Barrel Race or Sittin' on Face?

Her momma's breasts sway heavy as she leans in. The weight of them does the talking before words come. "Sing for Nashville, baby. Let them hear that throat." Each suckle pulls another note free until the sheet music sits forgotten. Her tongue finds the place that always ends the argument, and the girl's legs open wider than they did onstage. Those dark nipples stay stiff long after the licking stops, two dark promises that tomorrow's lesson will taste the same.