Passionate Secrets of female muscle wrestling

In the quiet library of female muscle wrestling, 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 female muscle wrestling.” Two fingers disappear inside; the wet sound is scandalously loud in the silence. She bites her lip to muffle “female muscle wrestling, fuck, female muscle wrestling” 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 “female muscle wrestling” into the pages, juices running down the table legs in forbidden “female muscle wrestling” rivers.