sure you won't mind?"
I moved lower on her body, parting her legs slightly so I could concentrate on her hamstrings. "Sure I'm sure." I worked my hands down her legs, paying special attention to the calves I knew were sore from walking the streets of Manhattan. "Can I make one small suggestion, though?"
"Well, if you do intend on seeing him, you might want to call him before you leave, you know, to set things up. Who knows, if you wait till you're out there, he might be busy."
"He'll make time to see me."
"I guess you're right. Lord knows I would."
She purred again as I worked on her ankles and feet. "Maybe you're right though. I should give him just the tiniest bit of notice."
I left it at that, finishing off the massage. Which led to an incredible evening of sex, of course.
Even though we didn't discuss it for the next two weeks or so, I could tell Bridgett was excited by it all. I had decided not to bring it up until a day or two before she left. She took the decision out of my hands during a Sunday brunch in the Village. "I called Jim last night."
I tried to play it cool, nonchalant. I don't know if she noticed the tremor in my voice. "Really? What did he have to say?"
She paused for a moment, I think expecting a bigger reaction. "Not much. We're going to dinner that first Friday night I'm out there."
There. Just like that. It was out there. I knew that I expected something might happen, but I didn't know if she expected it to. I wanted to ask, but I wanted things to happen naturally (well, as naturally as they could given the circumstances), so I let her lead the conversation wherever it was going.
"Aren't you going to say something?"
I smiled, "What would you like me to say?"
She tossed her fork onto the remains of her half-eaten bacon omelet. "I don't know. You're sure you're okay with this?"
"Sure, I'm sure." I said, rolling the pancake shrouded piece of sausage into my mouth. Again, I let the subject drop, although I was dying to talk about it. I knew she was too, but both of us were stubborn enough to attempt to wait the other out. It was a question of who would break first.
It wasn't me. A few weeks later, perhaps three weeks before she left, we were out having dinner together. Between the entree and the dessert she leans across the table towards me in her low cut dress and smiles, "You really don't mind me having dinner with him, do you?" Weeks had gone by with no mention, but she expected me to know exactly who she meant by "him". And I did.
There was probably a momentary pause as I lifted my wine goblet to my lips, but not having an out-of-body experience at the time, I wasn't watching myself so I can't be positive. Anyway, I think I answered without too much hesitation, "Of course not, it's just dinner, isn't it?" I don't know what answer she had been expecting, but that certainly wasn't it. She looked at me oddly, then went back to eating.
We finished dinner slowly, with very little conversation. We kept looking at one another. I'm not talking about glancing at each other to see what they're doing, I'm talking about really looking at one another. Seeing how close that small mole is to her left ear, about categorizing the bump on my nose with how far it hooks to the left. Seeing each other. The cab ride home was equally silent, both of us caught in our own thoughts. Both of us trying to figure out what the others' thoughts were.
We got ready for bed. Which in my case consisted of brushing my teeth, washing my hands and face, and disrobing to my underwear. For her it was a complete process: first, she went to bathroom; when she came out she was in her nightie; then, she brushed her teeth; her hair was put up following that, and getting out her special bottle, she used cotton balls and tissues to remove her make-up: face, lips, eyes; next she scrubbed her face with soap and water, removing the remainder of the make-up as well as any traces of make-up remover. Having accomplished her mission, she turned and came towards the bed. This night the short nightgown she had chosen was sheer, exposing her breasts and the fact she had also chosen to wear no panties.
"What?" was the only completely brilliant opener I could think of.
"What do you mean, what?" She said, slightly bending her one leg, to better show off their curves.
"You know exactly what I mean, what. You rarely dress that way coming to bed unless you really want something. So, my question remains: What?"
"You really think you know me, don't you?"
"You haven't denied my assumption, yet."
She took a step toward the bed, raising her left knee to lean on its' edge. "You know what you do when you assume, don't you?"
I couldn't help but smile, "In most cases, yes. But not in this one. Never say never."
"Touché," she said, returning my smile. She crawled onto the bed, straddling my waist. She pressed herself down on that now quickly hardening part of me. A quick inhale of breath passed her beautiful lips as she closed her eyes, feeling me underneath her. "I just want you to know that it's you that I truly want."
"This is about Jim, isn't it?"
She started to rock her hips back and forth against me. "I need to be sure you're okay with this."
I reached up behind, beginning to massage her lower back, "Does it feel like I'm not okay?"
Smiling, "It feels like you're very okay."
We started to kiss and fondle one another. She started to nibble on my neck, and I whispered in her ear, "You sure the two of you never...?"
"Uh, uh. Never." Bridgett replied, licking my earlobe.
"You never wanted to?"
"Of course I wanted to. And we came close many times. But I could never go through with it."
"Do you regret not having done it?"
She stopped her oral ministrations for a moment, thinking. "Not regret, really. I guess I'll always wonder what it would have been like. But I don't think you'd call that regret, really. Curious is a better word."
