Tracy Meets Uncle Sam
Rumpwhacker © 2004
Tracy had beautiful legs, but the fact that she knew it, and used it for maximum effect, and her benefit, had given her, a sordid reputation throughout High School. That and the fact she dated the co-captain of one football team while keeping company with an All-State Tackle from a rival squad. The fact she was discovered dealing duplicitously with the two opposing forces, only fueled the fire. But that was several years back. It has been exactly twelve years since she graduated, ranked almost, dead center, in her graduating class of one hundred seventy three, mostly pimple faced brats, assorted nerds, and average Joes and Janes.
A bimbo. Yes, she was a known whore, by the members of her cheer-leading squad and the school's jocks, and since they were all mostly blabber-mouthed gossips, this meant she was a recognized harlot, throughout most of her hometown of Toledo.
It could have been very shocking and amusing, if the truth were known, since in actual fact, she was a virgin till her junior year, at Ohio University . She could have proven it. Well, maybe, with an archaic medical exam, but she wouldn't, even if she could have arranged for such a thing. For Tracy, to be an authenticated virgin, would have been so much more humiliating, than to be thought of as being an easy lay.
Tracy looked down at her beautiful brown legs, she loved what she saw, and so did half the men in the outer lobby of her local IRS, waiting room. She saw the men take brief glances at her legs and her short navy blue skirt! She was aware that one man positioned himself, just so as to have the best chances of sneaking a peek at her panties if she'd ever uncross her legs. She looked up briefly, and smiled at him. "Loser", she thought to herself, and she glanced back at her legs! "EEEKK", she shouted, as she kicked into the air, dislodging a huge spider, and propelling one black pump, briskly through the air.
Standing there in the lobby with one foot clad solely, in her mocha sheer pantyhose, and the other precariously balanced on a two inch heel, with everyone looking at her as if she had just pulled out a nine millimeter and opened fire. She glanced around the room, and addressed the obvious question, "a spider, a really big one"! Several people snickered, she glanced up to the girl, behind the counter, she was holding up the aerodynamic footwear by the heel. "Did anyone lose a shoe", she voiced in a dry, sarcastic tone?
The laughing, as well as her embarrassment, increased a dozen fold.
A middle aged white man, with a rounded form, politely fetched the footwear from the hands, of the sarcastic bureaucrat and gallantly strode across the vinyl tiled floor, and gracefully presenting the expensive shoe to it's stylish owner. "Madam's shoe, I presume"?
"Tracy Charles", a voice broadcast, over the office speaker, "TRACY CHARLES"!
"Thank you", she beamed, at her rotund Galahad, as she accepted her shoe, "that's me they're calling"!
"Tracy Charles," the elderly white woman repeated. "Yes, I'm Tracy Charles", came Tracy's reply, as she approached the woman while still trying to reinsert her foot into her shoe using one hand, while holding a brown paper folder containing letters, notes, receipts and various other collected works of fiction, in the other.
"Down the corner, fourth office on your left" she said in her monotone, as if she were more machine than human. The woman pointed to a corridor and Tracy dutifully followed her outstretched finger, and proceeded down the long hallway, as had so many others before her.
And know she knew the feeling that inmates carry with them, as they walk their last mile.
Tax audit's, Tracy had been to a couple, but those were for her company, now this one would be personal. She prayed she would draw a man, if not, the short skirt, and wonder bra would have been such a waste of resources. Let him be a man, and let him be straight, or at least an overheated lesbian. She wondered about wearing the expensive Mizrahi pumps. At least she had borrowed her aunts costume jewelry, and wore one of her more economical, outfits. Blue skirt and white blouse. She knew she looked good, but she still felt as if she were slumming. But it would be worth it if she could fly low enough, to evade the IRS's radar.
She arrives at the fourth door, her heart beating so loudly, she see's no need to knock on the door, she twists the knob and ventures one dainty foot into the room. Her head slowly peers around the outer edge of the door, and poof, like magic she's in the room. Is she breathing? Nope, probably not. She takes in a copious supply of oxygen and moves toward the desk, with the mans suit, and long flowing black hair, both facing toward the large picture window, unconcerned with her presence. Hmmm, she didn't realize she was this high up.
She looks out at the street. It is too far away to make out any significant details, but how? This is only the third floor she tells herself, she meekly mutters, excuse me sir, my name is Tracy ...
