Soft Glances: "x.ebony milk table"

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