Pantalone Novels & Stories

Her focus was on his pants, the desire to undress him was way too much to ignore. In a swift movement, his pants were set free as she pulled them off which he willingly complied, leaving him with a pair of blue Balenciaga undies.

Like I wouldn't be the one getting any. It took me a while, but I finally decided on a layered approach to getting undressed later. Black garter and stockings with this perfect pair of panties from La Perla -- high French cut with nylon see-though butt. I posed in my mirror and held my hair up. I swear I looked just like a lingerie model. Okay, but without the boobs. As usual, the top was easy, a black nylon fitted camisole.

“Yeah, I have an extra pair of pants. I don’t have a shirt, though. Pollux, do you have a shirt? Did you bring anything with you?” “What the fuck do I own, Paola?” he retorts in annoyance before he removes his leather jacket. He peels his black shirt off his body, and tosses it at her. He has tattoos covering his arms and chest, and his stomach is a wall of sculpted muscle that’s perfectly defined. He puts the jacket on, and Paola hands me the shirt along with the pants. The jeans fit, but the shirt is a little too big and smells of Pollux, though not in an inherently bad way. He has a strong, musky scent that’s quite appealing. I find myself sniffing his shirt more than once, and it embarra

That thought alone has me dancing around my room as I get ready. I choose a vintage jumpsuit with a sheer black sleeveless bodice that has black polka dots all over it and a red sweetheart cami under. The pants are these fantastic, high waisted palazzos accented with three large red buttons on each side of the center panel. These pants are my favorite because they feel like butter when I wear them. It’s timeless and versatile. I choose to leave my chocolate brown hair down in loose beach waves with light make-up, except for my lips. My lipstick is the same red as my peeptoe heels, the cami and buttons on my outfit.

"Wear this. Don't use your cargo pants again today." Helga looked at the clothing of Zean's choice. It was a pair of chic tailored trousers in solid black, paired with a dark emerald green silk shirt. That choice of clothing showed that Zean was beginning to understand Helga's true self, not forcing her to be very feminine or graceful like the late Helen, yet still demanding an appearance worthy of the high-class standards of a mafia family.

“Now, let us get you dressed.” She handed me the jumper first. It was soft, thick, bright red, and decorated in white patterns of trees and tiny snow creatures. Then came the pants. Stretchy. Soft. Not leather. Not royal. Not anything I had ever worn. I held them up by the corners. “What manner of clothing is this? Why do the legs look like they are trying to escape each other?” “They are called pants,” Elara said gently. “Humans wear them.” “I only wear pants for training,” I muttered. “And those are leather. And do not stretch in threatening ways.”

Maybe both. Alonzo Benington stood there in all his perfectly curated glory – Armani sunglasses because of course, crisp white shirt that probably cost more than my rent, grey trousers tailored to mathematical precision, leather shoes so shiny they could blind aircraft. Six-foot-four of weaponized elegance towering over Peter’s rumpled sweatpants and my strategic torn jeans. Zoom interviews didn’t show below the waist, and these were my emotional support pants, okay? I squinted against the sun that was basically giving him a goddamn halo. “Hi.”

With deft movements born of extensive practice, Pierre fastidiously adjusts each piece until the look is perfected. "Magnifique! But it requires the finishing touch!" Pierre declares dramatically. Snapping his fingers, he barks orders in rapid French to his assistants, who scurry off obediently. Within moments, they return bearing a tray with various accessories cufflinks, belts, shoes polished to a mirror shine. With deft movements born of extensive practice, Pierre fastidiously adjusts each piece until the look is perfected. Pierre hands him a pair of pants to go change into Eli's eyes widen in shock as he sees the exorbitant price tag dangling from the designer dress pants Pierre handed h

Lannie answered, cautiously framing the French words all the rage as she grinned up at the master. Potty wore the old style uniform of the Pleasure Mansion - a white, button-up shirt that was painstakingly custom-made to fit cozily around the lady's bends, slim three-quarter length white hose, intended to highlight the rear end, and a couple of featureless white shoes. With everything taken into account, the impression was clean and practically clinical, effectively something an attendant may wear just as being, maybe, shockingly traditionalist. Potty herself was flimsy and rather tall contrasted with the greater part of the French young ladies Lannie had been able to know during her visit i

Clarette wаѕ a рrесосіоuѕ lіttlе bеd partner. Fіrѕt, a frеѕhlу рrеѕѕеd whіtе ѕhіrt wіth the tор button lеft undоnе. Next, dark grау wооl slacks wіth a 1 3/4" double lеаthеr black belt wіth a sturdy brаѕѕ buckle. I саn't have mу раntѕ fаllіng down оr having аnуthіng print. Next, I рut on a Nаvу Bluе Blazer.