Plan C, Phase 06

This story provides a brief but key interlude in the progression of Sarah's plan, and explores some interesting paradoxes of sexual experience and power relationships. We're putting it in the reluctance category, as there are light elements of that in here. Regardless of category, we hope all of our readers enjoy it and would love to hear your feedback, positive or negative. Stay tuned for the exciting finale!

As before, if you don't like to even contemplate the idea of a married women having a sexual relationship with another person, you probably won't like this story.

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Sarah walked to the bank of elevators and pressed the up button, acutely conscious of the proximity of the two men beside her -- one whom she had known intimately for many years, the other a total stranger. She looked up and scanned the floor readouts, looking for the next arrival. Her exterior demeanor was calm, and the three could be taken for a group of out of town colleagues returning to their respective rooms after a busy day. But her cool public shell stood in stark relief to her private experience: The almost clammy wetness she felt from the material between her legs, the weakness she felt in her knees, the tingling she felt in her belly and below, and the field of barely restrained sexual energy she felt emanating from the two men.

As the three of them stood waiting for the elevators, staring at the doors, she thought about how the elevator embodies an essential paradox of modern society. Elevators enshrine our longing for anonymity and privacy within a culture that demands constant social interaction: In an elevator, even people on close terms keep a careful measured distance from one another. But elevators also reveal our fear of intimacy by exposing us to our inescapable vulnerability to others: Within the sudden, complete but fleeting privacy, a space is created where anything can happen. Isn't it remarkable, she reflected, how resilient elevator culture is in the context of broader social changes?

And of course, there was the the most important aspect of an elevator; where it could take you. As the doors slid open, she flashed on the ludicrous image of the lips of her vagina opening in unison with them. A laughably bad simile, but she couldn't deny the directness of the connection. The elevator was a kind of gatekeeper to the final phases of her plan, which would involve the exposure and parting of her pussy lips, and that outcome became even more certain now that the elevator car had arrived.

A group of asian tourists spilled out of the doors, immersed in conversation. She stepped in to the empty space they had left behind, the two men stepping in after her, and then selected the button for the 22nd floor as the doors slid close. She stood near the wall of the car, turning to face them -- and gasped as she felt Mr. X suddenly pressing her into the wall, shoving himself against her, palming her left buttock, pushing his thigh between her legs.

This was a surprise -- for the first time an unexpected complication had intruded into her careful planning. Her first instinct was to push him away, to defend her already mostly imaginary modesty from the advances of a stranger; a stranger who seemed bent on taking her within the space of a public conveyance while her husband looked on.

But as she gathered her response, she found that the stranger's near desperation satisfied a deep craving within her, a craving to be claimed just like this, in an anonymous space with no control over the outcome. Mr. X's actions came out of nearly pure animalistic needs and she realized that there was also something pure within her primitive body that responded to that need. There was something so natural and timeless about this scenario -- to be grabbed by a strong, handsome, intelligent male and then to be fucked by him without her permission, without having a say in the matter at all. So, she found herself momentarily unable -- or perhaps unwilling -- to restrain his near assault and force a return to the plan.

She felt his right hand reach down to the base of her skirt and yank it up, and then she felt the same hand reach up and under her skirt and over her panties, and slip itself back down under the waistband of her panties, force itself between her ass and the wall, and then, still burrowing under her panties, between the gap that his knee had forced between her legs, and then -- oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening -- he shoved his curled middle finger up and into her pussy. He pushed his finger into her hard and fast, pulled it out, pushed it in again and pulled it out, then jammed his index finger alongside of it and pushed both back into her as deeply as he could given the awkward angle of entry. In any other circumstance, his roughness would have been forceful and even painful, a sexual assault that would have left her vagina's lips and interior wall abraded and sore for days. As it was, his fingers had easily slipped into her, and as he began to propel his fingers in and out of her at an awkward but frantic pace she simply felt an intense deep pleasant probing -- almost a testing of her waters, preparing her for things to come.

This whole sequence, from the moment he pushed her against the wall to the moment now of him plunging his fingers in and out of her, had taken almost no time at all. It was disconcerting but perversely thrilling demonstration of just how little protection the thin fabric of her clothes provided, how her skirt afforded easy access to the most private parts of her body, how easy it would be for any man to do what this man was now doing.

But as she began to settle into the rhythm of what he was doing, she found that she was able to regain her self-control. As funny as it sounded, she knew that there was something that was just too inappropriate and seedy about this -- while exciting in its own way, it was not the image that she wanted her husband to keep of this night. Yes, she could tell he was excited by the stranger's unrestrained need for her, and he had not yet made a move to stop him, but she knew that this was at the edge or even beyond it. Besides, it was against the rules. So she pushed Mr. X back from her, reached behind herself and gently plucked his hand out of her, and demurely smoothed down her skirt.

"That will be enough of that, Mister!", she said, managing to mix a measure of conspiratorial camaraderie and matronly admonishment, and then added more sternly, "one more violation of the ground-rules, and this will be over."

She hoped that her natural self-assurance masked the difficulty she was having keeping to the script. Because at this point, she wanted nothing more than to have Mr. X ignore her attempt at levity with a callous sneer, lift her skirt again, yank her panties away from her body until they tore open, unzip his fly, splay her legs against the wall of the elevator and shove his cock into her as deeply and coarsely as he possibly could.

In any case, at that moment the elevator doors slid open again, revealing an empty hallway. The final phase of her plan was about to begin, and she felt a rising thrill as she knew that her greatest needs might soon be satisfied.

As the trio exited the elevator, she turned to her husband, who seemed to have collected himself more or less and appeared to be about to re-assert his own primitive claims, in this case to her status as life-long mate and the mother of his children. "Don't worry," she whispered to him, as she grabbed his hand and brought it over to rest briefly against her mound over the fabric of her skirt and her panties, "no matter what happens next, this pussy is only for you. It's your cock I want inside of it."