Our Tattered Lives 1

This is my rewritten and edited story I published before as --Torn lives--. I have to thank two people. My editor Johnny Galt who with his constant prodding questions and suggestions made that the story changed for the better and I'm also in debt to fellow author CPBaudelaire who the 03/14/12 wrote a number of suggestions to improve the story in his comment to Torn Lives. To both of them, many thanks.

There is NO; I repeat NO underage (under 18 years old) sexual relationship of any kind in my story

F

*

Prologue

The yell was almost deafening to the 15 year boy, his hand about to grab and stroke the turgid breast and he cringed as if bitten by a scorpion. His face was a mask of confusion as he sent a look of heartbroken bewilderment to his mother, not understanding the reason for such a fierce cry. He was just trying to do what he thought both of them wanted. What she had been asking for with her endless and merciless erotically charged flirting in recent weeks.

"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? YOU PERVERT "

His mother, still gorgeous at 35 was the centre of his dreams and the cause of his unwanted, endless nocturnal emissions.

"Nothing, I...I...I just thought..."

"What did you "just think", you little pervert, trying to grope your mother that way"

"I...I...I'm sorry mom.....I. I. I was... just...."

stammered the boy, and with a sob darted away. He ran, ran, and ran out and away from home, his mother's cry, who he loved with a desperate passion was piercing his eardrums in her scorn and rejection. He swore to himself never again would he be in a position so humiliating with any woman, least of all with his mother. While the tears flowed freely down his cheeks he promised himself never again be humiliated in this way by any person in the whole world.

*1*

It was a dark night several months later. Rain and sleet were coming down in sheets and the wind was sweeping it around furiously. Doors and windows were trembling against the onslaught of both air and water on the dilapidated house where some street people had taken refuge. Pierce Bridgeport, because of the wet cold was almost sick.

It was a dreadful night. The blanket over him was not thick enough to keep the cold from seeping in and the small brazier next to his mattress on the floor was too weak to keep anything warm. There wasn't heat, only a small comfort in the dim red glow coming from the few, almost burned out coals, overwhelmed every now and again by the bright lightning in the skies.

He was counting his heartbeats to keep his attention away from the roaring thunder and to occupy his thoughts with something other than the weather and memories of his parents, mostly of his mother; and of his warm bed and comfortable room in what he now thought of as his lost forever home. At sixteen and protected from the worst aspects of life, nature's ferocity was unsettling to say the least.

Somewhere along the way, in the wee hours of the night, the cold became even more biting, when his body started to shiver, he realized that the red glow from the brazier had died. The coals had gone out and there were only ashes. He curled himself into as tight a ball as he could; wrapped himself from all around to minimize the cold coming inside the blanket and started praying. Night was more than half over and the rain wasn't showing any signs of subsiding and he started dreaming.

********

*A boy's dream*

< We were at the poolside, mother's beautiful tanned body dressed in a very skimpy bikini she didn't ever wear when father was around or when they went to the beach as together.

Natasha Bridgeport stretched her long, slender body on the huge towel, the hot sun heating her. She rested her face on crossed arms, her smoldering eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Her rich luxuriant blonde white hair moved lazily in the slight breeze of the hot afternoon. Sitting at her side, her young son Pierce was pouring tanning oil onto her back, rubbing it into her satiny flesh; his hands felt good on her skin, the slow way they moved up and down from her shoulders to her skimpy bikini bottom. She had untied her halter, not wanting to have a tell-tale strip of white on her back. It was bad enough she had to wear the bottoms.

Natasha would have preferred to have been nude, completely naked to the rays of the midday sun. But she certainly couldn't strip off with her son there, could she? Even with no one else around. She didn't like going to the public beach much, it was better for her purposes to be at the pool in her backyard. She murmured softly as Pierce's hands kept up their movements, massaging her flesh gently, almost too lightly. She shifted her shoulders, finding a more comfortable pressure on her tits. To look at her, one would have thought she was dozing as her son rubbed the oil into her flesh, but Natasha was wide awake, her eyes open behind the dark sunglasses. She was watching her son, her eyes taking in the changes in his body, the shapes and forms of his abs, his young muscles, and the bulge below.

