The Secret Beauty of buety sex

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