Hidden Pleasures in creamberry photos

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