Behind the Curtain: Intimate Stories of gymshark grey shorts

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