The Beauty of Desire in how tall is astrid

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