Chapter 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.