"Your skin is so soft, Mom," she heard Pierce say softly.

"Mmmm," she replied lazily.

"I like to feel your skin," He said as he worked his hands up and down her back.

She purred with pleasure, gazing at her son, her eyes fixed upon the enticing bulge of his swimsuit. She wondered how big the boy's cock was, how big his balls were, if they were full, loaded. Natasha liked full balls, hot balls. She especially liked what they contained.

She then turned around on the towel and sat.

"Darling, would you mind getting me a paper towel, please?"

He looked at her and saw her hand putting thin drops of milky sun cream over the front her body to protect her of the sun's rays; the cream appeared to be leaking from her exposed and engorged nipple. He stared mesmerised a few moments too long and when he came to his senses he found his mother staring right into the boner he was sporting with a huge grin on her face. He blushed and immediately went into the kitchen. It took him a few seconds to get his wits about him and remember why he had come inside the house. That gorgeous shinning breast with its dark angry red nipple was making him crazy. Then he looked for and found the paper towels, grabbing a handful and carrying them to her.

His mother laughed when she looked up to see him standing there handing her almost the whole pack. She looked up at the boy who appeared almost drunk and at the bulge in his shorts and said laughingly,

"Your big little brother down there thinks mommy made a big mess with the sun screen, doesn't he? Yes he does." She looked up and smiled. "I only need one, Sweetie."

With shaking hands he ripped the first towel from the pack to shreds and cursed under his breath for being so stupid.

"It's all right, Baby. There are plenty more where that came from," his mom had told him.

And then, when he felt it, he almost fainted. His mom's foot was pressing against the inside of his leg, just below the knee, her toes were lightly scraping and playing as he was standing in front of her.

She chuckled again and he quickly tore off another paper towel and waited as she wiped her fingers and then her bare breast. Sweat drops dribbled between and under her breasts and she roughly ran the paper towel up and across her breast and nipples. He was almost catatonic and couldn't bring himself to move from his position in front of his mother, and then her foot pressed harder against his leg had and moved up and down his cal. He had wondered at the moment if he was misreading things; that she was just using his leg to keep balance and not flirting with him. But she knew, yes she knew her impact in the still developing libido of her son.>

*******

Somewhere between the knocking of windows, clapping of the thunder, and banging of the rain on the doors, and in between dreams of his mother he heard a creak, then a small hand shook him through the blanket and he heard a smaller boy saying,

"Move over Pierce, please, so I can get in with you. I'm freezing".

Some of the kids taking shelter that night in the decrepit house, had run away from home like him and became street kids, while others, not living in the street the shopping mall after school, pinching ladies handbags and shoplifting.. Pierce went with them, they were his new pals. But the first time they had problems with the police, since he was the least experienced and streetwise of the group, they dumped all the blame on him.

Belonging to a respected family, and being a minor, the judge contacted his parents before deciding what punishment he was going to award. The boy was adamant, when his parents arrived at the Court House that he would only talk with his father. He wouldn't see or talk to his mother at all. His father, a respected neurosurgeon and college professor went alone to talk with his son in custody.

As a result of his father conversation with the judge, he was sent to a juvenile facility until he was eighteen. Part of the agreement was that studied and learned a craft. He was very lucky because as he was good at physics and maths, the mandatory learning of a manual profession opened for him a wide field of possibilities. After a time he became fascinated with the welding of metals and maybe, that was what got him the apprenticeship to become an underwater welder. He saw two pieces of red hot iron being melted with the solder and creating another piece.

It was like creating life; the teachers seeing his interest, not common among most young prisoners, put every effort to teach him the secrets of their trade. When his skill at oxy-acetylene welding allowed him to weld the most difficult pieces and metals they advanced him to the more difficult electric welding courses. He was a natural by the time he was seventeen, was an excellent welder, even earning some money on jobs that his teachers brought in from outside the correctional facility.