"You think you'll be tempted to satisfy that curiosity in a couple of weeks?"
"She went back to kissing my neck, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I think it would be too weird."
"I just want you to know, that if anything happens, I'll understand."
"Right. You'd understand me sleeping with my ex-fiancée."
"How can you say that?"
"Because I'm in love with you."
The conversation degenerated from that point on into a series of grunts, moans and squeals. But it was in the back of both of our minds over the coming weeks.
The Saturday before she was scheduled to fly out (she was leaving on the Wednesday), we were having dinner at a local pub. She looked incredibly sexy in her leggings and sweater. It was a look she had come to adore. The sweater stopped just short of her rear end, and was open down most of it's front, exposing the sheer camisole she wore underneath. With her slightly heeled sandals, it was a very sexy look.
She was picking at her cashew chicken salad, and I could tell something was on her mind. "Penny for your thoughts?"
She smiled up at me, started to say something, then shrugged and went back to picking at her plate.
She didn't look up. "Nothing."
I took her hand holding the fork in mine, gently removing the fork with my other hand and setting it down by her plate. "Something's on your mind. What?"
She paused for a moment, but I let the silence go on, afraid that if I said anything it would make her clam up. "Were you serious the other night?"
"I don't know, could you be a little more specific than that? Narrow it down a tad for me?" Although I knew exactly what she was talking about.
"About Jim...and me...that if anything should happen..."
"Do you think something's going to happen?"
"I don't know." She pulled her hand away from mine. "It's just that ever since you said that, I've been thinking...wondering, about what it would be like..."
"Don't lay blame on me," I smiled, "you know you've been curious about that for a lot longer than the last two weeks."
She smiled back. "I know. I wasn't laying blame. But before the curiosity was always in the background. Like noise you don't pay attention to. Occasionally I'd fantasize about it, but very rarely. But since we talked, I don't know, it's like it's very difficult to get it out of my mind now."
"Are you saying you want something to happen?"
"I don't know what I'm saying. Don't you find this entire conversation a bit bizarre?"
"I guess that all depends on your definition of bizarre. Many of the things we do, others would categorize as bizarre. I think this is just one more of those things."
"So you really wouldn't mind?"
"I'd be lying to you if I told you I'd be a hundred per cent okay with it. I wouldn't. There'd always be a part of me wondering if you'd go back to him. But that's a small part. There's a larger part which is actually turned on by all of this, and a still much larger part which trusts you enough to know that if anything does happen, it'll be simply to relieve that curiosity gnawing away at you. And that you'll be back to me the following week."
"Absolutely. I just have one condition."
"That you call me when you get in after having dinner with him."
She got a mischievous look in her eyes, "What if it's very late?"
"I don't care. I want to know what happened."
"Even if nothing happens other than two old friends having dinner?"
"And if something does happen?"
"I want to know that too. Do you think it will?"
"I don't know. Let's drop the subject for now, okay?"
"Okay." But I could tell that it was taking up a large part of her thoughts. She was trying to figure out if I was serious, and if I was, should she take advantage of it. And if she did take advantage of it, did that make her a bad person. Although the verbal discussion was over, I could see all of this mental dialogue going on as we finished our dinners.
It was only brought up once more, when she was packing on Tuesday night. I was sitting in the easy chair, ostensibly reading, but in reality watching her move around the room as she picked clothes from her drawers and closet. She was wearing a pair of short shorts and a tank top, and I loved watching her move, her toned muscles sliding underneath her silky skin. I could tell she was having trouble deciding which clothes to bring, which she always did, but as time passed, I realized she was almost finished choosing. She added a couple of pairs of thigh high stockings, one nude, one black, and several pairs of heels of varying heights. The only items she had left to select were those outfits she'd wear when she went out. I knew that as well as her dinner with Jim, she'd probably go dancing with her friends two or three times, and maybe out for drinks once or twice.
As she made her final selections, carefully hanging them in a garment bag, she saw me watching her. "What?"
"You're just really beautiful, that's all."
"Why thank you, sir."
She went back to putting the last item in the garment back. It was a short, tight black dress which snapped all the way up the front. The way Bridgett usually wore it, she had the first several snaps undone to show off her cleavage, while leaving the last several snaps undone as well, to show off her thighs. She ran her hand down the front of the dress, removing any bulges from it so it wouldn't get too creased in the suitcase. Without looking at me, she said quietly, "You're really okay with this?"
I realized that the black dress was what she'd be wearing for her dinner with Jim. "If that's what you're going to wear, he doesn't stand a chance."
"Well, I want to look good, don't I?"
"I think using the word 'good' to describe how you'll look in that dress just might be the understatement of the year."
"And you're okay with that?"
"I'm in love with you. Of course I'm okay."
"I don't understand you."
"Good." I smiled, "Usually it's the woman in a relationship who retains a sense of mystery. Just remember my one condition."
She turned back to the suitcase, zippering up its front, "I remember."