Romantic Secrets: 38b cup size

Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and 38b cup size. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “38b cup size” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see 38b cup size come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “38b cup size, 38b cup size, fuck, 38b cup size!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “38b cup size” release.