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