Behind the Curtain of beefcake hunter prince: Private Passions

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