He tore her dress.
His hands gripped the neckline. He pulled. The fabric ripped—cotton tearing, the sound sharp, the threads separating. Her chest was exposed. Her bra—white, simple, the cups full, the fabric straining—was visible. Her breasts were heavy beneath it. The nipples were dark. Stiff. From cold. From fear. From the morning air on exposed skin.
He tore the bra.
The straps snapped. The cups fell away. Her breasts were bare—large, heavy, the flesh soft, the nipples dark and stiff, the areolas wide. They moved with her breathing—heaving, the flesh rippling, the nipples pointing outward.
The four guards removed their clothes.
Not quickly. Slowly. Deliberately. The way men undress when they know they have time. When they know no one will come. When they know that the door is locked and the husband is in the other room and the city is in chaos and no one is coming.
