Pants
written by:
NoSayQuien

I don't live in New York City. Far from it, actually. I live smack dab in the middle of the "fly over" Midwest. But I was there in New York last October. That was when the New Yorker magazine held its annual "Festival," and I almost always go. Sometimes, my wife comes, too.

I kind of prefer it when my wife doesn't come with me. You can probably guess why. I don't always get lucky in New York, but if I do, it's a lot easier to realize my opportunities if I don't have to ditch my wife to make it happen. I am willing to ditch my wife, and I have ditched my wife, to fuck a woman I just happened to sit next to at one of the presentations, and who subtly let me know that she was as intrigued with me as I was with her. But if I don't have to deal with my wife, so much the better. I just like more room to maneuver.

Anyway, last year my wife came to the Festival, so I had to deal with her. And I did get lucky!

In fact, it's hard to believe how lucky I really got. It was something right out of "The Secret," or one of those other books that tell you that a person can have anything he (or she) wants. All you need to do is "visualize" it. Then, it will fall right into your lap.

Oh, sure! Like I ever believed that one!

Nonetheless ...

Like I said, I go to the New Yorker Festival every year. It's a big trip for me. I think I have only missed one Festival since they started it ten or twelve years ago. I am an avid reader of the magazine, and that is mainly because there isn't much intellectual stimulation where I'm from. My wife teaches high school. I'm a lawyer in a small firm, and I specialize in wills and trusts. There is nothing exotic or interesting about either of our jobs, or about our normal day-to-day life. But that doesn't mean I don't care about literature, politics, and intellectual topics. I do. It's just that there isn't much intellectual life available in Aplington, Iowa. The New Yorker is my lifeline to culture, and when the Festival comes around, I always show up, to see some of the authors in person. It's always good!

Last year, on the flight out with my wife, I read the latest issue of the magazine. It was, as usual, completely absorbing. I usually end up reading just about every article, and I did this time, too. I was mostly struck, though, by an advertisement for Louis Vuitton. There was something about it that totally captured me. I kept turning back to it.

I am sure that the purse in the background of the picture was the object that was supposed to be on view. It was the model, however, that drew my attention. She was standing, with her back to an artist's work table. She had her hands hitched into the side pockets of her pants, and she had long hair. What I noticed though were the pants themselves; or, rather, her legs and waist, as packaged in the pants, which appeared to be of some vinyl-like material, and virtually painted on.

All I could think about, when I saw that picture, was how hard it would be to get my fingers into that model's wet cunt.

She definitely looked "wet." Her rubberized pants would hold back the moisture, so it was the look on her face, not any visible sign between her legs, which told me that she was ready for sex. Crazed for it, as a matter of fact. I could see myself rubbing my middle finger hard against the tight crotch of her skintight plastic pants to make her come. I could see her leaning back, closing her eyes while I finger fucked her from the outside. But how would I really fuck her? How could I ever get those pants off her, to slip my fingers inside her wet, slick lips? How could I slip my hand inside, to tease her clit? How could I ever sink my big prick into her well-guarded fuckhole? It was like a puzzle. Anyone who saw the ad would get what I mean. Or any man, anyway. During the flight, my wife looked over my shoulder at the advertisement, and immediately focused on the purse.

"Hey," she said, "Maybe I can find one of those in a knockoff version once we hit the City."

"Right, honey; that would be good. I like it." But it wasn't the purse I wanted to knock off.

So... You get the idea. I became mildly crazed over the model from the Louis Vuitton ad, and I kept looking at the Louis Vuitton ad, dreaming of somehow getting her lovely, long legs out of that fantastic plastic wrap, so I could bury my face into the center notch of her sex, and suck her like crazy, all preparatory to merging our bodies in an orgy of gratification.

I know! That's what those ads are supposed to do. This one hit me dead center.

XXX

The way the Festival works, there are multiple presentations going on simultaneously, at various places throughout New York City. You have to scramble for the tickets you want, and then run around from one place to another. You might have a ticket for 10:00 a.m. at the Directors' Guild on 57th Street, and then the next event will take place at 1:00 down in the East Village. Then there will be one at 3:30 at the Cloisters (which is way uptown). Since my wife and I don't always go to the same places, it's relatively easy to "get lost," if some kind of opportunity presents itself.

On Saturday afternoon, the second day of the Festival, as I was on the aisle waiting for a discussion on gay marriage and the Supreme Court, studying my iPhone and checking my email, a woman started sliding by me, tripped, and landed right on top of me, knocking my phone out of my hand, and putting her own left hand right in my lap.

