Behind the Curtain of karen bayres: Secret Dreams

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