I reached between her thighs from behind—fingers brushing the drenched gusset one last time. She jolted—whimpering sharply—as I dragged my fingertips along her soaked slit through the fabric, collecting her wetness like proof. Then I hooked the crotch itself—middle finger curling under the sodden material—and pulled.
One final, brutal tug.
The last threads snapped with a wet crack. The panties came free in my hand—warm, heavy, drenched—her arousal so thick it left glistening strings connecting the fabric to her pussy for a split second before they broke.
I brought the torn scrap up slowly—deliberately—holding it right in front of her face so she could see it in the dim amber glow: the black cotton darkened to near-charcoal in the center, slick and shiny with her own juices, the faint musky scent rising sharp and intimate between us.
"Open wide, Angela," I whispered, lips brushing her earlobe. "Taste how much your greedy little cunt wants this."
