Mrs. America Ch. 02

A valet -- a young man in his early twenties, at best -- assisted Tracy to her room. Lifting her bags from the valet cart, he let her know to call the valet's desk if she needed further assistance. Thanking him, she slipped a ten-dollar bill into his hand before closing the door behind him. She was sure to drag her manicured nails along the soft, warm flesh of his palm and swore she could see goose bumps appear along the exposed skin of his muscular arms.

Tracy smiled to herself as he shut the door behind him. She kicked off her sandals and moved directly to the bathroom, starting the shower. While waiting for the water to warm, she peeled the plain white tee-shirt and khaki shorts from her body, dropping her cotton panties and matching bra to the cool, marble floor. Her stomach was churning, the acid seemingly burning a hole in the lining of her stomach.

She paused to look at herself in the mirror but had to quickly turn away. Shame. She knew it was shame that prevented her from looking herself in the mirror.

She reached for a bar of soap resting among other accoutrements on the bathroom's counter, and peeled the protective wrapping from it. "The Driskill," it read.

That's not what it was supposed to say. It should have read, "Barton Creek." That's where she was supposed to be this weekend. That's what she told her husband, Bryan. Every fall, she took a weekend in Austin with "the girls." More often than not, the weekend fell around Austin City Limits. She and her girlfriends would drive the hour or so into Austin and spend the weekend at the resort situated on the outskirts of downtown Austin, their evenings at one of the hip restaurants followed by a review of the various bands that flocked to the west Texas city every fall for the musical extravaganza.

She had bailed out this year, telling her friends that, after the stress of the pageant, she simply wasn't up for the long weekend. But that's not what she told Bryan. When he inquired why she and the girls hadn't made plans for Austin City Limits, she lied. She told him that they had procrastinated with hotel reservations and were not able to get enough rooms at Barton Creek that weekend. Instead, she told him, they planned their weekend for a few weeks after the festival.

She lied. She was spending the weekend in Austin, but not with the girls. By herself. Well, for part of the time, anyway.

Tracy stepped into the shower, luxuriating beneath the waterfall shower head for fifteen minutes. She turned the water off, stepped from the stall, dried her lithe body and wrapped herself in one of the complimentary terry cloth robes. She took a blow drier to her raven tresses before lightly applying eyeliner that complimented her striking green eyes. A light dusting of powder across her cheeks did little to lighten the deep tan she had accumulated during the summer months.

Shame. She could see it in her own eyes as she applied the make-up.

She didn't know what drove her. Had never really put that much thought into it. She knew it could destroy her marriage. Destroy the lives of her family. Still, she persisted. Or something persisted. It happened once a year. Only once a year. Otherwise, she was able to shelve it. Keep it leashed.

From the bathroom counter, she retrieved the "Mrs. Texas" necklace from its box and strung the 24-carat gold chain and pendant around her neck. A smile momentarily creased her face; she loved the way the bright gold stood out against her bronzed flesh. She then slid her gold wedding band and 2.5-carat engagement ring onto her long, slender finger. Leaning into the mirror, she slowly slid a tube of shiny red lip gloss across her full lips, puckering them to ensure an even coating.

It was only October, she thought to herself. It usually happened in December, right after the Thanksgiving weekend. There was not a great deal of quality shopping to be had in the small town in which she and Bryan had made a life together, so every year, right after Thanksgiving, she spent a long weekend in Austin, knocking out her Christmas shopping for the season.

She blinked, her luscious lashes batting once, twice. She then shivered.

Satisfied with the beauty that had earned her the coveted title of Mrs. Texas, Tracy padded from the bathroom and opened her suitcase. From it, she extracted a red silk bra, slipped her tanned arms through the straps and reached behind her back to secure the three hooks. Dipping her bright red nails beneath the hem of each cup, she adjusted the cool fabric to firmly hold her 36D breasts.

She then stepped into a skirt that matched her bra in both material and color. She pulled it up her athletic thighs and again reached behind her to fasten the catch in the small of her sensuous back. Tracy paused to view herself in the full length mirror mounted to the bathroom door, twisting her hips this way and that. She smoothed the material so that it hung properly, stopping at mid-thigh and revealing plenty of taut, bronzed flesh.

