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She doesn’t answer right away but eventually writes back:
Shouldn’t have texted you.
The text includes an emoji of a face with its tongue out. I chuckle and reply:
Good answer. We’ll do both.
Her next text:
Going back to my stats problem set. Much less aggravating.
I warn her:
Be careful. I get brutal with brats.
She texts:
Am I not allowed to speak my mind? You want someone who sucks up to you all the time instead?
My response:
I don’t mind a good sucking.
She sends me a rolling-eyes emoji.
I add:
Which you will do a lot of now that your lip’s healed.
She asks:
Why am I with you?
I ask:
Why are you?
I imagine her glaring into the phone. Deciding I’ve messed with her enough, I text:
Don’t you have stats homework to do?
She ends the conversation with:
Yes. Good night.
The problem with getting Bridget worked up is that it works me up, too. I can either jack off in the privacy of my residence or I can go down and see who’s playing at the club. I choose the latter.
Down at the club, I stand and watch a dominatrix apply a CBT cage to her sub’s cock. In the area of the tables and chairs, a slender redhead whom I’ve seen around before sits by herself. Usually she’s with a Dom named Jackson, but tonight she seems alone. She smiles at me. I nod in acknowledgment and return to watching the dominatrix rub lube over her strap-on dildo. She penetrates her submissive. I can see his hardening cock bent inside the cage.
Feeling eyes on me, I look over to the redhead to find her still smiling at me. I walk over and sit at her table.
“You looking to play?” she asks.
“You’re single tonight?” I ask back.
“Yeah. You might have seen me with a guy named Jackson, but we agreed to open up our options.”
Normally I’d accept an invitation like this one, but normally there’s no Bridget Moore. I’m not a huge commitment guy, but, unlike JD, I don’t sleep with multiple women at a time unless it’s explicitly consensual.
