Abigail gave her a smile and got up from the table, saying goodbye to her mother and passing a gentle wave to her scowling sister.Moira had never been...fond of her and her caustic remarks, and angry disposition towards the younger girl used to lead to plenty of arguments and fights, but Abigail barely cared any more.She knew Moira would do anything to get at her, and the more she worried about it, the easier it was for her sister to rile her. The walk to the café, across the small Scottish town. As she did this the lamp lighted her cleavage. She stood sideways,, rolled her shoulders and then lifted her breasts in her hands, rubbing away the lines of the brassiere. She leaned forward to examine her lipstick in the mirror and her breasts took that beautiful shape that the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge take, lovely and perfectly natural. She tweaked her lovely nipples in the mirror. then turned away and unsnapped the jeans.The jeans were tightly form fitting, the seam between her legs. She ate like a true trencherman and poured beer down her gullet as fast as I did. I was glad one of the men I had dispatched carried a heavy purse."Most call me Irish," she said. "Hardly remember my name." Tell me about those men." I'd heard tales," she said, mopping her plate with a crust, "stories of women snatched out of their homes or off the streets." You said slaves back there," I reminded her."Right, they sells 'em, they says, folk, y'knows, but more'n jus' tattle, to the swells to do. . since you're not getting in either." The door swung shut."Damn ... best pizza in town," I commented.A very tall, thin black guy with HUGE legs rode by on a very tall bike with monster knobby tires and yelled, "You haven't been to Karl Marx, They have the best pizza, calzones, and meatballs in the state!" What kind of bike is that?"He grabbed hand brakes and squalled to a stop. He pedaled back. "I dunno what you call it. I use it to ride on the beach." You didn't get legs like those riding on.
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