Tear Away Pants Red Novels & Stories

I pleaded, hoping the distraction would work in my favor. I heard him sigh quietly. “Umm, yeah, sure. We can talk after,” he said, and I let out a small breath of relief. Maybe this would work. I reached into the back of the closet, pulling out the teddy. I had bought this a while ago but never actually worn. It was racy, revealing, and clung to my curves in all the right places. The lace was delicate, sheer in some spots, teasing in others, leaving very little to the imagination. It was a deep, seductive red, contrasting perfectly with my skin.

He lay before me, wings spread, in nothing but jeans. “I think it’s about time we get rid of this,” I tugged one of the belt loops. He arched a brow at my boldness—and I took advantage, getting right to work. I won’t say it was quick or without help, but somehow the pants came off. Straddling one of his thighs, I ran my hand over his cock, which looked big even through his underwear. The sharp breath he drew told me he was already sensitive—so naturally, I teased him more.

I need to stanch the flow before my legs completely refuse to carry me. I reach down, grabbing the hem of my expensive, tailored shirt—the one Theodore bought to make sure I looked like a cherished, perfect daughter. With a harsh, ragged tug, I use my teeth to tear into the fabric, pulling until a long, thick strip rips free. My manicured nails, now split and caked with black mud, dig into my skin as I clumsily reach behind myself. The friction of the dry cloth dragging across the raw, open lacerations makes my vision go completely white.

The pants of our armor were made of a material that was meant to prevent being cut through, making cutting them off completely out of the question. Taking a breath, I moved onto the bed to where I was straddling his waist, unbuttoning his pants, and slowly working them down over his hips. The form-fitting material was not helping in the slightest. As I finally got them down over his hips, I tugged at them a few more times before they finally came down further, and I was able to pull them off.

The tiny, red two-piece wasn’t much more than two thin strips of fabric, one going across her tits and one going between her thighs. “Holy shit,” I breathed.

Brеndа is busy tucking George in the bed and rеаdіng ѕtоrіеѕ, ѕо there’d bе no harm dоnе, but instead, I make ѕurе I bеnd right over as I ѕtаrt lоаdіng the washable роtѕ іntо the bасk оf thе machine. Turnіng, I see thаt hе’ѕ changed іntо a раіr оf low-slung workout pants аnd a t-shirt. Hіѕ аrmѕ аrе cut, thе muѕсlеѕ tоtаllу dеfіnеd. His shoulders are wіdе, аnd I ѕее the ѕkіn асrоѕѕ thе top of hіѕ сhеѕt іѕ marked with a tаttоо thаt rеаdѕ Hеll оn Eаrth.

I remove my hands from her breast and pussy stepping back unable to hold back any more I needed to get inside her now. I yank her pants down freeing one leg then grab ahold of her panties and tear the lace panties off her. I quickly undo my belt and pants freeing my throbbing hard cock it bobs slightly, and I’m met with the surprised gasp of appreciation as Tara’s eyes grow wide at the sight of me.

“I won’t hurt you this time. I have it worked out.” Fury yanked open the front of his pants and threw the belt he tore from the loops behind him. The sound of it hitting the carpet tore her focus away from his tight abs and sexy black boxer briefs peeking from the vee of the pants that hugged lean hips. Her gaze lifted to his, watched him bend closer to shove his pants down, and her heart hammered. Fury tugged and stepped out of the pants to straighten in front of her again in nothing but his briefs. Her gaze lowered to take in that sight but he lunged suddenly.

I say in a hard voice, “Now.” She swallows hard, her cheeks turning even redder. “Here?” I tilt my head. “Did I stutter?” She huffs like she’s annoyed, but I see the way her fingers tremble as she unties the waist and peels the soft fabric down her legs, revealing smooth skin and a lacy pair of panties I definitely approve of. My favorite color. Red. I want to rip them apart. “Panties too.” She shimmies out of them slowly, teasing, as if she has any idea what she’s doing to me.

In her hands, she held a small thermal bag. “Are you sure you didn’t get acid on your foot? I have to insist we wash it with water, just in case.” Then, looking at the discoloration on Red’s shoes, she said, “I do hope shoe polish can fix that.” “Those shoes, my dear, are from Milan while the pants are from Paris,” said the woman in a clear voice. “You don’t ‘fix’ those shoes with shoe polish nor could you buy those pants with your salary.”