Just Add Alcohol - Tracy

Just Add Alcohol - Tracy
By: ISawYourMommy (isawyourmommy2@hotmail.com)

Tracy was a slut. There was no other way to look at it. You could dress her up in conservative attire. You could install her in a mansion in Kenilworth. You could put her behind the wheel of a Mercedes G-class. You could even slip an obscenely large rock on her finger. But no matter what you did, Tracy was a slut.

Tracy's current position was proof-positive of that one unassailable fact. From the SkyBridge condominium tower, Tracy faced the floor-to-ceiling window, beyond which sat the Chicago skyline, sparkling in all its mid-evening glory. Twenty-four floors below her, cars raced along the Kennedy Expressway, engines unheard, muffled by thick glass and distance.

Behind her in the condominium's living area, two matching barrel chairs braced a sleek leather couch. A steel-and-glass coffee table had been centered among them, resting on three legs atop a cream area rug. Deep brown planks of Brazilian hardwood ran from beneath the carpet, stretching through a dining area to a closed kitchen in one direction, towards three bedrooms in the other. An air-conditioner hummed faintly in the background.

Tracy stood with her cute feet spread approximately two feet apart, crimson toes gleaming in the soft light cast by recessed ceiling lights. A pair of Roberto Cavelli embellished jeans had been haphazardly tossed atop one of the barrel chairs. They were turned inside-out, having been removed in a rush. A Jean Paul Gaultier Paris top, also inside-out, lay on the Brazilian hardwood floor between the couch and the entryway.

A Manolo Blahnik zebra-print slingback rested on its side beneath the coffee table; the other was nowhere to be found. A silk black thong, barely recognizable as such, was twisted around the heel of the Blahnik under the coffee table. There was no bra; there never had been.

While Tracy's classically beautiful face pointed toward Chicago's Loop, the view was not registering in her corneas. Her emerald eyes were hidden behind lightly made-up lids screwed tightly shut. Her left cheek was pressed against the cool safety glass. Perspiration and blush and crimson lip gloss smeared the glass; her labored breathing further fogged the view outside. Her dark brown hair - so dark as to be almost black - bobbed in a now-loose ponytail, tickling the damp flesh between her shoulder blades.

Lithe arms stretched above her head, bracing her. Long manicured nails - painted to match her toes and lush lips - clicked against the glass wall. The backs of her wedding band and engagement ring clinked at the glass. A gold Cartier watch and a diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet had slipped down the bronzed skin of her right forearm, almost to her elbow. They clattered against each other, completing the musical symphony.

Tracy's knees were locked and her back - muscles undulating over barely discernible ribs - was arched forward, causing her tanned and taut bottom to angle upward. The arch of her back forced her bare breasts against the glass wall, flattening them and spreading them outward despite the firm molds of saline that resided just beneath the flesh. Nipples thickened and elongated by the cool glass were pushed inward on the breast flesh.

Sweat dripped from her forehead, down her elegant nose and high cheekbones, and off her soft chin. It ran in rivulets between her widespread breasts and across her firm, tanned stomach. It slicked her sensually arched back.

A pair of large hands gripped her trim hips from behind, the fingers sinking into the soft, damp flesh. The lower portion of a ripped stomach banged into the cheeks of her bottom, causing them to ripple and undulate. And a thick pulsating cock stretched Tracy's bare vaginal lips wide, exposing her tender clitoris to slaps from the scrotum sac that swung beneath.

On each inward thrust, the pistoning shaft loosened Tracy's vaginal lips further, renewed the rippling of her tight ass. The force of the man behind her squished her augmented breasts harder against the cool glass, and elicited a groan from her shiny, full lips.

When one of the hands left Tracy's sweaty hip, it grabbed her ponytail and levered her gorgeous face off the glass. Hot, alcohol-tinged breath caressed her inner ear. "Not too worried about your vows now, huh, you fuckin' whore?"

The story of how Tracy managed to find herself in this position comes in two parts, the first historical and the second contemporary.

* * *

Someone had tried to dress Tracy conservatively. She had at her disposal almost unlimited funds. There was always several thousand dollars in cash in a safe at the house. She had an American Express Centurion card, and accounts at Neiman-Marcus, Chanel, Gucci and other mainstays of Chicago's Michigan Avenue and Oak Street. She leaned hard on these privileges and often dressed in a sexy-but-conservative manner.

Someone had also installed Tracy in a Kenilworth mansion. This small North Shore suburb, nestled between Winnetka and Wilmette, boasts one of the highest per capita incomes in the country. The mansion in which Tracy lived did not, unfortunately, sit on Lake Michigan, but was a fairly easy stroll to Gilson Park. She never cooked and never cleaned; a full-time staff tended to those duties.

Aside from boasting in excess of twenty rooms, the mansion also had a coach house. Known as a garage to most of the citizenry, this coach house contained berths for six cars. A 1959 Ferrari 250 California Spyder rested in one. An F360 occupied another. Tracy rarely drove these; she couldn't figure out the F1 paddle shifters on the F360 and the convertible took too much effort. The Bentley Continental and the 911 GT3 were off-limits to her. Instead, she typically grabbed the keys for the Porsche 911 Carrera or the Mercedes G55.

The person that had provided all of this to Tracy was Bill Donovan, her husband. Bill was, to put it politely, nouveau riche. Having been raised in the south-side Irish enclave of Beverly by middle-class parents, he made his first millions in the bull markets of the mid-1980s, long before he reached his fortieth birthday. He continued to succeed in the markets through the harder times that followed and eventually found his way to private equity finance. His fortune now reportedly exceeded $50 million.

