ladies flexing biceps: Tales of Courage, Love, and Dreams

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