Speakeasy Strip

Kentucky backwoods, 1925. Moonlight slices through warped boards, glinting off a copper still. The shack shrinks, walls pressing in, the still's heat licking at their skin. Boots grins, feral and raw, pressing closer 'til his hard-on nudges her thigh. Mabel laughs, a wild throaty sound, and bolts around the barrels.

Kentucky shacks, Chicago speakeasies, burlesque joints, back alleys across Prohibition-era America. He roars, emptying into her, painting her walls for the third time that night. "Knew I'd make you give in eventually," he says. In Chicago's Velvet Lounge, the saxophone wails and her arse bounces off the table with each thrust. He plays trumpet for her, each note a taunt, lips buzzing on brass. In 1933, he's all sinew and swagger at a burlesque joint, and she chases him through a busted-streetlamp alley. He rams into her one final time, burying to the hilt. She walks away with his power dripping down her leg.