Bill Donovan had spent his twenties, thirties and most of his forties living what he believed to be the playboy lifestyle: weekends in South Beach, renting bungalows at the Delano; vacations in Monte Carlo, Marrakesh, the Swiss Alps. New cars. Bigger and better houses.

It wasn't until his mid- to late-forties that he decided to settle down. Bill had been spending very little time in Chicago at that time. When he was in town, he spent his weekends in the VIP room at the Cro-Bar on Kingsbury. After devouring a bottle of Krug and an eight-ball of cocaine with his friends, he'd step outside and wander over to Thee Crazy Horse, where he was also a regular. That is where he met Tracy.

She had been a feature dancer at the gentlemen's club, but was nearing the end of her usefulness. That's not to say that she was over-the-hill. No heterosexual male would hesitate if offered an evening with her. And many patrons of the club had received her offers and accepted them. Though it was strictly against house rules for the dancers to maintain relationships with the guests, Tracy often broke this rule.

She and some of the other dancers would have a few drinks while they worked. For Tracy, this meant one thing: she would become intensely aroused and her vagina would lubricate, for alcohol was an aphrodisiac to the aging stripper. Once in the Champagne Room, questions were asked, offers were made and, a few times a week, in the wee hours of the morning, Tracy found herself in a strange apartment or hotel room, sometimes on her back, other times on her hands and knees, or bent over the side of a couch.

But dancing is largely a young girls' game, and Tracy was thirty-three at the time. Despite her athletic body - lithe legs and firm butt; rippled stomach and enhanced breasts - Tracy felt herself being pushed aside by younger upstarts. Over the course of six or eight months, her schedule had been reduced from five nights to three. Whereas she had previously been working Friday and Saturday nights - the big dollar nights - her new schedule left her free on Saturday.

To supplement her reduced income, Tracy's Champagne Room dates moved from casual exchanges of bodily fluids to business propositions. Though this went against her better judgment, she had become too accustomed to the lifestyle that dancing had afforded her. She rationalized her conduct by acknowledging that she had one-night-stands three or four nights a week as it was, so there was little harm in earning income from this conduct. Not much for rationalization, but not much was needed, either.

However, Tracy soon realized that as her value as a dancer waned, so too did her value as a prostitute. She needed long-term security. A few of her co-workers had managed to latch on to wealthy patrons of the gentlemen's club, so she set out to emulate them.

When Bill Donovan walked into Thee Crazy Horse one night, she punched his ticket. Within six months, a four-and-a-half carat princess-cut stone was perched on her left ring finger. She quit dancing and moved up to Kenilworth. A year later, over the objections of his family and friends - some of whom knew she was a stripper, some who simply saw her as a gold-digging tramp - Bill and Tracy married.

Thereafter, Tracy tried valiantly to remain faithful to her husband. She shed some of her sleazier friends and stopped patronizing the night clubs. She cut back on the amount and frequency of her alcohol intake, knowing full well that two Cosmopolitans equaled slutty behavior. But though she always lamented her regressions, they still occurred on occasion. Last weekend was one of those occasions.

* * *

Bill was traveling again. Martha's Vineyard. Tracy couldn't imagine what business her husband had in Martha's Vineyard, but then again she did not really understand his business in the first place. She only knew that it permitted her to spend money gratuitously.

It irked her that his business had him away on a weekend. She couldn't begin to count the number of weekends Bill had spent away from home during the four years of their marriage. Sometimes he was in Thailand, other times Paris or Cairo or New York. It didn't matter to her where he was. It simply pissed her off that he was jet-setting around the world without her, leaving her all alone.

When she awoke Saturday morning, it was eighty degrees beneath a cloudless sky. With nothing to look forward to, she ate a light breakfast and planned to lounge by the mansion's pool all day. As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, Tracy stretched her luscious body along the chaise lounge, readjusting her bikini top. 'This is fucking bullshit,' she thought, rolling onto her back, her 38DD breasts wobbling. 'I'm not going to sit around here all weekend and do nothing, bored out of my fucking mind.'

By 6:00 that afternoon, Tracy and Sarah were sitting street-side at Tavern-on-Rush. Empty salad plates sat before them, as did two empty drinks. The pair was striking. Tracy's lustrous dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, revealing high cheek bones and a sensuous jaw line. Her inflated breasts nearly popped from the Gaultier top. Worn jeans hugged her slim hips and athletic legs, one of which crossed over the other, a Blahnik heel hanging from her manicured toes.

Sarah garnered as many sideways glances and outright stares as Tracy. Sarah was one of Tracy's best friends. Still a dancer, she was in fine shape. Tracy was a slut, but Sarah was little more than a receptacle for sperm. She was completely devoid of morality, and her depravity and body made her a playground for some very sick individuals.

Still in her early thirties, she was on her second breast enlargement. She had graduated from high school with a small C-cup. When she began dancing, she soon upgraded to a D-cup. A few more years on the circuit encouraged her to pump up again, this time to an obscene and ridiculous E-cup.

That she stood only five feet tall made her breasts all the more apparent. Open-toed sandals, a short, black skirt wrapped around a waist in the low-twenties, absurdly inflated breasts bobbing inside a Baby Gap tee shirt, and long, wavy platinum hair rendered Sarah a walking and talking Barbie doll. The women enjoyed plenty of attention from passersby.

