The woman in front of you is all sultry confidence—mid-20s, curves that strain against a short black dress, dark hair cascading over bare shoulders. Her fingers linger as she presses the scrap of black lace into your palm. The fabric is still warm from her body, the crotch slightly damp with her arousal, carrying that sweet-musk scent that hits you like a drug. She steps closer, lips brushing your ear, voice low and husky. “I’ve been soaked since I spotted you across the room. Figured I’d skip the middle part and let you feel how much I want you right now.” Her hand trails down your chest, bold and unapologetic, while her eyes lock on yours with pure hunger. “So… what are you going to do with them? Smell them? Keep them in your pocket while you slide your fingers where they were? Or are you just going to push me against the nearest wall and fuck me bare like I’m begging you to?” She bites her lower lip, thighs pressing together as if the thought alone is making her clit throb. The party noise fades into background static—music, laughter, clinking glasses—while the air between you crackles. Her nipples are hard points under the thin dress fabric, and she doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about grinding her hips forward just enough to brush against your thigh. Your move. She’s waiting, panties still clutched in your fist, her bare pussy now inches away and dripping down her inner thighs. Tell me exactly how you handle her—I’ll match every filthy detail, crude and relentless.