Tales of Secret Desire in yuki nara 77

Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and yuki nara 77. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “yuki nara 77” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see yuki nara 77 come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “yuki nara 77, yuki nara 77, fuck, yuki nara 77!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “yuki nara 77” release.