Chapter 01: Tracy
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."
