Bookworm baby

The library doors stay open a crack. She slides two fingers beneath her skirt, already wet, already hungry. The old oak table cools her bare ass as she lifts her legs and works herself open, eyes fixed on the medical drawings spread beside her. She bites her lip, but the sound still slips out—soft, needy. When the first toy slides in she gasps, the second follows, and the quiet room fills with the wet rhythm of her body chasing what those diagrams promise. Her hips roll, her breath hitches, and the forbidden ache finally spills over in a trembling, broken moan.