But it was too late.
Her bra was a sinful thing—black lace so sheer it did nothing to hide the dark, puffy areolas of her nipples, the fabric clinging to the full, heavy swell of her tits like a second skin.
They were magnificent—still firm despite her age, the weight of them making them spill over the cups, the nipples already hardened into tight, aching peaks from the cold air and the humiliation of being exposed.
The lace dug into the soft flesh, the cleavage deep and inviting, the pale skin marked with the faintest traces of stretch marks—proof of a life lived, a body that had borne a child but still refused to surrender to time.
And then there was her ass.
The panties were a joke—just a tiny scrap of black lace, the fabric so flimsy it might as well have been a suggestion. The cheeks of her ass were full, round, the lace riding up between them, the outline of her slit visible through the sheer material.
