Plan C Phase 01

Based on results from our initial experiment, we've decided to continue on. While some folks might not be getting the instance gratification they were looking for, we hope that as the story unfolds, you'll see that that is the whole point. This story stands on its own, but if you like the element of suspense and the unfolding of desire, please do yourself a favor and start out by reading -- or at least skimming -- our first story, where you'll learn how "Plan C" arose in the first place.

*****

Sarah sat at the small table by the bar in the hotel lounge, reflecting on what she had just done. She felt almost blind-sided by the strength of her mental and physical reaction to this one little action, given what a simple physical gesture it was. She'd simply spread her legs apart by little more than a hand width.

In fact, her not-quite-as-discrete-as-he-imagined admirer could not be getting much benefit from her not-at-all-indecent exposure. Yes, from his seat on the nearby couch Mr. X was at the perfect relative vertical position to see up her skirt as she perched on the bar chair. And he did have the advantage of being able to pretend to be looking at a nearby TV, as though he had suddenly taken a serious interest in championship curling. And there was no doubt that the frequency of his now less and less occasional glances had increased after that innocent little gap had formed between her knees.

But given the direction her legs were pointed she was confident that her private assets were shielded from his wandering eyes. The most her observer could see from his vantage point was an oblique segment of her inner thigh extending perhaps ten centimetres beyond her hemline and underneath her skirt. Just bare skin, and far less of that than he would have been able to see had he come across her lounging by the hotel swimming pool.

Time for a reality check. Where was she thinking this was going to lead? She flashed on an image of Mr. X pounding away at her on a hotel bed while she screamed "take me, take me, you sexy bastard" and almost laughed out loud. Even if she was that kind of woman -- and no, she certainly was not that kind of woman -- how would that work? What was she going to do, flash this random guy, follow him up to his room, and have wild unprotected sex with him? Was there some sort of established communication protocol for that sort of thing, and she'd just never received the memo?

Anyway, likely Cedric would have a thing or two to say about such an event, and who could blame him? Even though their mutual fantasies sometimes swung in the direction of her playing the "naughty wife", there was a pretty fucking deep chasm between a bit of role-playing with her dear husband and an extra-marital affair with a secret lover. Regardless of what she might be feeling in the moment, and how downright infuriating Cedric could be at times, she loved him deeply and could never lie to him, let alone betray his trust. No, she just wasn't going there.

And for that matter, there was no reason to think that Mr. X was looking for anything more than a cheap visual thrill -- mild wank off material to take back with him to his hotel room. Even if she was willing to throw caution -- not to mention her marriage vows -- to the four winds, the likely outcome would be at best mumbled apologies and a bad case of blue balls for him and a few moments of thrill followed by mortified embarrassment and lingering regret for her.

Still, it was fun to think about, and while her husband was off with his co-workers discussing the fascinating ins and outs of logistics and production integration, she could do a little in and out logistical planning of her own. All as a theoretical case study, of course. And it would make a good little story to titillate Cedric with while she set him up for the comeuppance she had planned. "'Make it up to me' indeed", she thought. He'd pay for leaving her hanging in the hotel lounge while he went out drinking with "the team". Maybe she'd even present her planning scenario to him as if it were a real event and see how he reacted!

While she sorted out the various imaginary moves in her mind, examining the feasibility and auto-erotic potential of each, her body seemed to have set itself on a parallel not-so-imaginary course, and she wasn't yet ready to haul down the mainsail. The thing was, every little move she made sent a sweet if subtle wave of excitement rippling from its origin between her legs and radiating out throughout her body. She was definitely aroused now, and was curious to see how much more aroused she might become if she allowed her body to tack down wind a bit further.

Her Plan C begin to coalesce into a broad strategic outline. That was exciting, but then she started to think about the tactical nuances. Somehow that got her even more into the spirit of the thing. The self-recognition that she had gone to this level of detail in her planning felt naughty enough in itself, but the detail also made the fantasy seem more real, because she could imagine herself actualizing it.

For example, how might she get herself in a position to provide a better view? Her legs were set at an acute angle ("or perhaps I should say a 'cute' angle?" she thought, wincing at her own jejune pun and feeling slightly giddy) to the interested party, and there really wasn't much of a gap between them. She could spread her legs first, and then turn toward her admirer. Or turn toward him and then spread her legs. Or do both simultaneously. This was getting silly. OK, spread and turn. If she turned and spread, it would probably be apparent that her somewhat less modest exposure was not completely unwitting -- and the last thing she wanted was to be obvious.

She parted her legs a bit further. Her inner thighs still felt like they were mostly touching each other. OK, just a little bit further. Now, if someone were looking squarely between her legs and pointing a flashlight directly up her skirt -- there was an image! -- a palm-sized and roughly triangular portion of her panties should be visible.

