Tales of Intimate Discovery in f f ff f

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