From the beginning. ********************************* Bridget O’Brien was sitting in a bar in Arlington, Virginia. The calendar on the wall said 198... – no one had bothered to change it for five years, then. There was a man singing on the small stage, his voice wizened beyond his years by whiskey and cigarettes. He was singing the cheesier of the Irish ballads, Americans would rather hear of Molly Malone and her cockles and mussels than Pádraic Pearse and his butchered schoolboys. They would. She cupped her breasts, pursed her lips at the men and women who ogled her. As low drum beats began, her hand slowly found her nest. She masturbated as her dance carried her around the center ring. Many sat forward in their seats as the music lowered so they could hear her labored breathing as her fingers dug deeper and faster.As she neared release, Janeen's dance carried her close to the large bed. She was now thrusting in wild abandon and her grunts were loud and in syncopation with her clit. More

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