Erotic Adventures: vanilla nekopara

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