A Cunning Plan

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 the initial stages of her plan -- she decided to call it "Plan C, Phase I", naturally. She felt safe doing that, 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 -- and 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 the next step.

She slowly swiveled 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 traveling 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.



_Chapter 3: An Open Invitation_

Somehow, Mary had found herself sitting in a hotel lounge with her legs spread open. Wide open. It wasn't completely obvious from other angles, but she knew that one person -- Mr. X -- could look between them and see directly up her skirt all the way up to where her legs met. More accurately, he could look at the expanse that lay between her two legs. And that was exactly what he was doing. He was looking at her entirely exposed panties under her thigh length skirt. And that was the whole point. He was the reason that she'd taken the pose in the first place.

He had a perfect view. If she hadn't been wearing her panties he would have been able to see her vagina, see her outer lips slightly parted and a bit puffy. Even from his distance of five meters, it would have been obvious that she was excited. Of course, she was wearing panties. Only whores -- "and celebrity C-list has-beens", she thought in a rare burst of bitchy humor -- encouraged people to look up their skirts when they weren't wearing panties. "So, what does that make me?", she asked herself playfully, "A quarter whore?" She winced for the second time that night at her own embarrassingly bad pun.

But even though she was wearing panties, what Mr. X could see was enough. The fact that she was showing them to him was enough. Enough to slightly bend -- but not yet break -- her sense of what was right and wrong, what was good and bad, what was up and down.

She had only exposed herself to one person, a stranger in a crowded bar. But she felt as though she had been stripped naked and had her legs held wide open in a public square, and that hundreds of on-lookers were staring at her vagina. Staring and pointing.

She had never felt so vulnerable. Her stomach felt weightless, as if she had pushed the down button on an elevator and the cable had snapped. Perhaps this was how bungee jumpers felt. She'd ridden one of those amusement park tower rides once, and it felt a bit like that. But this ride hadn't stopped yet. Maybe this was how sky divers felt, she thought, realizing that that was probably an analogy too far. In any case, while the initial rush had settled down a bit, her stomach still felt like it was tumbling end-over-end.

She needed to get some perspective, needed to do that fast, to get it together before she completely lost herself. She needed to look at her situation objectively.

Okay. He was still looking at her. Not staring, not making obvious facile gestures, certainly not elbowing his friends in the ribs with a "hey, check that MILF out". He was clearly not a crude man; he had an aura of sophistication and reserve. But also genuine style, and that whole sexy, greying, full-of-life-experience thing. So rather than ogle her, he sat calmly looking at her holding an expression of subtle appreciation with perhaps a slightly feral curl to his lips.

What was happening around her? Mary couldn't have been sitting this way for more than a minute. (Could she have?) Was it her imagination, or had more eyes shifted their general area of focus in her direction? Were her legs so open that it was obvious they were too open, even to those without a head-on view? Women police the bounds of propriety more vigilantly than men, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed that one of the few women in the bar had turned her head and was looking vaguely in her direction. Was there a slight knowing smirk on her face?

Mary closed the gap between her legs and with a desperate nonchalance primly crossed one leg over the other, falling into that classic pose of womanly modesty.

Mr. X looked back up at her face then, an expression of amused disappointment playing across his own face. He lifted his glass up just a bit past his face and then put it to his lips, a private gesture that only she might interpret as a semi-ironic toast. Then he put the glass down, settled himself a bit, looked at her again, and signaled with his body that he was about to stand up. She slowly shook her head from left to right and back again, her own private gesture carrying the clear message to stay where he was.

She caught the server's eye and signaled for the check. While she waited, she reviewed the plan that she had earlier mapped out in exquisite detail. She'd never really meant to implement it, had she? Not this far, anyway. But she'd begun to act it out, and without doubt it was not just a thought experiment anymore.

