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They, the money manipulators, want you to E-sign for everything. Order a drink? Show your room keycard. Same with casino chips, clothing from the boutiques, aspirin. Everything. Even internet access.Once you’ve escaped the physical ship-hug, monetary policy returns to normal. Cash, credit cards, debit cards, shoplifting. Well, not that.One afternoon in Ketchikan, Walker and I attended a cornball musical based on the antics of a notorious Old West con artist named Soapy Smith. The acting was over-the-top and it worked. The dames belted out song after song and the audience lapped it up. Plenty of can-can, with a lot of garters and panties.Even though we were five or six rows back, the main chanteuse picked Walker out. He blushed, grinned, and good-sported himself onstage, playing a hapless innocent.Now, not just because he’s my brother ... but a couple of cast members and several gals in the audience were giving him an appreciative eyeball. I couldn’t help it, I was just so proud of. She unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it back over my shoulders. Kim walked around to a table on the side of their patio. As she did I had a chance to look in through the sliding glass doors and see that Dave now had my wifes blouse and bra off and was alternating between kissing her and sucking her tits. Niki was obviously enjoying his attention to her breasts. My cock was aching as I watched Dave pinch and squeeze my wifes nipples and play with her breasts. I was so enthralled watching the scene unfold in front of me that I didnt even notice the first plastic cable-tie that Kim put around my wrist and pulled tight to the chair. When I looked down at it, Kim was already around to my other arm. I looked at her. Trust me remember. I smiled. She tied my free arm to the chair with the second cable-tie. Then she proceeded to secure my ankles to the chair in the same fashion. Kim leaned over and stuck her tongue in my mouth as she grabbed and squeezed my cock. Kim then stood and opened the.
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Oh, shit. Using what for money? “Christine, I have only a few hundred dollars that my mother didn’t steal out of what grandma left me. It’s not enough for next month’s rent, utilities and car insurance, let alone groceries and gas.” I hadn’t thought of this part of being free. “Then let’s find you a job.” Christine was always the practical one. We went to seven on-line job boards. I didn’t have an engineering or math degree (shit, I didn’t have any degree), so I didn’t qualify for most of them. “Let’s try Craigslist,” she suggested. After about fifteen minutes I was really discouraged. I could make minimum wage cutting grass or stocking shelves, but I couldn’t live on that. “OK, let’s try Backpage.” Never heard of it and told her so. “Backpage has fewer jobs than Craigslist but, uhm, more that don’t require a degree or academic skills.” Christine looked like she was about to blush. Backpage it was. The usual jobs were the usual minimum wage, doing shit I didn’t want to do. “Try the.

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