Though the maitre d' had attempted to shoo the women along several times, Sarah and Tracy remained at the coveted spot for a few hours, eating a light meal and downing more than a few drinks.

"Wanna get out of here?" Sarah asked when she finished her fifth Grey Goose-and-tonic.

"Sure. Where you wanna go?" Tracy had matched Sarah's consumption and, despite being well-rested, was feeling the effects of the vodka as it coursed through her veins.

With a blasé flick of her wrist, Sarah signaled the waiter for their tab. "How 'bout Reserve?"

Tracy looked at her quizzically. "Never heard of it. Don't forget, I haven't been partying downtown much in the last few years."

"Kind of a new place. Over in the meatpacking district on Lake Street. It'll be fun. I know the bouncers and the VIP host, so we should have no problem." When the bill arrived, Sarah paid in cash.

"Sounds good to me. What's the crowd like?" Tracy asked, pulling her napkin from her lap and placing it on the table.

"You'll love it," Sarah responded, rising from the table. "Lotta fuckin' guys in that place."

"Oohh, I like the sound of that."

"Not for you, missy. You've got the husband at home," Sarah taunted, moving toward the sidewalk.

"Not this weekend, I don't," Tracy responded, following her friend.

The two women climbed into a taxi and directed the driver to Reserve, on Lake Street a few blocks west of Halsted. The bouncer saw Sarah as soon as she exited the taxi and, with a smile and a hug, waved her past the growing line and into the crowded lounge.

"Come on, honey," Sarah said over her shoulder, yelling to be heard above the pounding beat. Sarah took off through the crowd, and Tracy lost her as she looked around to get her bearings. She thought she caught a glimpse of her friend near the stairs by the bathrooms, but by the time she had weaved through the crowd, Sarah was gone.

"Did my friend come through here?" she yelled into the VIP host's ear. "Little blonde girl, big tits?"

"Yeah."

"I'm with her. Can you let me up?"

"Can't do it, honey," he responded resolutely, shaking his bald head from side to side. "You're either on the list or your not."

"Come on," the stripper-wife pleaded, rubbing her firm body against the hulking man, pressing her ballooned breasts into his crossed arms. "She'll vouch for me. Just let me find her."

"You need to move away, miss."

Tracy dropped her shoulders in defeat and turned away from the stairs, back toward the bar area.

"You look a little out of sorts. Can I get you a drink?" she heard from beside her. Tracy turned toward the voice, her ponytail swinging with the movement. A young man - no older than his early twenties - had just exited the bathroom. A blue silk shirt was tucked into black pants that fit him snugly. Light brown hair trimmed short topped his head, and blue eyes and a handsome but fresh face stared back at her.

"Uh, sure," she responded, reaching for her purse. "Cosmo, please."

"What are you doing? Put that away. I'll get it for you."

Tracy paused. Her shiny crimson lips parted into a smile and she placed a manicured hand on his arm, his hair tickling her palm. "I know you will, sweetie. I was reaching for my cell phone."

The young man smiled at his own stupidity, then turned and walked toward the bar. Tracy found Sarah's cell phone number and dialed it. It went to voicemail as the young man returned with Tracy's Cosmopolitan. "Hey, I lost you," she yelled into the phone while accepting the drink from her new companion with a bright smile. "I'm downstairs still. Come down and get me," she finished, hitting the "end" button.

Tracy tucked her cell phone back in her Gucci handbag and turned back to the young man. "Thanks for the drink. I'm Tracy," she introduced herself, extending her right hand.

"Andrew," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."

Tracy tilted the glass toward her full lips, savoring the taste of the cool liquid as it flowed over her tongue and down her throat. "Mmmm. Tastes good."

"First drink of the night is always good. But now you'll have to catch up." Andrew clinked glasses with her, and took a pull from his own drink. "So, did you lose your husband or something?"

Tracy's emerald eyes stared back at him vacantly. He nodded toward the rings on her left hand.

"Oh!" Tracy laughed. "No. I lost my friend. We came here together and I lost her on the way to the VIP room."

"So, what? You're here alone now?"

"Mm-hm." Tracy nodded her head as she brought the red liquid to her lips again. "My husband's out of town so I went out with Sarah - my friend Sarah - but now that she ditched me, I'm alone." She paused to glance at her watch. "I should probably get going, actually."

"Don't leave already," the young man implored. "You just got here, it's early. You've only had one drink. Come on, stay awhile. I'll keep you company."

Tracy looked into his begging eyes and lost her resolve to leave. "And this is NOT my first drink of the night. I've had quite a few."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"Well, I can," she responded, taking his hand as he led her to the corner table, the pads of her fingers caressing his palm. She downed the rest of her Cosmopolitan, the vodka chilling the blood in her veins.

Two young men - presumably Andrew's friends - were sitting on the couches talking to a pair of bimbos dressed in hip-hugger jeans and belly shirts. None of them paid any attention when Andrew and Tracy sat down.

"Yeah? How? You don't look drunk. You're not slurring your words." Andrew poured the contents of a chilled bottle of Ketel One into a glass with ice, and offered it to Tracy. She nodded her head and accepted the cocktail, her ponytail bobbing behind her.

"Yeah, but I can feel it," Tracy responded, her bright green eyes sparkling in the dim light. She leaned into the young man, her pumped-up breasts molding to the contours of his muscular arm. "When I get drunk, I get really fuckin' horny."