In all that time his father went to see him every weekend, not missing a single one. The first months he was always accompanied by Pierce's mother, but this continued refusal to see his mother made her cease accompanying his father. And then he had the opportunity. A professor working for a small oil company needing welders to work at sea asked and obtained, from the judge and his father, permission for Pierce to work outside the correctional facility. The work place was a shipyard and that was where he picked up the diving bug and his love for the ocean. It was something that would change his life forever.

He worked hard and on his release, he enrolled a swimming and diving school and persuaded his father to pay for his course as an underwater electric and argon welder. He graduated eighteen months later and was soon working in the oil industry, After turning twenty one, he was sent to work at the construction site of several high sea oil rigs and platforms where he become a specialist and earned a good living in places ranging from the North Sea to the Gulf of Mexico and seemingly everywhere else that oil was produced under the ocean.

*2*

*Pierce parent's story*

Natasha Bridgeport, née Sorenson, was the only child of third generation Norwegian immigrants in the mountains of Idaho, near the Montana border. In fact the nearest town to their family ranch is Clark Fork over US highway 95. She went from long legged, adorable adolescent to beautiful young woman. She had inherited the genes of her Scandinavian ancestors: Good bones, a 5 foot 9 inch, 125 pound body with long muscular legs, which rose to supple hips and an intriguing view of that magical area where a woman's legs transform into a round and pert derriere. She had a tiny waist with hourglass shape and an incredible pair of 36 inch breasts roughly the size of medium-sized oranges, they were up thrust and proud; her nipples were pale pink and thicker and longer than a pencil eraser. The areoles that surrounded them were quarter-sized and similarly pale pink and quite smooth.

This vision of loveliness was completed by long, blonde almost white, hair that she wore in a pony--tail which fell almost to her waist, framing a face with large emerald green eyes, natural full rose colored lips that were maybe just a touch wide, a small, straight nose, with only a few laugh and sun lines around her eyes. Her cheekbones were high and well-defined. The small vee of hair that covered her pubic mound was thin and light honey coloured, and she kept it neatly trimmed. This gorgeous goddess was eighteen years old when she left her parents ranch to go east, to Boston Medical College to become a Registered Nurse and learn about the world. She got her second wish, and instead of the first (becoming a registered nurse) she met her destiny.

Dale Bridgeport was an eminent neurosurgeon and twenty four years Natasha's senior.

In his early forties, Dr Bridgeport still drew second glances from women. He still had the build which had made him an outstanding quarterback in his college years —a tall erect figure with big, broad shoulders and muscular arms. Even now he has a habit of squaring his shoulders when ready to do something difficult or make a decision—as if readying instinctively the charge of a red-dogging linebacker. Yet despite his size, he still moves lightly, like a dancer.

He had never been handsome in the Adonis sense, but he had a rugged, creased irregularity of face. His nose still carried the scar of an old football injury, which many women so often, and perversely, find attractive in men. Only his hair showed traces of the pass of time; his not so long ago jet black hair, was now graying swiftly. As if the color had suddenly surrendered and was marching out.

When Natasha first arrived at campus in Boston from rural Idaho, the change was like an earthquake in her life. She was dazzled and amazed by everything she saw. It was a new world. In the first weeks she went from wonder to wonder, everything was new and different and exciting: her classmates, hospital technology, every thing was amazing, but soon her curriculum demands, the work routine of the nurse block, and having to do, first year scut work, made what had been a wonderful impression in the first moments, lose its luster in the light of reality. It was a job that was dramatic, exciting and glamorous only on TV. Her life would change dramatically, however, in only a few months. She was going to meet her future.

********

From the corridor outside there was the sound of footsteps. Then the autopsy-room door opened, and members of the nursing school's teaching staff, looked in. She said,

"Good morning Dr Bridgeport". Behind her was a group of student nurses.

"Good morning" answered the neuro surgeon. "You can all come in"

The students filed through the doorway. There were six, and as they entered all glanced nervously at the body on the table. Dr Bridgeport grinned.

"Hurry up girls. You want the best seats; we have them".

