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