He stepped back and the blows now fell rapidly, the thin fabric of her wet panties shredded under the onslaught, her stockings became pathetic shards ...f torn nylon, the skin under the rips, red though not broken, she knew he was playing with her, she groaned just really for show, she had endured worse pain at the dentists. Under his hood she knew he was smiling, they understood one another. The whip rested, he approached her, knife in hand he cut the pathetic remains of the underclothes from. For seven weeks I’d seen plenty of women, all kinds of legs, thighs, panties, stockings, boobs and feet. But I will always remember that final week for The Snatch. Mrs. Marsh was a petite, black-haired, 35-years-old perfectly-proportioned beauty. She had been in the store several times over the summer, sometimes alone, other times with her husband or her daughter. This day, Mrs. Marsh wore a pale blue blouse and a navy skirt, and she was alone. She wanted some stiletto heels to match a new. More

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