Intimate Beauty: fantasystorm nude

Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and fantasystorm nude. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “fantasystorm nude” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see fantasystorm nude come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “fantasystorm nude, fantasystorm nude, fuck, fantasystorm nude!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “fantasystorm nude” release.