Tales of Intimacy from wet tee contests

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