Exploring the Untold Adventures and Life of futa sans balls

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