One of Andrew's eyebrows arched as Tracy slid a manicured hand across his thigh, rubbing it lightly. "Really?" he inquired rhetorically. "So, are you drunk now?"

Tracy took a sip of her refreshed drink, her emerald eyes locked on his. She simply nodded her head as the liquid slid down her throat.

"Does that mean you're horny, too?"

Setting her drink on the table, Tracy twisted a little to her right and brought her left leg to his lap. Her left hand smoothed across his muscled chest and up to his thick neck, pulling him toward her, her nails digging into this flesh. She whispered in his ear, "I'm so fuckin' horny I'd ride you right here," before lightly nibbling his ear lobe, her left knee grinding into his crotch.

Andrew grabbed Tracy's ponytail in his left fist and pulled her head back, eliciting a moan from her slender throat. "I'll do you one better. I've got a place right down the street. I'll fuck you there instead."

When he released Tracy's hair from his grip, her eyes gleamed in anticipation. She retrieved her drink from the table, downed it in one gulp, and rose to her feet. "Let's go," she said, her crimson lips parting in a smile to reveal sparkling white teeth.

Andrew jumped to his feet and, without saying good-bye to his friends, followed the woman out of the bar and into the street. He hailed a taxi and held the door for Tracy, climbing in after her. "Halsted and Washington," he ordered.

Three minutes later, the ride having passed in silence, the Wolley taxi pulled up in front of the SkyBridge condominium tower. Andrew slid out and offered a hand to Tracy. He grasped her manicured fingers, staring at the preposterously large diamond of her engagement ring as he pulled her from the cab.

Tracy followed the young man through the doors and across the lobby to a waiting elevator. Once inside, Andrew pushed the button for the 24th floor and the doors swooshed shut. The cab ride and the harsh lights of the lobby and the elevator had served to sober her up a little.

"You live here?"

"Nah. My parents bought it for when they want to come into the city for the weekend. I use it on the weekends, too," he explained, moving closer to the married woman, his muscular body brushing up against hers. Her chest heaved and her massive breasts squished into his arm.

"Your parents aren't here this weekend, are they?" she whispered as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her into him.

"No way. It's just you and me." Andrew leaned into woman and their lips met. The overwhelming smell of alcohol was apparent to each of them. He pushed her against the wall of the elevator and slid his leg between hers, grinding his knee against her crotch, his tongue sinking into her hot mouth.

She moaned at this forceful display, but pushed him away. "Not here," she panted. "Wait until we get inside." The elevator dinged as the last word escaped her throat.

Andrew led her down the hallway and into the 2,500-square-foot pied-a-terre. He held the door for her and followed her in, the heels of her Blahnik's cracking on the hardwood floors. Before she was five feet into the apartment, Andrew caught up with her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. His mouth quickly found her ear and he nibbled lightly at her lobe, sucking the flesh and the diamond stud mounted in it into his mouth.

Tracy melted into the young man's arm, leaning back against him. She raised her tanned arms above and behind her, capturing his head and pulling herself closer to him. Stretched this way, her Gaultier top lifted and exposed her taut stomach to Andrew's roaming hands. With no hesitation, the large hands slid slowly up her flesh beneath her top, stopping only when they were filled - overfilled - with Tracy's warm, saline-injected breasts.

Andrew marveled at the way the flesh filled his palms. He squeezed the massive breasts, feeling them squish between his fingers. The conditioned air of the apartment combined with the young man's manipulation of her breasts caused her nipples to stiffen. "Always go braless?" he inquired into the married woman's ear.

"Don't need 'em," she panted. Still behind her, Andrew released the heavy orbs and lifted Tracy's top upward, pulling it over her head. Her ponytail caught on the fabric and he had to pull it free, dropping the top to the floor. With his left hand in the small of her now-exposed back, he prodded the woman toward the living room. He followed her as she paused before the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Kennedy Expressway and the Chicago skyline.

"Great view," she muttered, feeling the presence of the young man behind her.

"I got a better one from here," he said, again encircling her waist from behind. He nuzzled into her neck, sending chills down her spine. A moan reverberated from her throat as Andrew pushed her closer to the glass wall, his large hands cupping her massive breasts, thumbs and forefingers tweaking her nipples further into erection.

Tracy braced herself against the window, sliding her hands up the glass. The back of her engagement ring clinked against the glass as Andrew twisted her left nipple ninety degrees and held it there. "Oohh, gawd," she groaned.

"You like having your nipples teased?" Andrew was whispering in her ear, his hot breath tickling her.

"Nooo," she whimpered.

"Feels like you do," he taunted the married woman, twisting her right nipple. The heat from her nipple flesh seemed to sear into his fingertips.

"I shouldn't be here," she whispered, barely audible.

Andrew thrust his hips against Tracy's bottom. "Where should you be?" She grunted at the forceful contact.

"Not here," she managed, pushing back at him, trying to get him to move away from her. "I'm married, Andrew. I shouldn't have come here with you."

Andrew released the woman and stepped back. As much as he wanted to fuck this big-titted slut, he wasn't about to rape her. He decided to try a different tack. "Sorry. Maybe I moved too fast." Tracy turned around to face him, her gargantuan breasts still on display, the creamy white flesh set off by the bronzed skin beyond the crisp tan line. "Have a seat. I'll get you a drink."

When Andrew disappeared into the kitchen, Tracy looked at the Cartier watch encircling her wrist. It was only 11:00. She debated walking out the door while he was occupied in the kitchen.

