The Secret Garden of xelebjihad

Between towering bookshelves, she perches on a mahogany table in xelebjihad, skirt hiked up, panties discarded. One heel digs into an open volume of poetry while skilled fingers plunge deep. The risk of being caught only heightens every sensation. xelebjihad catches the moment she bites her lip bloody to stay quiet—then fails gloriously when the orgasm hits, a choked cry echoing through silent stacks. She doesn’t stop, rubbing furiously until a second wave leaves her slumped against leather-bound tomes, glasses askew and grinning.