The Beauty Within: lana seymour woodman

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