Three full days of shopping. Two nights, with nothing to do. All alone. Not all alone. Room service one night. Usually the first. After a full day on her feet, she'd return to her hotel room, shower and wrap herself in a warm robe. After ordering dinner served in her room, she'd curl up in the luxurious bed and read a book, or watch a sappy pay-per-view movie.

She dropped the open-toed heels on the floor and slipped her soft feet into them, wiggling her red-manicured toes, before turning back to her suitcase and lifting her top from it by the shoulders. A wicked smile briefly parted her bright red lips as it unfolded. Tracy turned the black baby-doll tee-shirt around and pulled it over her head, shaking her lustrous, deep black locks from the neckline. She sauntered toward the full-length mirror, adjusting the snug top that accentuated her augmented breasts.

The second night was rarely like the first. She'd spend part of the evening in bed, but rarely sleeping until the wee hours of the morning. And even more rarely alone. She reveled in her second nights. Hair pulled. Firm ass cheeks spanked. Thick nipples pulled, tugged, twisted. Clitoris slapped.

Her vision had clouded but cleared when she stepped before the mirror. The image that greeted her was a welcome one, but Tracy doubted whether it was an appropriate one to convey to the public. She briefly contemplated wearing something else. Something less brazen, more appropriate for Mrs. Texas.

She noticed a wrinkle in the soft cotton fabric covering her right breast and smoothed her palm across it. The bright gold of her rings, the sparkle of the oversized diamond, and the jarring red of her nails stood in stark contrast to the black material. Her fingers strummed against the thick nipple that tried to fight its way through her bra, sending tingles through her 38-year-old body.

The throbbing of her nipples reminded Mrs. Texas why she was in Austin this weekend. Bryan thought it was stress relief with the girls. He was right about the stress relief. But she doubted that he shared her definition of it. For him, it was golf and a few drinks after a fat steak dinner. He thought for her it was a weekend away at the spa with the girls.

Instead, it was blistering sex. Fucking. Not the gentleness she received from Bryan, but the nasty, no-holes-barred pounding she could count on from some student at the University of Texas. From some hillbilly who decided to venture down to 6th Street to take in a country music band.

And this year, it wouldn't wait until after Thanksgiving. This weekend, it wouldn't wait until the second night.

The snug-fitting tee-shirt remained.

Her mind made up, Tracy grabbed her clutch from the writing desk and strutted from the hotel room, comfortable in the five-inch heels that slapped against the tender soles of her feet with each step. She descended the elevator to the lobby and made her way back to the hotel bar for a drink before she headed out to the bars and live music venues of 6th Street.

* * *

Jake Munson, a professor at the University of Texas, sat at the bar, sipping a vodka gimlet. He was a regular in the Driskill, finding it to be fertile hunting ground for lonely women desirous of company. Divorced himself, Jake had discovered a few years back that divorcees frequented the hotel bar. Since then, he operated under the theory that if he and an amorous woman could share a few miseries from their failed marriages, he was as likely as not to wind up in the woman's bed later that evening.

Seeking to test that theory again tonight, he turned slightly on his stool and brought the perspiring low-ball to his lips. He didn't tilt the liquid into his waiting mouth, however, as all movement stopped to allow his eyes to soak up the marvel that was sauntering toward the bar, toward him.

Slowly lowering the glass to the bar, Jake felt his crotch stir as long, tanned legs strutted toward him on high heels, the red skirt swooshing against her taut thighs. The woman brushed a few strands of her raven hair from her beautiful face, revealing bright emerald orbs that sparkled even in the subdued lighting of the lounge. But none of that held his attention too long.

Instead, he eyes fell upon the woman's inflated chest, encased as it was in the black, form-fitting tee-shirt. Against the dark backdrop, images of white milk jugs -- one over each breast -- stood in sharp contrast. As she neared him, Jake's heart skipped a beat. Beneath the provocative images of the milk jugs, the words "I Know What Boys Like" were printed in white lettering.

* * *

As she approached the bar, Tracy spotted only two open barstools. A woman with a smoldering cigarette sat beside one, an older gentleman in tan gabardines and a blue sport coat beside the other. Not desirous of smelling like an old ashtray, she chose the stool next to Jake, smoothing her silk skirt beneath her bottom as she gracefully lifted herself to the stool.

She signaled to the bartender and ordered a bourbon with a splash of water.