Still, so far she was still in semi-charted territory. Her Phase I actions could reasonably be open to interpretation. But if she carried things further -- if she moved to Phase II -- that would be a different story. There would be no way that she could pretend to herself that it was nothing. So she wanted to be sure she understood all of the ramifications of each step of the plan. To be sure that in the cold light of day she would be able to justify each one -- to herself and, more importantly, to her husband.

Of course, any judgement-prone critic would at this point be asking how she could show her panties to a stranger, and then claim that that was "open to interpretation"! Well, she thought -- with a recognition that her argument carried a bit of post hoc justification -- her husband had asked for it. Hadn't he?

It was a game they played. Before they undressed for bed, he would tell her to lift her skirt and show him her panties.

He'd ask her, "what kind of woman lifts her skirt up like that just so someone can see her panties?"

"A naughty woman."

"And what if someone else could see what you were doing?"

"That wouldn't be good.."

"What would it indicate?"

"It would indicate that I was very bad."

"Exactly. Now touch yourself. Rub yourself through your panties."

And she would. She'd rub her fingers up and down over her mound through the smooth cotton of her panties. She'd already be moaning quietly. She'd have spread her knees all the way out at a 45-degree angle. She'd be in the position that women assume when they want to be penetrated as deeply as possible.

"You like that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You like to show your panties to me."

"Yes."

"What if someone else could see you do that? How would that make you feel?"

"Oh god, I'd be so embarrassed."

"But you'd love it, right? You'd love to spread your legs and rub yourself while someone else was watching, wouldn't you?"

"Oh. God yes. I'd love it."

"Pull your panties aside."

She'd always do so without hesitation. It was the command she'd been waiting for. In fact, she was almost desperate to expose herself. She didn't get off as much on the whole panty thing -- that was mostly for Cal's benefit, if she was being honest. No, what she really liked was to show her pussy. So she tugged the crotch of her panties to one side and did just that. Her lips were already puffy and it was easy to see her wetness between their folds. She started to rub her fingers along those folds.

"Stop. I didn't say to touch yourself. I want a good look. Spread them."

She knew what he wanted, and placed her fingers on the inside edge of each of her lips. Her labia were just the right size. Not delicate little creases and not meaty flaps, but the kind of pussy lips a real woman should have. Lips that had delivered babies. Lips that liked to talk about how well they'd been fucked. She pulled them apart so that her husband could see the interior details, see the perfectly smooth flesh pink flesh between them. Evaluate her readiness. See the button of her clit in relief, separated from its surroundings, perfectly accessible. God, how she wanted him to put his tongue to it.

"Now", he said slowly, "just what kind of woman spreads her pussy open like that, just because someone asked her to?"

"A very naughty woman."

"Yes, but more than that, right? You're not just a naughty woman, are you?"

"No.."

"What are you?"

"I'm a slut." Oh, how she loved saying that, loved revealing the bare truth of that statement to him.

"But what if someone else were here with us? What if you were spreading your lips so obscenely for them?"

That always made her squirm with lust, made her want to get fucked so badly.

"It would make me feel like such a slut."

"Because you would be, right? I mean, let's face it, no self-respecting woman opens up her pussy like that to a stranger, does she? What would you be showing us?"

She knew what word he wanted her to use. It always made her stomach lurch a little. That very dirty word..

"My... cunt", she said, "My wet... cunt".

"Put your fingers in your slutty cunt. All the way. Push them in and out. Rub your naughty little clit."

And she'd delight in masturbating for him and -- adding an aching intensity to her excitement -- for her imagined observers. Sometimes they would be men neither of them knew. Sometimes they'd be acquaintances. Sometimes they would be women. Visitors they'd invited to their bedroom just to see her put on her show. From this point on she would be so completely open, desperate to have him lick her, desperate to be fucked. And they would have marvelous sex. Sometimes it would be just them, and sometimes they'd invite their fantasy guests to stay.