But she didn't do that. Instead, she sat down on the couch, her breasts still hanging free, and took in the skyline, waiting for him to return. She heard a refrigerator door slam shut and then the clinking of ice cubes. A moment later, Andrew returned to the living room with two drinks. He offered her one before sitting next to her on the couch. He kicked his Gucci-clad feet atop the coffee table and leaned back, putting his left arm behind her on the back of the couch. Tracy snuggled into his open arm.

"You want your shirt?"

"I'm fine," she responded, taking a sip of the vodka, swallowing. Thick nipples protruded from her breasts, beacons on the irregular triangle of white flesh.

"You ready to stay?" Tracy just looked up at him, her green eyes sparkling in the faint glow cast from the recessed lighting. She brought the tumbler to her lips again, nodding.

Andrew set his glass on a side table and leaned toward her, kissing her lightly on her shiny lips. Her perfume wafted up to his nose, but was quickly overpowered by the smell of alcohol. When she didn't pull back, he kissed her harder, mashing her full lips and smearing her lip gloss. Her wet, pink tongue darted out and danced across his lips, and Andrew responded in kind, sinking his tongue deep into Tracy's mouth. He crossed his right arm across her body and cupped a heaving breast, his fingers brushing against the thick nipple.

Encouraged, Andrew scooted away but then leaned back toward her, resting his head almost in her lap. He ran a tongue over the soft yet firm flesh of her right breast, licking at her pink areola. Her distended nipple pulsed as his tongue washed over it. "Amazing tits," he muttered before sucking the nipple between his lips, nibbling at it with his teeth.

"They should be," Tracy responded, taking a drink from her tumbler. "I paid enough for them." Her drink still in her left hand, Tracy leaned to her right. She brushed her fingers across the front of Andrew's pants, feeling for his thickening cock. It wasn't hard to find, and she used her long, manicured nails to exert pressure on his flesh. Dragging her nails up the length of his shaft, she paused at his belt buckle, pulling it and the button beneath it free. With Tracy tugging at the fabric, his zipper fell with an audible sound.

Andrew trapped an inflamed nipple between his teeth. "Mmmm," she moaned, savoring the pressure on the distended bud. Tracy's hand wormed into his pants and through the hole at the front of his boxers. Her long cool fingers closed around the aching shaft, pulling it from the confines of his underwear.

Andrew moaned at the contact, lifting his ass from the cushion as if to push more of himself into her fist. Taking another sip of pure vodka, Tracy's eyes were locked on the thick shaft, pre-cum leaking from the slit. Her small fist engulfed only half of the twitching rod.

Andrew kept his head buried in her bloated chest, licking around her nipple, teasing it with his tongue. Sucking it back into his mouth, he pulled the distended flesh between his teeth, biting lightly.

"Mmmmm," Tracy moaned, increasing the speed of her hand as it shucked up and down the swollen shaft. "Feels sooo goooood." Andrew bucked his hips into her tightly gripping fist, increasing the pressure around the base of his cock.

Without warning, Tracy released him and brought her open palm to her mouth. She coated her tongue in saliva, and ran it across her palm. Before Andrew could protest the absence of her palm, her warm and now lubricated fist was back around his shaft, stroking him. He sucked harder on her nipple, scraping his teeth against the sensitive flesh.

The air conditioning kicked on with a low hum. The only other sound in the apartment came from Tracy's watch band and bracelet jangling against each other. She increased the speed of her hand shucking up and down on his cock, and the back of her engagement ring caught on the thick, pulsing veins that crossed the pink flesh of Andrew's swollen cock. His hips bucked uncontrollably and his teeth bit harder on her nipples.

"Oh, shit," he mumbled through the titflesh that was molded to the contours of his face.

Tracy's stroking turned brutal as the pressure on her nipples increased. The ice cubes in her drink, still in her left hand, clinked against the glass walls as her entire body shook. Andrew's movements became erratic and the nipple slipped from his mouth as he panted, "Oh, fuck, oh, fuck," begging for release.

But Tracy slowed her hand and her long, manicured fingers relaxed, loosening her grip on his shaft. "I don't want you to come yet," she whispered.

Andrew lifted his head from her lap and sat upright, resting against the back of the couch as he caught his breath. "Get on your knees . . . and suck me."

As crude as he was, Tracy merely smiled and slid from the couch to the floor. She placed her tumbler on the coffee table and crawled between Andrew's legs. Grabbing at the waist of his pants, she pulled them and his boxers over his hips, her engagement and wedding rings sparkling in the soft light shining from above.

"Nice rock," Andrew commented. "Your husband know what you're like?"

"Shut up about my husband," Tracy warned, her sparkling green eyes still fixed on his waving cock. She managed to maneuver his pants around his ankles, and then pulled his shoes and pants off, tossing them to her side. She leaned closer to the burgeoning shaft, glowing almost red from the brutal handjob. She wrapped her left hand around him and brought her lightly made-up face closer to the shiny head. Extending her wet pink tongue, Tracy slid the purple head over its surface.

Andrew watched her wanton display from his reclined position. 'What a nasty fuckin' whore,' he thought to himself. Out loud, he commanded, "Suck it, bitch."

Tracy pursed her full crimson lips around the tip of his cock, her tongue flickering at the shiny purple head. With her right hand, she cupped his hanging balls, rolling them back and forth between her long fingers. Her manicured nails tickled his nutsack and, occasionally, his perineum.

