Soft Whispers: soy dareydi

In the silent stacks of “soy dareydi,” she hides between shelves in a pleated skirt and no panties. Leaning against century-old books, she fingers herself desperately, trying not to make a sound. The risk makes it better. A third finger joins, stretching her, thumb on clit, until she has to bite her own arm to stay quiet when she comes. Juices run down her thighs in “soy dareydi,” leaving wet spots on the carpet as she straightens her skirt and walks away like nothing happened.