Whispered Longings: 望遠鏡 自作

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