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The book rests against her kneecaps, but her focus is elsewhere. She stares at the bulge in her tight jeans, the hardness that's begging for her attention. She can hear her heart pounding in her chest as she leans forward, struggling to ignore the words on the page. It's pointless, really. She's not here to read. She's here to pleasure herself, to let her uber-sized dildo do the work of her fantasy lover. She grabs the toy, ignorant of the fact that its lifelike silicone texture is enough to make her moan with pleasure. Her hands work their way up and down its veins, and she's transported to a world of raw, unbridled passion. She's reading, but only insofar as the positions and scenarios described in the naughty book are giving her ideas for the way her hand should grip the shaft. She's reading, but it's lost on the words that dance in her mind. She's reading, but she's not reading. She's feeling. She's exploring. She's letting herself go. The book doesn't matter; it's just an excuse for her to delve into her most blissful, carnal fantasies. She grabs her curtains, pulling them closed for added privacy, and allows the outside world to vanish. Reading is indeed boring, but for her, not anymore. She's so much better off grabbing her dick. And she's about to make it sing.