The Beauty of Intimacy: mirra bellka

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