Morris the Art Painter
by Ayra Atkinson
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Western Sex Story: Come from a family who has history about cotton plantation, Morris dream to become a famous art painter. Help by his beloved mom who become a nude model for him. His art activity sudenly turn to a salvation. Can he change his life to get better with his art skills ?
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa Teenagers Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Crime Farming Incest Mother Son Anal Sex Prostitution AI Generated .
Morris “Painter” Cotton, a fifteen old year boy, leaned against the faded, dust-covered porch railing of his mother’s general store, watching the sun set behind the jagged horizon of Bareroost. His calloused hands held a half-empty whiskey bottle loosely, his eyes glazed with a mix of fatigue and contemplation. The creaking of the swing behind him grew rhythmic as Mrs. Nancy “The Busty” Cotton swayed back and forth, her ample frame casting elongated shadows in the dimming light. The smell of burnt stew wafted out from the open kitchen window, mixing with the dry, gritty scent of the desert that never seemed to leave their clothes.
“Ma,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “my painting ain’t going nowhere. Can’t seem to find a model that fits the picture in my head.”
Mrs. Cotton stopped swinging and looked at her son over her shoulder, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “What’s the matter, Morris? Can’t find a pretty enough face in this town to grace your canvas?”
Morris took a swig from the bottle and shrugged. “It’s not just the face, Ma. I got this idea of painting a goddess, naked as the day she was born, standing tall and proud amidst the chaos of this forsaken place. But I can’t seem to find someone who’s willing to bare it all for the sake of art ... or for the few silver coins I can spare.”
Mrs. Cotton chuckled, her voice warm and seasoned with a hint of sass. “Well, you know the type of folks we got here. Most of the women in town ain’t the type to pose for a painter, especially not for free. But you’ve got that charming way with words, why don’t you sweet talk one of those fancy ladies from the auction house?”
Morris’s gaze drifted to the far end of the main street where the grand, iron-gated auction house stood tall, a bastion of the town’s moral decay. It was where the elite of Bareroost went to bid on stolen goods and sometimes, unfortunately, stolen people. The thought of approaching the women who frequented the place made his stomach churn, but desperation had a way of sharpening a man’s resolve.
“Ma,” he said, his voice tight, “those women are guarded like gold in Fort Knox. They ain’t just going to strip down for the likes of me.”
Mrs. Cotton’s smile grew as she stood up from the swing, her skirts rustling around her legs. “Let me see your sketch, Morris. Maybe I can give you some pointers on what to look for.”
Morris handed her the crumpled paper with the rough outline of his vision. She studied it for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she took in the details of the strong yet sensual female figure standing in defiance amidst a backdrop of chaos and destruction. “Hmm,” she murmured, stroking her chin with a finger, “this isn’t your usual landscaping job. You’re aiming high, son.”
Mrs. Cotton walked over to the shelf behind the counter and pulled out a dusty book titled ‘Anatomy for Artists’. “You know,” she said, her voice a little softer, “a good painter needs to understand the human form. Including the ... delicate parts.”
Morris raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite the weight of his current predicament. “What’s that got to do with anything, Ma?”
Mrs. Cotton held the book out to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Everything, Morris. A painter as good as you needs to understand what’s beneath the clothes if you’re gonna capture the true essence of a naked goddess.”
Morris took the book with a sigh, feeling the weight of his mother’s expectations pressing down on him. He knew she was right; his skills had stagnated, and if he didn’t push himself, he’d be just another forgotten artist in a town that didn’t give a damn about art.
“I’ll give it a shot, Ma,” he said, tucking the book under his arm and tipping his hat. “But if I don’t find someone soon, I might have to pack up and leave this hellhole.”
Mrs. Cotton’s smile faded, and she placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Now, hold on there, son. I think I might have an idea.” She stepped closer and whispered into his ear, her breath warm and sweet with the faint scent of mint. “You know, your goddess there ... she’s got a certain ... resemblance to someone I know.”
Morris’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him, his cheeks flushing a shade of red that matched the setting sun. “Ma,” he stuttered, “you can’t mean...”
