Behind the Curtain of itskassielee fuck: Secret Dreams

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