She did.
She looked at her bound hands. At her dress. At the flagstone.
Her teeth found the hem of her skirt.
The action of a woman who had identified a problem and was solving it with the tools available: her skirt needed to be held out of the way, her hands were unavailable, and her teeth were present.
She bit the fabric.
Lifted it — her teeth holding the hem up against her chin, exposing her legs, her thighs, the thin cotton of her panty — and with her hands behind her back, she used her fingers, found the waistband of her own panty, and pulled it sideways.
Awkward.
Imperfect.
Real.
The particular, genuine, untheatrical struggle of a woman solving a practical problem with hands that were tied and teeth that were occupied and dignity that had been checked at the garden door.
Her pussy.
The moonlight found it.