Dale Bridgeport ran his eyes appraisingly over the group. There were a couple of new ones here he had not seen previously, including the young blonde girl. He took a second look. Yes indeed; even camouflaged by the Spartan student' uniform, it was evident here was something very special. With apparent casualness he crossed the autopsy room, then, returning, managed to position himself between the girl he had noticed and the rest of the group. He gave her a broad smile and said quietly,

"I don't remember seeing you before"

"I've been around as long as the other girls" She looked at him with a mixture of frankness and curiosity, then added mockingly,

"Besides, I've been told that doctors never notice first-year nursing students anyway"

He appeared to consider, "Well, it's a general rule. But sometimes we make exceptions—depending on the student, of course"

His eyes candidly admiring, he added, "By the way I'm Dale Bridgeport"

He didn't say, "I'm Dr Dale Bridgeport"; No, just his name, that was class.

She answered, "I'm Natasha Sorensen" and laughed, them catching a disapproving eye from her class instructor, she stopped abruptly.

Natasha had liked the looks of this mature, dark haired professor, but it did seem wrong to be talking and joking in here. After all, the man on the table was dead. He had just died, she had been told upstairs; that was the reason she and the other student nurses had been taken from their work to watch an autopsy. The eminent neurosurgeon, Dr Bridgeport, was going to do a brain autopsy

To say Dale Bridgeport had been struck by Natasha's youth and beauty would be putting it mildly. She was different from the students who he was used to. She did not have the sophisticated, sometimes predator style of the girls in the big city. Her attitude had an unusual freshness in the environment in which he moved, he was sure that those features would not last long, and he proposed to himself to seize them and make her his, It didn't matter how, even if he had to abandon bachelorhood and marry her. He had fallen in love with a woman who was young enough to be his daughter. But she was not his daughter.

********

The cafeteria of the hospital was the heart of the hospital grapevine; few events occurred inside the hospital, promotions, scandals, firings, and hirings -- which were not known and discussed in the cafeteria long before they became official.

Medical staff frequently used the cafeteria for "curbstone consultations" with colleagues whom they seldom saw except as a meal or coffee break. Generally the cafeteria was a democratic area where hospital rank, if not forgotten, was at least temporarily ignored. An exception, possibly, was the practice of setting aside a group of tables for the medical staff.

With few exceptions the senior attending physicians used the reserved tables. House staff, however, was less consistent, residents, interns and occasionally some professors joined the nurses and other groups. There was nothing unusual, therefore, in Dr Dale Bridgeport dropping into a chair opposite Natasha Sorensen who, released from an assignment earlier than some of her fellow student nurses, was eating lunch alone.

Since they had met a few days before in the autopsy room, Natasha had occasionally encountered Dr Bridgeport in the hospital corridors and on each occasion -- seeing his elegant bearing, his dark hair strewn with silver threads and his winning smile—she had increasingly come to like the look of him. Intuitively she had expected that soon he might make a direct approach to her, and now here he was.

"Hi" Dr Bridgeport said.

"Uh, hello" the greeting was awkward. Natasha had just bitten into a chicken leg and had her mouth full; then mumbled "Excuse me".

"That's perfectly all right. Bon appetite and take your time. I'm here to make you a proposition"

She finished her mouthful of chicken, and then said: "I thought, usually, that was supposed to come later"

Dale Bridgeport grinned. "Haven't you heard? -- This is the jet age. No time for formal frills. Here's my proposition; dinner at the Cuban Grill tomorrow, followed by the theater."

Natasha asked "Can you afford it?" with a grin

Dale lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Don't tell a soul, but I have a side line. Those patients we got in autopsy. A lot of them have gold fillings in their teeth; it's a very simple matter..."

"Oh shut up, you'll ruin my lunch" She bit into the chicken again, and Dale reached over and took two of her french fries.

"Well, will you come?"

"I'd love to," Natasha said, and she meant it.

"Great, I'll pick you up at your apartment at seven o'clock. Okay? As he spoke Dale Bridgeport found himself regarding this girl with even greater interest. He was suddenly aware that she had a deal more than a pretty face and a good figure. When she looked at him and smiled it conveyed the feeling of something warm and fragrant.