Whispered Desire: c j sparxx

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