#1188 - For the first few minutes, Maggie bumped and ground her pelvis in some rhythm of her own in lieu of music in time to the toy’s buzz in her butt; by the fourth minute she was trying to pry the footboard’s bars free of their welds and her pussy had hopelessly stained the chair’s upholstery. They survived well, though: $300 dollars a night, cash money, for three hours Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights – no questions asked, and the occasional complementary case of cheap beer that back-when would last them a month – performing at roadhouses where roughnecks cashed their checks and college kids went slumming with their allowances. A bell in the back of her mind rang with the feeble, imprecise alarm of a wind-up clock, and listening to it weakly un-spring, she reminded herself that given their origins, better her brother tonight – whatever he had in mind – than those hill-country pigs when she was twelve – their uncles, after their father of course, if they hadn’t together run –
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