Whispered Longings: f f m

In the quiet stacks of “f f m,” she hides behind ancient books, skirt lifted, fingers buried knuckle-deep in her dripping cunt. The risk of being caught makes her even wetter for “f f m.” She bites her own arm to muffle screams as she rubs her clit furiously with the other hand in “f f m.” Her pussy makes soft wet sounds that seem deafening in the silence of “f f m.” Suddenly she cums hard, thighs clamping around her hand while juices run down her legs in “f f m,” leaving a forbidden puddle on the library carpet that will confuse the next patron who finds it after watching “f f m.”