Andrew arched his hips, thrusting toward her beautiful face. His aching shaft slipped between Tracy's tightly pursed lips, rolling the foreskin back and stretching it taut. She dropped her face toward his crinkly pubic hair, taking the engorged shaft into her throat with nary a gag.

Keeping her slutty lips tightly closed around the trembling shaft, she bobbed her head up and down. It pulsed in her mouth, blood coursing through the thick veins criss-crossing the stretched flesh. Saliva collected in her mouth, coating the thick shaft, and dripped from the seal formed by her full lips.

"Oohh, fuck," Andrew muttered. "If I were your husband . . . I'd be home . . . every weekend . . . fucking your . . . pretty little face."

Tracy popped the swollen rod from her mouth but maintained her grip at its base, squeezing hard as she stroked up and down. Her emerald eyes flared with anger as they bore into him. She lowered her face and her tongue slithered out against Andrew's balls. "I told you," she began, her face partially obscured by her fist sliding up and down the shiny shaft, "to shut the fuck up about my husband."

Andrew scooted his hips forward, stopping as his ass cheeks came to rest at the front edge of the couch. Tracy, her face still buried below the root of his cock, sucked a ball into his mouth, rolling it around her soft tongue. Her right hand pushed his left leg away, giving her room, and her left hand viciously stroked the upright shaft.

Releasing the ball from her wet mouth, Tracy moved to the next, offering it the same treatment. Saliva dripped from Andrew's scrotum as she let the second ball fall from her painted lips. Pre-cum leaked from the tip of his cock head, aiding her brutal tugging. Tracy bent again and took both balls into her mouth at the same time. Her crimson nails were a blur on the blood-engorged shaft as she rolled the balls around her mouth, her wet, pink tongue laving over the loose flesh.

Andrew's hips bucked faster, slicking his shaft deeper into Tracy's fist. Feeling that he was on the verge of dumping his cum over her tightly gripping fingers, she slackened her grip on him and spit his balls from her sucking mouth. She released his shaft and watched as it sprung back against his stomach before returning upright.

Tracy wiped saliva and pre-cum from her full lips with the back of her left hand, coating the diamond of her engagement ring. The feel of the diamond across her lip reminded her briefly of her husband. She knew what she would feel in the morning: regret; guilt; remorse. Nonetheless, any thought of fidelity was long gone. A liter of Vodka has washed it away.

Tracy rose from her haunches and twisted behind her to retrieve her drink. Swallowing, she turned back to Andrew and lifted first one over-inflated breast and then the other, resting them on his thighs, distended nipples throbbing.

"Wanna titty-fuck me?" she asked with a sly smile. Without waiting for an answer, her manicured hands came up to cover her monstrous tits, pushing them around the thick cock.

Andrew watched as his pinkish cock was swallowed in a sea of creamy flesh, Tracy's manicured nails holding him in tightly. She dipped her head and allowed saliva to dribble from her crimson lips into the bulging cleavage. Looking up, she smiled at Andrew and lifted her bulbous mounds up the sides of his shaft, sliding them back down.

She leaned into him further, her tits packed tightly around the twitching cock. Her thick nipples pulled along his muscular thighs. The wet heat and pliant flesh of Tracy's store-bought tits had Andrew bucking into her again in no time, his eyes screwed shut. Teasing the young man, she released her mounds and stood.

Andrew's hooded eyes eased open to Tracy's diminutive frame standing before him. Her crimson nails grasped at her Chanel belt and released it, then pulled the buttons of her jeans free. She leaned forward to shimmy the form-fitting jeans down her athletic thighs. Her pendulous tits swung to and fro, the flesh on their sides rippling.

As her jeans fell, Tracy kicked her Blahnik pumps from her little feet. The first clattered along the hardwood floor, coming to rest near the kitchen. The second merely fell behind her, underneath the coffee table. Hurriedly, she kicked off her jeans, tossing them to her left where they landed on one of the side chairs.

With deliberate slowness, the adulterous wife hooked her manicured fingers in the sides of her black silk thong, the four-and-a-half carat diamond mounted on her left hand glittering in Andrew's eyes. "Ready to fuck me?" she whispered, easing the thong over her hips, exposing a vagina lasered to remove all vestige of hair. A light coating of dew shone on her distended lips. The silk hissed as it slid down her thighs on its way to the carpeting beneath her feet.

"If your husband won't, I will."

Tracy almost jumped on Andrew's lap, knees to either side of his hips. His cock slid along the slick channel formed by her lubricated vaginal lips, brushing against her clit. Her manicured fingers grabbed the back of his head, the nails scraping along his scalp. She pulled his head back and hissed at him, "Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up . . . or . . . I . . . leave!"

Andrew quickly adjusted himself beneath her and felt his thick cock brush against her soaking vaginal lips. When the head slipped between her damp folds, he arched his hips violently upward, spearing the married woman with his pulsing shaft, causing her to yelp in surprise.

He rolled to his right, carrying her with him, planting her on her back in the corner of the couch. Andrew's forceful response to her threat caused Tracy to lose her grip on the back of his head and she sank into the deep cushions of the couch.

Andrew withdrew the length of his cock from the now-prone and certainly surprised woman. Grabbing again at the ponytail at the back of her head, he pulled her completely sideways on the couch as he slammed his full length back into her.

"Oohh, fuck!" she nearly screamed.

"You're not going to leave, are you, slut? You want this as bad as I do," he hissed, thrusting his hips into the fake-titted slut again, pushing her lightly muscled back up the low-slung arm of the couch. Tracy moaned at his aggression, her head hanging off the side of the couch, exposing her elegant neck.

