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