What Lies Beneath naked swiming

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