Behind the Curtain of blake blossom armpit: Hidden Longings

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