Captivating Allure: fleur vanille

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