And so what if it was? She honestly had a hard time understanding the attraction. What was so exciting to men about getting a glimpse at a little piece of fabric? And then she had to admit to herself that she wasn't that much less shallow. What was so exciting to her about the idea that someone might get that glimpse? Was it what was behind her panties that counted, or the bare fact that she was willing to let someone see them? Or the idea that Mr. X might be jerking himself off later that night while visualizing her and her panties? She idly wondered what his penis looked like and how he might stroke it. And then, how it might feel in her hands. Hey, turn about is fair play, right?

So there she sat, with her legs apart a little carelessly but hardly inappropriately. She was going for clueless, not wanton. It suddenly occurred to her that Mr. X wasn't the only person who had shown an interest in her. Whoops, had she just flashed someone else inadvertently? But no, at her leg's current heading the gap in her skirt was not in the line of sight of any of the men seated nearby.

Still, as she sat there ruminating on the next step, she felt a growing sense of warmth, a pleasant little achiness, neediness even, beneath the soft cotton panel of her panties. Was she moist? Guys liked to talk about that, but it usually took at least a little direct stimulation to really get to that point, and in any case it was difficult to tell just how damp she was without feeling the material with her dry fingers -- something that would be clearly inappropriate, she laughed to herself -- and flushed a bit as she thought about the ramifications of doing just that: Probably a very awkward visit from the manager carrying a polite but firm request that she retire to her hotel room and finish her business there.

Wow. Her thoughts kept carrying her further and further away. She was almost intoxicated by the images and ideas that were coming to her mind now, but she liked that, and she also recognized that the intensity of her fantasies had being driven by the reality of her actions; that without those actions she would not be experiencing what she was now. Overall, there was a delicious, almost addictive but also pleasantly harmless quality to the whole thing.

So, there was really no question that she was going to carry out Plan C, Phase I, Step 2. She felt safe doing it, and perhaps it would relieve some of the pressure she was feeling; pressure that if left unchecked might even overwhelm her good judgement, she reflected as she felt a new thrill from playing up the likelihood of "something actually happening" in her mind. She wouldn't let things get to that point of course, and she was perfectly in control of the situation. This was just innocent fun, but even so she had a hard time believing that she was about to follow through with that next step.

She slowly swivelled around in the chair, giving the move what she hoped was an absent minded vibe. And there she was, with the tunnel between her legs aimed squarely at Mr. X., just like a... what, "a cannon ready to go off"? She couldn't think of a good analogy. "Like a shameless slut showing her goods to a total stranger" she said to herself with a sense of crude self-mockery, knowing that that kind of inner dialog -- as hyperbolic as it was -- would be just the thing to push her further up the arousal scale. Yes, she was going to have a good finger-fucking session when she got up to their room, she thought, feeling a surprisingly nagging urge to give her "naughty clit" a few heavy strokes and stick two fingers in her "slut pussy". When she started using dirty words, even if just to herself, she knew from experience that she had crossed a major libido threshold: she was getting seriously turned on.

She sighed, gathered herself from her swirling thoughts, and at that moment caught Mr. X's eyes moving to the exact spot those thoughts had just been most intently focussed on. What could he really see? Nothing more than her entirely conventional underwear -- and to his credit he clearly knew that whatever he could see was not the kind of thing that a respectable gentleman should be attempting to see. And indeed, the moment he noticed her eyes travelling in his direction, he quickly turned toward the colleagues seated across from him and immersed himself in their animated dialog.

But the space between her legs was exerting a powerful force of its own, one that had the potential energy to overcome the bounds of propriety. She was fascinated by and strangely flattered at the gravitational pull her pelvis seemed to hold over his pupils. Every few minutes, and then every minute, and then every thirty seconds or so, she felt more than saw his gaze fall between her thighs. And once or twice, his eyes intersected with hers as their private gazes flitted back and forth within the very public space between their two bodies.

There wasn't a particular moment in which she knew that he knew that she knew what was going on, and no way to know if he had at the same time surmised that her mild exposure was deliberate. But at some point she got an unmistakeable sense that they both understood exactly what was happening. With that realization came a mild jolt of panic, but also a sudden cascade of arousal that she felt intensely and palpably throughout the object of his attention. Her pussy was in fact slutty, she told herself, and by extension so was she. And what's more, she liked the feeling. It connected her to a primal longing, and allowing that longing to take hold of her made her feel paradoxically powerful and alive.

The next time their two gazes intersected, her eyes paused mid-flight. She was looking directly at him. His eyes kept moving for a moment, then stalled, turned back, and engaged with hers. After holding her eyes for a moment or two, his focus slid deliberately to her neck, down between her breasts, further down the length of her torso, under the bar table, and all the way down to her hips, stopping finally at that place between her legs -- the place where, she was now certain, he could see her white panties exposed beneath the fabric of her skirt -- and resting there.

And then she felt herself spreading her legs wider. Wider than was decent, wider than was modest, wider than was respectable. Wide enough to give him a full, complete, unobstructed view. Wide enough to let him know beyond any doubt that she knew exactly what she was doing.