foxy di in japan: Adventures Beyond Dreams and Imagination

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