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.
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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."
"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?"
"What's that?"
"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.