Andrew pulled all the way out of Tracy's sopping hole and his cock sprang up toward his stomach before falling against her exposed clit, causing a gasp to escape her crimson lips. "You wanna leave, Tracy?" he whispered, more gentle now.

The fat, overheated cock head rubbing against her clit left Tracy momentarily speechless as she tried to regain her breath. She shook her head and muttered, "No."

"What? I couldn't hear you," Andrew taunted the unfaithful wife. He took his slick shaft in his hand, increasing the pressure of the head against her throbbing clit.

"No." Louder this time.

Andrew released his cock and let the head fall between Tracy's slippery folds, pushing the thick shaft back into her slowly. When he felt his pubic hair crush against her bald lips, he ground his pelvic bone against her inflamed clit. Tracy's hands found his muscular arms and sought to pull him closer to her, but he resisted.

"What do you want? What do you want me to do?"

Tracy lifted her head and her eyes bore into his; lust danced over an emerald background. Her lips snarled at him. "I want you to fuck me," she grunted. "I want you . . . to pound the shit . . . out of me!"

Andrew pulled back and savagely drove the length of his cock back into the married slut's hole, driving her further up the arm of the couch until the middle of her back was centered on it. Her back arched and her head hung over the edge, her ponytail brushing against the grooved planks of the hardwood floor.

Tracy's massive tits reached for the ceiling, the thick nipples at the center of the triangled tan lines offered to Andrew's mouth. Thrusting his aching cock in and out of her distended cunt, he leaned forward and captured the elongated bud of her left tit in his mouth, sucking it lewdly between his lips and teeth. Tracy's tanned arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, trying to suffocate the young man in her over-inflated titflesh.

Releasing the engorged nipple, Andrew pushed himself off Tracy's prone and vulnerable body and braced himself on his hands, jackhammering into her yielding pussy. Syrupy juices flowed from her cunt around his swollen shaft, coating his sweaty balls in the viscous fluid. "How's this . . . Tracy?" he breathed. "Like my cock . . . pounding your . . . married cunt?"

"Ooohhh, ffuucckk," she moaned, her head lolling from side to side, her dangling ponytail sweeping the floor. The force of Andrew's repeated penetrations of Tracy's unfaithful cunt had her store-bought tits wobbling atop her small torso. Perspiration shone across her stomach and beaded in her cleavage.

"Good . . . huh?" Andrew managed, sweat poring off his brow and dripping down his nose.

"Oohh, fuck, yeah," he heard her grunt. "Punish my cunt, Andrew!"

Andrew increased the pace at which he was battering his cock into the adulterous hole. Tracy's monstrous tits ceased wobbling and began dancing. Not just back and forth. Not just up and down. Instead, they rolled around her tight torso, slapping against each other. Sweat poured off the woman's body, slicking the leather couch beneath her.

Andrew leaned back, maintaining the brutal pounding he was levying upon the cheating slut. He slipped a hand between their sweat-soaked bodies and found her inflamed clit. The scent of her cunt mixed with her sweat and invaded his nostrils, almost overpowering him. His fingers danced across the exposed bud. "Oohh, fuck!" she screamed. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Tracy's lithe body shook beneath him. She writhed along the leather-covered arm of the couch, sliding on her own sweat, as an orgasm overtook her. She managed to throw a hand between them, shoving Andrew's out of the way. He grabbed her trim hips and kept fucking into the sopping hole, watching as Tracy's crimson nails blurred atop her burning clit. The diamond on her engagement ring gave off a constant stream of glittering light.

As Tracy's orgasm began to subside and her fingers slowed, a guttural moan tumbled across her lips, and her fingers again sped up, coaxing another fluid-releasing orgasm from her stretched cunt walls. As the mini-orgasm was upon her, her legs lifted from the couch, upsetting her balance, and the depraved wife slipped off the low-slung couch arm and onto the floor, leaving Andrew's trembling cock bobbing before him.

But Tracy barely seemed to notice. Her fingers remained a crimson smudge at the top of her bald cunt as her body continued to quake. As her fingers slowed, her emerald eyes slid open, looking up at Andrew, still on his knees on the couch. She smiled through hooded eyes and her body relaxed. Her fingers left her sopping hole and fell to the floor beside her. She lay there a moment, her massive chest heaving, while she caught her breath.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," she intoned, rolling over to push herself up. "That was fucking incredible."

On her feet now, standing before Andrew with her saline-injected tits heaving inches from his chest, Tracy took his throbbing cock in the palm of her hand, gently stroking it. She leaned into him and brushed her wet, red lips against his, her pink tongue slipping into his mouth. "And you didn't cum, did you?" she asked, the sound of her voice muffled as she spoke into his mouth.

"Unh-uh."

Tracy pulled back, releasing Andrew's cock from her sweaty hand. "Poor boy," she said, stepping away from him. She retrieved her drink from the coffee table and finished it off before sauntering over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Andrew collapsed to his haunches as he watched her walk away, her tight ass swaying as she moved. Even from behind he could see her enormous tits bounce.

When Tracy reached the window, she raised her arms above and then behind her head, tightening the ponytail that kept her lustrous hair from her beautiful face. Releasing it, she placed her palms flat on the glass above her head, and spread her legs a few feet apart. Her long nails gleamed in the light, as did the obscene rock that adorned her ring finger. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at Andrew, who was still leaning against the back of the couch.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked, a sultry tone to her voice. Her emerald green eyes smoldered. "Get over here and fuck my married cunt!"

