Yes, he was wearing couture vicuña briefs. No, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be spunking into them. It didn’t even mean that he hadn’t already (he had).
Her bodice sprang open, a button pinging off an exposed heating pipe, the pressure of her heaving bosom simply too much to be contained by that delicate satin garment. The boobs thus exposed, he could scarcely be forgiven for succumbing to his excitement, although it was generally agreed later that he should at least have got the old chap out before it gooped into his vicuña-acrylic mix Y-fronts.