It was the model, right?

No. It actually wasn't.

But the pants were the same.

I am in my middle forties. This woman was five or six years younger. She looked as good as the model, in terms of the way her pants presented her shapely, stick thin legs.

"I am so sorry," she said. "I think I slipped on a piece of paper."

"Believe me," I answered, "having a beautiful woman fall on top of me isn't that big a problem. I am not injured, but I do need to get my phone off the floor."

I started to try to bend forward, but Louise (for that turned out to be her name) immediately knelt on the floor, right to my left side, and put her head onto my left leg and lap as she fished blindly for my phone under the seat with her left hand. She got it. And then she got up, and sat down right next to me.

When our eyes met, as she handed me my phone, a surge of electricity ran from my stomach to my groin. It was almost like she had grabbed hold of my prick. But it was just an exchange of looks. I could tell the energy surge went both ways.

"I'm Louise," she said, and put out her hand to shake.

"I'm Jerry," I replied, and then didn't really let go of her hand for what seemed like a long time, while I just gazed into her face.

"I hate to be familiar," I said, "though I do have the excuse that you have had both your head and your hands in my lap, in the last minute, but can I ask you about your pants?"

Louise laughed. "What do you mean?" she said.

"Let me show you," I told her, and leafed through the New Yorker. When I found the ad, I handed her the magazine.

"Yep. That's my brand," Louise said.

"Ok," I replied. "For whatever reason, I have been mesmerized by that ad, and by those pants. Here's my inappropriate question: how do you ever get into those pants?"

"Don't you mean, how could you ever get me out of them?" Louise's direct look, not to mention her direct question, took me totally by surprise.

"Well, that is, actually, exactly the question I had when I saw that ad. How would I ever get those pants off those legs? So, you got me. How would I do it?"

"Do it?" Louise answered.

"Yes. How would I get you out of those pants?"

"Well," said Louise, "you wouldn't be able to get me out of my pants unless I wanted you to get me out of them. So, the first step for you is to make me want to get out of my pants."

"As I was day dreaming over that ad, earlier, I did have an idea of how to accomplish that first step."

"Did you?" she said. "You going to tell me, or show me?"

"Show you," I said, and just then the Editor of the New Yorker came on stage, to introduce the panel, which included a member of the Supreme Court. The lights dimmed.

"Are you a lawyer?" I whispered, as I leaned into her.

"Yeah," she said, "but don't let that stop you."

XXX

During the presentation, which I would normally have followed with rapt interest, my entire attention was focused on the juncture of Louise's legs. Encased in their tight, protective plastic wrap, they presented an impenetrable obstacle. I couldn't slip my hands up under a loose skirt. I couldn't unzip a normal pair of pants, or unbutton a typical pair of jeans, to be able to slip my fingers into her. All I could do was to rub.

Before the panelists really started talking, I got up and took off my sports coat, and laid it across my lap and over the armrest between my seat and Louise's. As soon as the panel really got underway, I turned towards her, as much as I could, and moved my right arm across my body, and slipped my hand under the coat and reached Louise's leg. She moved to open her legs up, and then I stroked her hidden spot hard with my finger and the edge of my palm.

Louise turned toward me, as if to whisper a comment in my ear. "Keep working on that. I think that first step's a winner."

As it turned out, that plasticized fabric was stretchy. It molded to her body as I kept pushing against her cunt, and I could feel the "squish." Ignoring the panel of legal experts entirely, I looked only at Louise, who stared at the stage, as though she were totally absorbed in the topic, while I made her come three times during the forty-five minute debate and discussion about gay rights.

When the lights came up, I said, "What now?'

"Well," she said, "I am supposed to meet my husband at 3:30 at the Acura Stage."

"What is the program there?" I responded.

"Medical ethics. My husband is a doctor."

"Is Malcolm Gladwell the presenter?"

"Yes. Him and a doctor whose name I can't pronounce."

"Oh, yeah. Well that's my next event, too. And my wife is supposed to meet me there."

"So you're married, too," Louise said.

"Yes," I said. "Do you care?"

"Not really," Louise replied, "especially in view of the fact that you figured out step one! My only question is where we are going to have the demonstration of how you get me out of these pants. You want to do your hotel room, while your wife watches Gladwell?"

"Maybe. Though it is risky. Do you have a room?"

"No. I live on East 86th, near the river. But I can't be sure that my husband won't show up there, any more than you can assume that your wife won't come back to your hotel room early. I think we're going to have to fuck in Central Park."

What about after the Gladwell thing? What do you have then?" I asked.

