The Secret Passion of gring grind

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