Behind the Curtain of bottom bakugou: Private Pleasures

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