Tales of Feminine Passion: aliah anderson

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