Behind the Desire: anny cam

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