The Intimate Moments of erome lararose

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