"My husband is going to go home. I'm doing something on hip hop and rap."

"My wife is going to a presentation on Moby Dick. That's her main literary interest. Let's fuck then, if you are willing to skip the hip hop."

"Oh, I think I'm willing to substitute. So, what now?"

"Let's go to the Gladwell program." We can get there late, and sit together."

"Most likely stand," she said.

"Right," I agreed.

And that is what we did. At the Acura Theatre, which was packed, Louise located her husband, and I scanned the crowd for my wife, who I finally located down near the front, having an animated conversation with a balding, fat man seated next to her. The lights dimmed, and Louse and I stood in a kind of hidden corner near the back, completely out of sight of either her husband or my wife.

As we heard Malcolm Gladwell and Atul Gawande talk about modern medical practice and medical ethics, Louise unbuttoned her blouse so I could slip my hands up around her lovely breasts, from my position behind her, which is what I did. I alternately stroked her breasts, and pinched and pulled her taut nipples, standing up like little pawns in a chess set. She moved her tight ass in her skintight pants against my raging hard on as I fondled her.

"Pretty amazing," Louise said. "Who would have thought this could happen. So quick."

"You do this all the time?" I asked.

"Only when I can," she said. "There aren't that many men who are quite so quick on the uptake. And I liked the way you looked at me."

"I can't wait to fuck you," I told her.

"I've noticed," Louise replied, grinding her ass into my rigid prick.

XXX

When the program was over, I made my way towards my wife, Louise kind of trailed me, and her husband must have seen her, because he and I, and my wife and the fat man, and Louise, all converged near the front of the auditorium, as most of the audience was filing out.

"Sorry I was too late to get a seat with you," I told my wife.

"No problem," she said. "I'm glad you didn't miss it. Wasn't Gawande wonderful? Here, Jerry, let me introduce you to Bill Pease. He's from Iowa, too. I have suggested we might all have dinner together."

"Well, maybe," I said, noting that Louise was, by this time, meeting her husband.

"You heading to the apartment now?" Louise was asking him.

"No, he said." I got a page. I will go to the hospital first. What did you think?"

"It was fine," Louise answered. "Here," tugging on my sleeve, turning me around, "let me introduce you to Jerry - I don't think I got your last name, Jerry - We ended up standing in the back. Jerry is a lawyer, too."

"Good to meet you," I said.

We shook hands, but the doctor was preoccupied, and kissed his wife on the cheek, saying "sorry to have to run."

He left. My wife was still with the fat guy. I told her that I had to run to my next event, and that I would see her back at the hotel. Louise was hanging just out of sight, over my wife's left shoulder, and raised her chin, letting me know she wanted me to leave.

"Bye," I said, pushing into the crowd.

"Come here," Louise told me, pulling me towards a side panel that led into a narrow passage. Once behind the black curtain at the entrance, we found ourselves in a side stage, a kind of "dressing room" area, with several smaller rooms, and some of them with couches.

"Now you are going to get to see how these pants come off," she said.

Louise undid a top button, and opened a zipper in the front, and I plunged my hand past the stretchy, plastic fabric of her pants, and found her sopping cunt. Louise kissed me savagely, and breathed hard as she said, "your fucking wife is a cow. That fat guy is just her type. You can peel those pants down, now. Fuck me, Jerry. I can't wait for it."

Louise's shaven cunt was dripping. I smeared her juices all over my face and pulled her legs open as I tongued her. Her ass crack was so slick that it was easy to slip my finger up her asshole as I sucked and licked her, and she writhed with pleasure.

"I said ‘Fuck Me.' Fuck me, Jerry." Louise started stroking my rod and moved it to her cunt lips. "I need it."

My hard prick slipped into Louise like it was made for her cunt. She was so tight. Her pants were still on one leg, but she was totally open to my thrusts. She clawed my back and smothered her mouth with her own hand as I pounded her to her climax. I couldn't stop. I just kept going and Louise seemed to pass out as I finally busted my balls in a massive flood of white-hot sperm, flooding her love tunnel and escaping around my dick, coating my balls and her ass.

We did fuck in Central Park. And in my hotel room, while my "fat cow" of a wife, as Louise calls her, went with the fat guy from Iowa to see what the literary types had to say about Moby Dick. Months later, I fucked Louise in her Eastside apartment, too, while she took a call from her husband, just about to go into the operating room. Louise got me associated with her law firm, so I have a plausible reason to come to NYC, even when the New Yorker Festival is not in season.

I have been back quite frequently.

Back in New York City, and back inside those fabulous fucking pants!