Andrew scrambled from the couch, navigating around the coffee table, his cock bouncing in front of him, leading the way. Coming up on Tracy from behind, his large hands gripped her by her trim waist, his cock brushing up and down the crack of her ass. "I thought you wanted me to shut up about your husband," he whispered into her ear. His hot breath caused her to shiver.

"I did," she breathed into the glass as Andrew's hands scaled her torso and found her generous tits, gripping her swollen nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. "But you fucked me?." Tracy paused to gasp as he pinched her nipples savagely. "You fucked me . . . so fucking hard . . . I'll give you . . . what you want."

"I want your married cunt," Andrew hissed into her ear, buckling his knees bring his cock in line with her dripping hole.

"I know . . . you do." Tracy grunted as Andrew pushed forward, the hot tip of his cock shoving her loose cunt lips aside. "It's yours," she whispered.

Andrew pushed again and half the length of his cock slid into her steamy depths. His fingers tightened their grip on Tracy's inflamed nipples, and she panted at the pressure. He pulled back, leaving just the head of his cock ensconced in her unfaithful cunt.

"What's your last name?" he asked, twisting her raw nipples. Her fluids dripped from between her stretched lips and ran down the length of his shaft.

"Huh?" she grunted, wincing into the glass.

"What's your last name?" he repeated, slicing his cock back into her, feeling his pubic hair mat against her taut ass.

"Donovan," she grunted. "Tracy . . . Donovan."

"Well, Mrs. Donovan," Andrew began, pulling out and brutally jamming his cock back into Tracy's pliant cunt, holding it there. "Are you ready to get your slutty, married hole stretched again?"

"Fuck, yeah," she breathed as Andrew again removed almost the entirety of his glistening shaft from her. This time, when he pushed back in, he didn't stop. Andrew jackhammered his hips against her undulating ass, shoving the married woman harder against the glass wall. To gain leverage, he released his grip on her abused nipples, placing them on her hips.

The glass shuddered as Tracy's forehead bumped against it. She turned her face to the side, her lips leaving crimson streaks on the glass. Sweat mixed with her blush to add to the blur forming on the window. "Fuck my married cunt," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"What about . . . your husband . . . Mrs. Donovan?" Andrew managed, the underside of his cock coursing along the cheating whore's pelvic bone, causing cum to boil in his balls.

"Fuck . . . him," she grunted, her cheek compressed against the cool glass. Tracy's thick nipples pushed inward on her fake tits as they were squashed against the window. "I'll worry . . . about my vows . . . later."

Cum churned in Andrew's nutsack. The depravity of this plastic-titted married slut, her filthy mouth and immorality, set him on edge as she jammed her tight ass back against his thrusting pelvis, exerting increased pressure along the sensitive underside of his swollen cock. With one hand he released his grip on her trim, sweat-soaked hip, and reached for her bouncing ponytail. Using it like the reins on a horse, he pulled her beautiful but make-up-smeared face from the window and breathed heavily in her ear, sending shivers down her arched spine.

"Not too worried about your vows now, huh, you fuckin' whore?"

"Fuck no," Tracy groaned. "I wanna feel you cum in my cheating cunt! Cum for me, Andrew! Cum in my nasty . . . slutty . . . hole."

"You on . . . the pill . . . Mrs. Donovan?" he inquired, grinding his teeth.

"Nooo . . . Cum in me . . . anyway. . . . Shoot your cum . . . in my cunt!" Andrew's thrusts into the married slut became erratic. He maintained his grip on her ponytail, pulling her now-sloppy cunt along the length of his thick shaft. "Impregnate me . . . you motherfucker!"

Andrew lost control of his cock and balls as the wicked words spilled from Tracy's shiny crimson lips. With a final thrust into her loose hole, he held her fast with one hand wrapped around the front of her sweaty, writhing body and the other pulling her ponytail. "Now the . . . whole world . . . can see . . . what a nasty . . . filthy . . . cheating . . . cunt . . . you are," he grunted in her ear as cum coursed through his shaft and splashed against the walls of Tracy's unprotected cunt.

"Open your eyes," he commanded through gritted teeth. "Look . . . at all those . . . lights . . . They can all . . . see you, Mrs. Donovan," he continued as sperm continued to shoot from the slit of his cock head, saturating Tracy's stretched-out cuntal walls.

"The entire . . . Kennedy can see . . . what a slut . . . Mrs. Donovan is," he finished, cum now dribbling from his cock, dripping around his shaft from between her elastic cunt lips, sliding down the married woman's lithe legs.

* * *

Tracy was a slut. There was no other way to look at it.

You could dress her up in conservative attire, but that Burberry skirt was bound to be bunched around her waist as a thick cock pounded into her stretched hairless cunt from behind.

You could install her in a mansion in Kenilworth, but the team of Mexicans you hired to mow your lawn would take turns fucking her well-oiled porn star tits poolside, ropes of sperm coating her chin and lips when they were done.

You could put her behind the wheel of a Mercedes G-class, but she'd soon find herself in its back seat, bouncing up and down on the lap of the college kid next door, his trembling cock releasing unthinkable amounts of cum deep into her unprotected cunt.

You could even slip an obscenely large rock on her finger, but in the end it would be but a blur as her manicured fingers danced across her burning clit as your best man's cock violated her well-used asshole.

No matter what you did, Tracy was a slut.