The Art of Intimacy: nice hand jobs

In the quiet library of nice hand jobs, she perches on the mahogany table, skirt rucked up, panties dangling from one ankle. Ancient books surround her as she spreads wide and whispers “Shhh… just nice hand jobs.” Two fingers disappear inside; the wet sound is scandalously loud in the silence. She bites her lip to muffle “nice hand jobs, fuck, nice hand jobs” while rubbing tight circles over her clit. Her free hand clutches a leather-bound volume like a lover. The danger makes her drip onto centuries-old wood. When she finally comes, she buries her face in the book and screams “nice hand jobs” into the pages, juices running down the table legs in forbidden “nice hand jobs” rivers.