catmella bing: A Tale of Dreams, Mystery, and Discovery

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