Passion and Sensuality in owen gray daisy

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