Mrs. Cotton’s chuckle was like the sound of coins clinking in a slot machine, full of promise and mischief. “What better way to understand the human form, Morris, than from someone you know and trust?”
Morris’s throat went dry as he tried to form a response. His mother had always been a force of nature, but he never imagined she’d offer herself as a model for such a ... personal piece of art. “Ma,” he managed to croak, “I can’t ask you to do that.”
Mrs. Cotton waved her hand dismissively, her laugh lines deepening. “Don’t be so dramatic, boy. You’ve seen me in my birthday suit more times than you can count. I’ve got the curves to make that painting come to life, and I ain’t getting any younger.”
Morris swallowed hard, his mind racing. “But Ma, the money ... I can’t pay you like ... like one of those ... those models.”
Mrs. Cotton’s laughter filled the store, echoing off the wooden walls. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that, son. I ain’t asking for no payment. I’m just saying, if you can’t find no one else, I’m right here.”
Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with a mix of love, support, and a touch of challenge. After a moment of stunned silence, Morris took a deep breath and nodded. “I’ll think on it, Ma.”
Days passed, and the idea grew in his mind like a wildflower in the desert. The quiet whispers of the concept blossomed into a full-blown obsession. He knew he had to find the perfect spot, a place that mirrored the serenity and beauty he hoped to capture in his painting. After much contemplation, he approached Mrs. Cotton with a plan. “Ma,” he said, his voice steady, “there’s a spot I’ve had in mind for a while now, a quiet lake not too far from town. It’s got the light I need, and the water’s calm enough to reflect your beauty without distraction.”
Mrs. Cotton looked at her son, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and amusement. “Alright, Morris,” she agreed, a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. “But you’d better make sure nobody sees us out there. This ain’t exactly proper.”
Morris nodded fervently, his mind racing with excitement and nerves. He had never painted anything as daring as this before, and the thought of his mother in such a vulnerable state was both thrilling and terrifying. They agreed on a date and time when the town would be busy with the monthly auction, leaving them a window of opportunity to sneak away unnoticed.
The day of the auction arrived, and the town of Bareroost buzzed with the anticipation of easy riches and sinful indulgences. The auction house was a cacophony of shouting bids and clanking gold, while the saloons and brothels overflowed with eager patrons looking to spend their newfound wealth. Amidst the chaos, Morris and Mrs. Cotton managed to slip away unnoticed, their path to the quiet lake outside of town obscured by the dust clouds kicked up by the stampeding hooves of horses and the rumble of carriage wheels.
The lake was a rare jewel in the barren landscape, its water a crystalline blue that shimmered in the afternoon sun. Tall, swaying grasses whispered secrets to the breeze, and the only sound was the distant hoot of an owl seeking its prey. Morris set up his easel and canvas with trembling hands, the gravity of the moment not lost on him. Mrs. Cotton, ever the professional, began to strip down, her voluptuous figure revealed in all its glory.
Her confidence was contagious, and as he mixed the paints on his palette, the tension in his gut began to loosen. “Just imagine you’re in the garden, son,” she called over her shoulder, her voice light and teasing. “Just me and the good Lord.”
Morris took a deep breath and tried to focus on the canvas, but his eyes kept drifting to the reflection of his mother in the lake’s surface. Her curves rippled and shimmered with the water’s gentle movement, and he couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of admiration and love for her willingness to bare all for his art.
Mrs. Cotton, seemingly oblivious to her son’s wandering gaze, turned to face him fully, her arms folded across her ample chest. She tapped her foot impatiently on the soft earth. “Morris,” she called out, “you’re supposed to be painting me, not the fish in the lake.”
Morris snapped out of his trance and met her eyes, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He had been staring at her reflection in the water, specifically at her generous posterior, which seemed to be the centerpiece of the tranquil scene before him. The way the light danced across her skin, the way it highlighted the curves that had once nurtured him, was simply ... mesmerizing. “Ma,” he said, his voice a little shaky, “I just ... I need to get the right angle.”
Mrs. Cotton tossed her head back and laughed, her ample bosom bouncing with the motion. “Is that right?” she teased. “Your artistic eye’s just too focused on this old broad’s backside?”
