Behind the Curtain of cfnm milking

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