The Art of Pleasure in teets and sons

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