Spilling out of my panties

You're looking at an amateur shot that wastes no time — cotton stretched thin, fabric losing the argument against what it was asked to contain.

You notice the way the waistband sits low, deliberate, an invitation dressed as carelessness. You feel the pull of something unposed and honest, the kind of body that exists for its own pleasure first and your gaze second.

You can't look away from the soft overflow, the pressure of skin against elastic telling you everything. You want to press your thumb exactly where the fabric gives. You already know how warm that would feel.