"I know who and what you are, bitch", a deep bass voice replies! Shocked by his tone, and even more by the vulgar term, bitch, she feels just like someone who had just been disciplined, with the fat end of a baseball bat.
But that shock pales, compared to the next revelation.
As her verbal assassin turns, she see's not the face of a man, but the embodiment of hate.
The skin of a deep ruddy red, the veins not only protruding, but a rare blend of blue and green. If not for the fierceness in his sallow eyes, his square head made him look like a frightening version of Frankenstein's creation. She screams "AYEEE HELP, HELP HEELP"
He smiles, "well bitch, welcome to my world". When he speaks, she sees his canine teeth, at least two inches in length. His teeth razor sharp, he has carnivore written all over him.
Still in shock, she relies on her instincts to turn her body completely around and flee so fast, her once prized pumps, cannot keep up with her animated pace, as she threatens a few dozen Olympic records, in her quest to reach the door. The same door with which she had entered this cursed room. But she quickly stops.
Rats, large with hungry looks on their faces. Their attention, clearly focused on Tracy. They stand between her and the door. At least ten of them. Behind her she hears an ominous laugh.
Sit down you little whore, and feed your lies to me, flash your body a bit, maybe show me some cleavage, slut. Perhaps I'll see things your way, if you get bare ass naked and beg me!
She hears him rise, and timidly looks around, not knowing which to be the worse, she must decide quickly. Rats or the monster behind her? She decides on the rats, but after a few steps, one attacks the legs she had been so proud of, ripping at them with it's teeth he tears into one. A huge hunk of her flesh tentatively hangs from her calf, not completely severed, but not really a part of her anymore. The pain is intense. The leg feels as if it's on fire, and yet all she can think about is escape. Her blood soaking the carpet beneath her, tears streaming from her eyes, she screams again, "HEEELLP, GOD, PLEASE, SOMEBODY HELP ME"!
She backs away from the rats, and the attack ends.
"Now sit bitch, or feed the damn rodents", he confidently commands, knowing she must obey.
She hobbles to a centrally placed seat, all the while her eyes scan for an alternate escape route.
The chair is big and sturdy, it has a metal frame, black padded cushions, and a high back. A very comfortable looking seat, for someone not so near to bleeding to death.
He is behind her, and roughly, shoves her into the chair.
She lands and only bounces once, it's well padded.
"Sit, my dear", his tone more soothing. She calms, but only slightly. He lifts her injured leg as if to kiss it, but instead seizes her loose flesh in his teeth, he rips the severed flesh with one bite. "Yummy", he says, chomping down on the delectable morsel, "you nigger bitches, have such good taste, I can't wait to get me, summa dat ass"!
Grinning, he smacks his lips then reaches under her skirt. In his claws he soon ensnares her panties, only slightly mauled by his talons. He looks into her terrified eyes, wipes his mouth with her torn underwear, then heads back toward his desk. He flings the mangled panties in the general direction of the rats, and they approvingly smell the discarded garment, occasionally eyeing Tracy with a look that says, to her, "Hello Dinner"!
His clawed hands and sharpened teeth, all the evidence she needs, to motivate her next attempt at escape ...
"Tracy, Tracy, TRACY", She drowsily looks up, it's her supervisor, Mr. Crenshaw. Where did he come from? Her face serving as a border between an old accounting ledger, and some mail she hadn't read yet.
"Have you been here all night, how about that tax situation", he says in whispered tones, although there's no one around to hear, "did you make those modifications yet"?
She needs a cup of coffee. Tracy sit's up and places her elbows on her desk top, her computer is on, but the screen is dark. She slowly massages her brow, "Mr. Crenshaw, this may cost me my job, but I cannot in all good conscience do this"! She feels her leg, she feels the silky embrace of her pantyhose, but alas no blood! No pain! No missing skin!
His face grows red, as the veins in his forehead begin to throb, "Nobody said anything about firing you", he mumbles, and retreats from the room in obvious disarray.
Crenshaw is a survivor from the days when the E.E.O.C. had teeth, and the S.E.C. didn't. There were other accountants in the building, he would get one of them to play ball! He'd deal with her black tail, at a more auspicious time, like when the federal overseers weren't buzzing all about.