The Art of Seduction in ian daniels

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