Morris blushed deeper, his eyes darting from her naked form to the canvas. “Ma, it’s not like that,” he protested, his voice thick with embarrassment. “It’s just that ... well, it’s a part of you that’s got a lot of ... presence.”
Mrs. Cotton winked at him, her smile full of knowing mischief. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking, boy,” she said, sauntering closer. “But if it’s my backside that’s got your brush all twisted up, then maybe we should do something about that.”
With a dramatic flair, she spun around and bent over at the waist, placing her hands on her knees and sticking her voluptuous behind in the air, her ample breasts hanging down like melons ripe for the plucking. “How’s this for presence?” she quipped, her voice echoing with a laugh that was as warm as the sun on their backs.
Morris’s eyes went wide, his cheeks burning with a blend of embarrassment and arousal. He had never seen his mother in such a ... revealing pose, and the sight was both surprising and strangely compelling. He took a step back, trying to compose himself, his gaze flicking back to the canvas. “Ma,” he managed, his voice strained, “I can’t ... I need to focus.”
Mrs. Cotton straightened up with a grin, her breasts bouncing playfully. “Oh, come on, Morris,” she said, her voice as warm as the desert sand, “you’re an artist. Your soul is being tested here. Can’t you see the beauty in this?”
Her words hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Mrs. Cotton had always been the voice of reason in his life, the one to encourage him to chase his dreams, and now she was pushing him to confront his deepest insecurities. He took another swig of whiskey, the fiery liquid burning a path down his throat and fueling his determination. “You’re right, Ma,” he murmured, his eyes locked on her unshaken confidence. “I need to capture this moment, no matter how ... complicated it is.”
With trembling hands, Morris began to sketch the outline of her body on the canvas, his eyes tracing every curve and contour. The sound of the paintbrush gliding across the rough fabric was the only noise that broke the serene silence of the lake. The more he painted, the more the scene came alive before his eyes. The setting sun cast a warm glow over her skin, making her look like a divine being sent to challenge the very essence of the barren land surrounding them.
Mrs. Cotton, seemingly unfazed by her nudity, chatted away as Morris worked, sharing stories of the town’s scandalous past and the men who had once tried to conquer her heart. Her words were like a gentle lullaby, soothing the turmoil in his own. As he painted, he began to see the beauty in the imperfections of their lives in Bareroost, the way the harshness of the desert had shaped them all into survivors.
The light grew softer, the shadows longer, and still, Morris painted. His mother’s body was a canvas of experience and resilience, and he found himself captivated by the way she moved with such ease in her own skin. Her laughter was a symphony that played across the water, bouncing off the distant rocks and filling the air with a warmth that seemed to make the cacti lean in closer to listen.
As the painting took shape, so did his resolve to leave Bareroost behind. The town was a festering wound, and he yearned for a place where his art could breathe free from the stench of corruption. But for now, he had a duty to capture the essence of his mother’s spirit, to immortalize her in a way that transcended the squalor of their existence.
The shadows grew longer, and the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the scene in a warm, amber glow. Mrs. Cotton shivered slightly, her skin goose-pimpled from the cool evening air. “Best wrap this up, son,” she said, her voice a gentle reminder of the time they had wasted. “Can’t have me catching a chill.”
Morris nodded, his eyes never leaving the canvas. The final brushstrokes fell into place, and as he stepped back to admire his work, he knew it was his best yet. The beauty of his mother’s form was captured in a way that was both raw and divine. He felt a surge of pride and love swell in his chest.
Mrs. Cotton approached the easel, her eyes widening with amazement as she took in the painting. “Morris,” she breathed, her voice trembling with emotion, “you’ve done it. You’ve captured me. You’ve captured the very soul of my beauty.”
Morris couldn’t help but grin, his heart swelling with pride as he met his mother’s gaze. Her eyes were filled with a mix of wonder and admiration, and he knew he had created something special. She reached out a hand to touch the canvas, her fingers lingering on the painted curves of her own body. “It’s like looking into a mirror,” she whispered, “but a mirror that shows me how you truly see me.”
