Capturing Intimacy in reilly honaker

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