When the bartender departed, Jake swiveled toward the lovely woman. "Mind if I buy that drink?" he offered.

Tracy turned her head slightly toward the older gentleman, her stomach still in knots. "No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, sir," she began, her emerald orbs appraising him, "but you're not what I had in mind tonight." Her voice was honey but tinged with the drawl of a southern princess.

Jake chuckled deeply, his full belly jiggling slightly as the bartender set Tracy's drink in front of her. "Well, why don't you tell me exactly what you had in mind, and I'll be the judge of whether I meet your criteria."

Lifting the glass to her crimson lips, she peered at him over its rim as the amber liquid splashed against the back of her slender throat. She swallowed and then responded to the pompous, overweight jerk. "Let me ask you this, sir. How old are you?"

He tilted his head and tried to throw a boyish grin her way. "Forty-five, pretty lady. And if I do say so myself, I still got a little left in me."

'A little left in him? That's exactly what I'm afraid of,' she thought, taking another slug of bourbon, her soft pink tongue darting from between her full lips to gather more of the smoky liquid. It soothed the burning in her belly.

Aloud, she asked him another question, a smirk sliding across her features. "Well, have you discovered the secret to turning back your age? Do tell."

Jake laughed, clearly confused. "Turning back my age? Well, no, I haven't. But what's that got to do with it?"

Tracy tipped the last of the bourbon down her throat and swallowed, setting the tumbler on the bar. "It's got everything to do with everything," she announced, sliding her tight bottom off the bar stool and gathering her clutch. She leaned close the older gentleman and placed her manicured fingers lightly on his shoulder, sure to brush her firm breasts against his arm. She felt her thickened nipples compress into her breastflesh at the contact. "You see," she whispered in his ear, "I'm looking for young cock and I don't think you have what it takes."

With that, Tracy turned on her heel and strutted away from the bar, leaving a stunned professor of psychology in her wake. She made her way through the hotel, turning the heads of those that took the time to decipher the image splayed across her bulging chest, and stepped through the door to Brazos Street. Turning right, she walked the half block down to 6th Street and crossed over, entering the burgeoning crowd gathering there.

Over the next three or four blocks, the street was lined with bars, restaurants and small live music venues. So crowded was it on Friday and Saturday nights that the Austin Police Department shut it down on the weekends, placing barricades at either end of the several-block stretch of asphalt.

Tracy strutted slowly down the center of the street, weaving between throngs of people moving every which way. Hoots and catcalls from the men and boys alike assaulted her ears as she passed by them, her large breasts, the milk jugs highlighting them, wobbling on her otherwise slim torso. The crowd was largely a young one, college kids from the University of Texas or people in their twenties who lived in Austin. Bikers hung on the sidewalks outside those venues playing heavy metal or old Molly Hatchet classics.

It was the perfect hunting ground.

As she walked, she kept her ears tuned to the music that emanated from the various venues, listening for a certain type of music. She didn't want country as she wasn't interested in hillbilly cock tonight. She didn't want folk music; too mellow and besides, it attracted the wrong type of person, for her needs anyway. No, she was looking for a venue that had an alternative band playing. College music. Music that attracted boys in their late teens (if they had fake IDs) or early twenties. Boys that would do anything for a little bit of pussy.

About a block-and-a-half in, she heard it. To her right. Tracy swiveled her head, the shiny black mane brushing over her shoulders, and pinpointed the source. She made a beeline for the bar's entrance and paid the ten-dollar cover charge. Tucking her clutch beneath one of her arms, she stopped just inside the door, surveying the scene, before moving toward the bar.

A heeled foot on the rail, an elbow on the bar, Tracy was bent slightly forward and her magnificent breasts strained against the red silk and black cotton. Immediately, a bartender slid down the bar toward her and she ordered another bourbon-and-water. As the young man retreated to fetch her drink, she caught nasty looks from a pair of flat-chested, college-aged girls that had clearly been waiting for service.

When the bartender returned with her drink, Tracy stepped from the bar. One of the little girls a few stools down leaned over to her friend. Through the din of the crowd and the beat of the music, Tracy heard her mutter, "Who does that bitch think she is? I've been waiting five minutes for a drink."

