The Art of Romance: my familys secret

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