lelia london: Chronicles of Epic Life, Dreams, and Discovery

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