Discovering Secret Desires in actual brazilian wax

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