Without another word, Mrs. Cotton stepped closer to her son, her nakedness forgotten in the face of his artistic triumph. She wrapped her arms around him, her soft, plump body pressing against his lean frame, and pulled him into a deep, motherly embrace. Her warmth washed over him like a comforting blanket, and for a brief moment, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
But as she stepped back, her gaze fell to the unmistakable bulge in his pants, and her expression grew serious. “Morris,” she began, her voice a gentle but firm whisper, “I’ve noticed ... that you’ve been growing into a man. And in a town like this, where the law is as crooked as a desert snake, that can lead to trouble.”
Morris looked down, his cheeks flushing with a newfound heat, aware of his body’s betrayal. “Ma,” he stammered, “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Mrs. Cotton’s expression remained serious as she took a step closer. “I know it’s natural, son,” she said, her voice a gentle murmur. “But in a place like Bareroost, a man’s needs can drive him to do desperate things. And with those seeds of passion growing in you, I worry you might stumble down a dark path.”
Her gaze dropped to the ground, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “That’s why, for this time, I want you to claim me. Take the burden from your mind and let it rest in the comfort of your mother’s love.”
Morris’s heart raced as he looked at her, not fully comprehending what she was saying. “Ma, what are you—”
Mrs. Cotton didn’t let him finish. She turned around, bending at the waist, her voluptuous ass high in the air, a silent invitation that seemed to resonate through the quiet evening air. “Here, Morris,” she instructed, her voice a seductive whisper, “just ... just place your seed in the right spot. It’ll help you focus on your art, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll give you the release you need.”
Morris was torn between his love for his mother and the primal urges that had been stirring within him since the moment he saw her naked. He knew it was wrong, but the temptation was too great. His hand moved of its own accord, reaching down to unbuckle his belt, his heart thundering like a herd of wild horses in his chest.
Mrs. Cotton felt the heat of his gaze on her, and she turned to face him, her eyes full of a mother’s love and a woman’s understanding. “It’s okay, son,” she soothed, her voice like a balm to his frayed nerves. “I know what you’re feeling. It’s just nature’s way.”
Morris took a shaky breath, his hand still hovering over his belt. “Ma,” he began, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Mrs. Cotton’s eyes softened as she stepped closer to him, her bare skin glowing in the soft light of the setting sun. “It’s just like branding cattle, son,” she said, her voice as smooth as the whiskey that had fueled his courage. “When a rancher wants to claim a cow as his own, he marks her with a hot iron, doesn’t he? Well, in this moment, your seed will be your brand and anything which has branded will be use whenever and wherever he want...”
Morris swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like a mouthful of sand. He knew his mother was just trying to make him feel better, but the thought of using her like that made his stomach twist into knots. “Ma,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “are you sure about this?”
Mrs. Cotton nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. She turned around to face him, her hands reaching back to grip her ample hips, and she spread her cheeks wide, exposing her glistening pussy. The sight was both tantalizing and jarring, a stark reminder of the taboo they were about to cross. “I’m sure, son,” she murmured, her eyes locked with his. “This is for your art, and for us.”
Morris’s hand trembled as he reached out, his cock thick and hard. He touched the tip to her wetness, the heat of her body a stark contrast to the cool evening air. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, torn between the love and respect he had for his mother and the all-consuming desire that now gripped him. He took a deep breath and pushed forward, his mother’s gasp echoing through the deserted landscape.
The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The tightness of her grip around him was like a vise, and the way she moaned his name as he moved deeper sent shockwaves through his body. He knew this was wrong, but the feeling was too intense, too real to resist. With each stroke, he felt himself becoming one with the painting, each movement a brushstroke on the canvas of their shared experience.
Mrs. Cotton’s breasts swayed with the rhythm of their union, the setting sun casting a golden halo around her head. Her eyes were closed, lost in the moment, and her moans grew louder with every thrust. The scent of their mingled sweat and the faint aroma of paint filled the air, a heady cocktail that clouded his thoughts and made his every nerve ending sing.
The sound of the canvas flapping in the breeze and the distant echo of the auction house’s bell served as a stark reminder of the world outside their sanctuary. Yet, here, in the embrace of his mother, the chaos of Bareroost seemed a million miles away. His hands found purchase on her hips, gripping tightly as he pushed into her with a newfound urgency. The painting before them was forgotten, the only thing that mattered was the connection between them.
