The Beauty of Intimacy: alina romas

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