Discovering Intimate Hidden Desire in kloe saint

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