As the tension grew, so did the pressure in his loins. He felt the climax building, a crescendo of pleasure that threatened to consume him whole. Mrs. Cotton’s breath grew ragged, her body tensing as she matched his pace. “Come for me, son,” she panted, her voice a siren’s call that sent him over the edge.
With a guttural cry, Morris released his seed into his mother’s welcoming warmth, the force of his climax making him stumble forward. Her grip tightened, her body trembling with her own release, and for a moment, they remained locked together, panting and trembling in the aftermath of their shared taboo.
Mrs. Cotton turned to face him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She reached up and kissed him deeply, her tongue probing his mouth with a passion that was both motherly and carnally hungry. “It’s done,” she whispered against his lips, her breath hot and sweet with the scent of their mingled arousal. “You’re a man now, Morris.”
Her hand guided his, placing his palm firmly over her wet, swollen folds. “This is yours now,” she murmured, her voice thick with desire. “Use it as you need, son. It’s yours to claim whenever your art requires it.”
Morris’s breath hitched in his throat as he stared at his hand on her body, the reality of her offer setting in. He leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a deep, passionate kiss that seemed to transcend the bounds of their relationship. Her taste was familiar yet foreign, a blend of motherly comfort and the intoxicating allure of a woman. The kiss grew more urgent, their tongues dancing together as if they were old lovers reunited after a long separation.
Mrs. Cotton’s arms wrapped around his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hands tangling in his hair. She returned his kiss with a fierce intensity, her body arching into his touch as if begging for more. His hand slipped from her pussy to cup one of her breasts, the soft weight of it in his palm sending a thrill through him. He had painted her so often in his mind, but the feel of her flesh was a revelation that no canvas could ever replicate.
As they broke apart, panting, the world around them had grown darker. The stars had come out, twinkling above them like the eyes of the town’s many secrets, watching their taboo union. Mrs. Cotton’s gaze searched his, looking for any sign of regret or disgust. But what she found instead was a fierce love and admiration that made her heart swell with pride. “Thank you, Ma,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
“Don’t thank me, son,” she said, her voice gentle. “This was for you. For your art.” She took a step back and gestured to the lake, the moon’s reflection dancing on the water’s surface. “Now, let’s clean up under the moonlight. It’ll wash away the dust of the day.”
Without another word, Mrs. Cotton waded into the lake, her voluptuous figure cutting through the water like a goddess emerging from the depths. The coolness of the water seemed to invigorate her, and she turned to face him, the moonlight casting a silver sheen on her skin. “Come on, Morris,” she called, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and tenderness. “The water’s perfect.”
Morris followed her, his feet sinking into the soft, cool mud before the water swallowed his legs. The lake was surprisingly deep, the water coming up to his waist as he reached her. She took his hand and led him further out, until they were both standing in the water, the gentle ripples caressing their naked forms.
The moon was a silver dollar in the vast, star-studded sky, casting a soft, ethereal light across the water’s surface. Mrs. Cotton leaned into her son, her breasts pressing against his chest, as she began to wash the sweat and paint from her skin. Her touch was tender and loving, as if they were in a sacred ritual. He watched as she cupped water in her hands and let it cascade over her breasts, the droplets sparkling like diamonds in the moon’s glow.
Morris felt a strange mix of emotions—part guilt, part exhilaration—but he knew that he had found a muse that would fuel his art like nothing ever had. He took a deep breath, letting the cool water wash over his own heated body, feeling the tension of the day melt away with the dirt and sweat of their encounter.
Together, they bathed in the moonlit lake, their movements languid and sensuous. Mrs. Cotton’s hands glided over her son’s body, the same gentle strokes she had used to soothe his fevered brow when he was a child now exploring the contours of his manhood. Morris couldn’t help but feel a shiver of pleasure at her touch, and his cock began to rise again, eager for more.
They took their time, washing each other thoroughly, the water a gentle caress against their skin. The silence was only broken by the occasional splash and their soft whispers of love and encouragement. It was as if the very air around them had thickened with a tension that was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the path they had chosen to walk together.
