Whispered Desires of baddest strippers

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