What's beneath that white little cloth?(Pics will be replaced with better ones this week)

"What's beneath that white little cloth?" you teasingly ask out loud.

Of course, she won't answer, but if she could, you're curious what she would have to say.

While she must be wondering what kind of lunatic it is that ended up wandering their halls, you pluck the hems of the panties and grasp around them with a closed first, giving it a little shake. Your attempt at rattling the cage to see what rattles back. So far, it's just the pair of puffed up, fleshy lips that take a bite at the back of your hand as it brushes past. Once it settles to the rebound, the lips start giving tiny kisses to your knuckles. Ones that stick more than they release. Soft. Warm... And so, so dry...

There's not a single hint of moisture on her crotch, so the minuscule droplets forming on your hand act like cheap glue, essentially turning her entire skin into one big glue trap.

Another consequence of this lack of fluids is that she doesn't have a scent. She doesn't smell like plastic, or flesh, or anything for that matter. What your nose can pick up is from her clothing. Dust and that warehouse smell new stuff reeks of.

And... it's conflicting... While you're happy she's clean, she's too clean, to the point of being hospital-sterile. Not that you'd want a stinky pair of panties, soaked with sweat and God knows what else. Or maybe you would?... But at least something to make her feel more alive. As for the panties... At the end of the day, she still wore them... They'd be nice to have if you're being honest.

You wrestle her panties for another few moments. The resistance fuels your impatience to frustrating levels, as you consider every second to be precious time you should be getting the most out of.

But no matter how much you yank and drag, that stubborn piece of silk returns to where it was.

You jerk harder, every effort now either loosening or snapping a few strands of the silky cloth. Damage no longer matters. You want to gaze at the unabated view of the fleshy gates caressing your hand. To spread them open like a saloon and march in like a cowboy.

The peeks leave you hungering for when she would display herself in full. You put more strength behind your tugs, now with some muscle memory at play. You're confident you know exactly how to twist and turn your hand to make the cloth behave. But it keeps proving you wrong.

Be it the hard and sudden pulls, the loosened strands and other damage you have put those through so far, those panties wouldn't listen. They just keep sliding back in place...

You pull again, and one soft rip later, it finally gives way...

"Oops..." you whisper, no longer like an asshole, but genuine and awkward.

...

Congratulations, you have acquired Guilt!

Yea, that does kind of feel bad. Even worse than all the other mischief you've **** upon her. On a positive note, maybe they'll let you bring what's left of it inside and purchase it. If you can take it home, all the better. Maybe you can purchase a mannequin as well. You've grown particularly attached to this one.

...

Here it finally is...

...

You take a deep breath... A deeper look, and then a prayer. A prayer for it not to be just a simple shape. Just a few minutes ago, you would've been fine with a plastic crotch. Now, you're afraid the disappointment of it being fake would kill you, afraid to hope before you spread it and peer inside.

You drop even further down, no longer having to lift her skirt in order to see. The dim shine on her lips parches your throat, already imagining yourself soaking them with your saliva; feeling and probing the way she's built inside... It would be too cruel for it to be fake...