As they emerged from the lake, the night air kissed their wet skin, making it pebble with goosebumps. Mrs. Cotton took a deep breath, her breasts heaving with the effort. “We should get dressed,” she murmured, a hint of regret in her voice. “We can’t stay out here all night.”
Morris nodded, his gaze lingering on the way her body looked in the moonlight, the water droplets clinging to her curves like a lover’s caress. “Ma,” he said, his voice tentative, “can you ... can you not put your clothes back on just yet?”
Mrs. Cotton raised an eyebrow at him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “What’s the matter, son?” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You like watching your mother’s big ass sway when she walks?”
Morris blushed, unable to hide his arousal as he nodded. “I ... I do,” he admitted, his voice low and thick with desire. “It’s just ... it’s beautiful.”
Mrs. Cotton chuckled, a sound that was as warm and comforting as a campfire on a cold night. “Well, if it’s inspiration you’re after,” she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement, “then by all means, let’s keep it bare.”
With a grace that belied her years, she turned away from the lake, her bare skin shimmering with moonlit droplets as she began to stroll back towards their home. The desert sand was cool under her feet, and she felt the occasional prickle of a cactus spine, but she didn’t care. The night air caressed her body like a lover’s hand, and she felt more alive than she had in years.
Morris followed, his eyes never leaving her, the painting forgotten in the face of the real-life beauty before him. His mother’s nudity was a revelation, a symbol of the freedom he longed for in his own life. Every curve, every dimple, every freckle was etched into his memory, a masterpiece that no canvas could ever do justice.
Their footsteps were the only sound in the quiet night, a soft crunch on the desert floor that seemed to echo through the canyon. Mrs. Cotton’s breasts swayed with each step, the full moons of her buttocks casting long shadows in the silvery light. The sight of her nakedness was a stark contrast to the harsh, unforgiving landscape of Bareroost, a beacon of beauty in a sea of decay.
Morris felt his eyes drawn to her, unable to look away from the mesmerizing dance of light and shadow that played upon her skin. The thought of the townsfolk’s shock if they were to stumble upon them sent a thrill of excitement through him, a forbidden thrill that seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart.
They approached the outskirts of the town, the buildings growing closer together, the lights flickering like candles in the wind. Mrs. Cotton didn’t seem to care about their exposed state, her stride confident and unashamed. As they walked, she pointed out various landmarks, her voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and bitterness. “That’s where Mrs. Ella ‘the Infamous’ Nielsen got raped by the boys for more than one hour,” she said, nodding towards a dusty saloon. “And over there, that’s where the mayor’s mistress lives, in that fancy house paid for by the town’s coffers.”
Her words painted a grim picture of Bareroost, a town where virtue was bought and sold as freely as cattle. “Ma,” Morris whispered, his voice thick with a mix of horror and fascination, “why are you telling me this?”
Mrs. Cotton sighed, her gaze on the horizon. “Because, son,” she began, her tone weary, “you need to understand your town. You’re a man now, and you can’t live in the shadows of ignorance. Madam Lila, she runs the finest brothel in town. She used to parade the newest additions from the auction house through the streets, stark naked, to advertise her wares.”
The words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the serenity of their moonlit stroll. “Those poor girls,” she continued, “they had no choice. They were bought and sold like cattle. But it’s a sight the townsfolk have grown used to, sad to say. A woman’s body isn’t a source of wonder or reverence here; it’s just another commodity to be bartered and used.”
“Ma,” he said, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity, “what if folk of town saw us like this? Saw you like the madam women, walking in naked in the town street?” The thought sent a thrill down his spine, both terrifying and exhilarating.
Mrs. Cotton chuckled, her laughter as rich and warm as a good whiskey. “Oh, Morris,” she said, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that seemed to light the way home, “half the townsfolk have seen these curves of mine in their youth. Back in the day, before you were born, I was quite the sight in the saloons. A nude catfighter,” she added with a wink, “I’d fight for pennies, for whiskey, for survival. It was a rough life, but it taught me a thing or two about strength and the value of a dollar.”
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