A Dance of Sensuality: cherry mae

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