Romantic Passions: yadira lemus

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