I didn't give her time to breathe.
My fingers hooked viciously into the last pathetic scraps of black lace still clinging to her — those soaked panties now utterly transparent, heavy and darkened with her thick cream, the sodden fabric molded so obscenely to her swollen pussy lips that every plump curve and puffy seam was carved in wet relief.
I ripped it, the fabric giving away at my strength despite how firm it looked.
The lace gave a filthy, saturated rrrrrip — wetter than tearing cloth should ever sound, like shredding drenched silk soaked in honey and sin.
The crotch clung stubbornly for one lewd heartbeat to her dripping folds, strings of glossy arousal stretching and snapping before it tore free. Thin red welts instantly striped her hipbones where the elastic had bitten deep.
I threw it away, it was useless now, the shredded panties hit the marble with a heavy, sodden plap, landing in a dark puddle of their own making.
