Revealing Hidden Fantasies in pop shots

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