He'd ask her if she'd really like to be exposed like that to a stranger. She'd ask him if he'd really like her to. And he'd say yes. And she'd tell him that things might get out of hand then. That the stranger might want to touch her. Might want to put his fingers inside her as well. That she might not be able to stop him. Might not want to stop him. Might even, gasp, let him fuck her. He'd groan with lust at the mere suggestion -- the excitement of the taboo. But no, she'd never go that far. "This pussy is for you, only."

And they kept coming back to the fantasy of her exposing herself like that to a strange man -- always in safe surroundings. And over time, it began to seem clear to her that he actually would like her to do exactly that. She'd never really considered it seriously, but here was an opportunity. An opportunity that fit perfectly into her Plan C. In fact, fueled by her frustration at his disregard for her state of arousal -- he knew she was ovulating, damn it -- it was the entire basis for her plan. This situation fit so perfectly with their fantasy that it cried out to be taken advantage of. And it would be quite a while before they would have the opportunity again.

So, was this self-justification? Being honest with herself, she had to admit that she wasn't quite sure. But even is she was traveling a dangerous road, she knew that there were still clear stopping points along the way. Signposts. She might have gotten ahead of things a bit, but she knew the limits. She knew she would never go past the line that separated a potential misunderstanding about a mutual fantasy from infidelity. That line was clear. She'd never allow herself to touch or be touched by someone other than her husband, unless... Well, all of that was covered by the plan as well.

The server had returned with the check. How long had she been rolling all of this over in her mind? Not more than five or ten minutes, surely. But it felt like she had been considering all of this for hours, and at the same time it felt like it was only a moment ago that she had opened her legs wide to a complete stranger in a crowded bar and let him gaze unimpeded at her panty-covered cunt.

Mr. X wasn't actually looking directly at her now. Instead, he appeared to be absent-mindedly watching the sports wrap-up show, occasionally politely interjecting a comment or two into the involved conversation his colleagues were having. But the TV was only a few degrees off to her side, and she alone knew that she had his complete attention.

Very briefly, she scissored her legs open and closed in a sort of stretching motion -- a classic flash that was also an unmistakeable acknowledgement of the reality of what had just happened. That it hadn't been unintentional. She put her mobile in her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and looked at him briefly; just a second or two longer than could be accidental. Then she sidled elegantly down off the high bar chair, turned toward the entrance to the hotel lobby, and walked out without a backward glance.



_ Chapter 4: An Immodest Proposal_

Mary stood in the hotel foyer, her finger curled to her lips, miming "did I forget something?" She had walked about 10 meters from the entrance to the hotel lounge and turned as if to head down an intersecting corridor. She needed to see the lounge entrance without being conspicuous about it.

What happened next was governed by a single decision variable in her working model of the plan: Would Mr. X follow her?

"An inflection point if there ever was one", she thought, using the language she was familiar with. As a clinical researcher, she had learned to reduce a complex problem down to a set of key turning points. Typically, changes in biological systems are driven by many events that accumulate until they pass some threshold. But the more interesting cases involve just a few events -- events that can just as easily go one way or another. A single molecule might randomly bond with another molecule, setting off a cascade altering the metabolism of the entire cell. "A compelling analogy", she mused, "but a flawed one". If this were a turning point, the dynamics were "well-explained by the Standard Theory of Men". The outcome was "predictable with relatively high assurance".

And there he was. Scanning left and right. Seeing her, without acknowledging that he had seen her -- confirmation that her intuition about the suitability of her candidate had been sound! -- , he turned in her direction and started walking.

She set off at a good pace down the intersecting corridor. With her husband engaged in meetings, she'd had many occasions to explore the ground floor of the hotel over the last two days. There was the gift shop, the decent if uninspiring restaurant, the obligatory day spa. Really, a very pleasant place, she thought. Tasteful, contemporary, comfortable, and designed for use. It was attached to the small convention centre and contained many well thought-out spaces -- small foyers, group conversation areas, board rooms, and so on.