On her way toward the stage, Tracy walked behind the girl, paused, and leaned between the two girls. "Maybe if you had some tits, little girl, you wouldn't have to wait," she advised, her southern drawl dripping with condescension, moving on before either girl could offer a retort.

Weaving between groups of college boys with the baseball caps turned backwards and college girls in their Brittney Spears hip-huggers, Tracy made her way toward the stage. She found a little clearing near the bar and enjoyed the band, her sinous and sinful body moving in rhythm to the bass pumping from the huge speakers piled upon the stage.

After about fifteen minutes, Tracy refreshed her drink at the bar. While she was waiting for it, she noticed the two college girls staring daggers at her. When the bartender returned with her drink, she raised it toward the girls in a mock toast, a wicked smile parting her full, shiny red lips. Subtly, she placed a manicured forefinger against one of her nipples and then the other. She pointed at the flat-chested girls and folded her lower lip out in a mock pout before turning back to the stage, her lithe body leaning against the bar, proud breasts jutting enticingly from her small torso.

A few minutes later, a young kid -- twenty, maybe twenty two -- came up to the bar and ordered a Budweiser. Cargo shorts threatened to slide off his hips and he wore a blue tee-shirt with "Sigma Chi" printed over the left side of his chest

"Pretty good band, huh?" he said, almost in a scream to be heard over the music.

Tracy smiled at him, her straight, white teeth gleaming against her deep tan and bright red lips. "If y'all say so."

"Of course I say so," he laughed. "Hey, you want country, I'm sure there's a bar down the street playing it."

"I'm not looking for country," she yelled over the music.

"Yeah?" he questioned, barely paying attention to her, his attention focused on the stage, his muscular body moving with the crowd. "Well, you don't exactly look like the alt-rock type," he said, looking over his shoulder at the older woman.

He took in the milk jugs covering her massive breasts as his eyes fell to her chest. They opened wide and she smiled back at him. He turned away nervously, embarrassed at being caught staring.

Mrs. Texas leaned into his back, pressing her saline-injected breasts into him, feeling them squish against one of his shoulder blades. "Like what you saw?" she asked, her full lips poised at his ear.

He turned slightly to look again, cool now. "Yeah, you gotta great bod on you."

"So what makes you think I'm not into alt-rock?" she asked, still yelling to be heard. Her athletic body remained poised at the kid's back, her breasts mashing against his back.

Unsure of himself, he considered for a moment before responding. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it. It's just . . . you know . . . you're a hot lookin' lady, but you're clearly out of your twenties, alright?"

She raised an eyebrow in a scolding manner and he immediately understood his mistake.

"Hey, sorry. That's not what I meant."

"Yeah, I know what you meant, little boy."

He laughed at her turning of the tables.

"Yeah, I guess I deserved that," he smiled, turning back toward the music.

"Besides," she began, moving toward the kid's side, "I know what boys like."

He turned again and Tracy took a step back. She pulled the bottom of the snug tee-shirt out so he could read it. His eyes swept across the provocative words. "See, my shirt proves it."

He laughed again. "Yeah, you got me there." He was not looking at her face, though; his eyes were locked on her babydoll. Eventually, they floated back up to her face. Tracy could see in his baby blue eyes the dawning of understanding, his recognition that she was after more than just casual conversation or a party buddy. "So, tell me, what do you think boys like?"

She laughed and tossled his hair. "Hey, kid, I don't THINK I know what boys like. I DO know what boys like."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

She took a sip of her drink. "Great music," she said, pointing with her glass toward the stage.

"Yeah. What else?"

"Booze. A lot of booze." She took a long pull from her glass.

He laughed and raised his beer to her bourbon in a toast. "You got that right."

She leaned a little closer to him. "Big, fat tits," she said, an eyebrow raised, no scolding this time.

The kid merely nodded his head, his dry lips frozen in a smile. Hesitantly, his broad tongue slipped from between his lips, wetting them, before withdrawing.

She stopped there, the gleam in her eye daring him to continue.

After a moment, he did. "Okay. Anything else?"

She drained the rest of the bourbon. "How about drunk, big-titted sluts?"

As the depraved words slipped from Tracy's crimson-smeared lips, the kid choked on the mouthful of beer he had. Once he swallowed, he laughed nervously, his eyes darting quickly between the provocative woman standing before him and far-off space.