The Intimate Allure of ass funking

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