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.
