The Feminine Mystique of 100 position sexuelle

Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and 100 position sexuelle. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “100 position sexuelle” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see 100 position sexuelle come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “100 position sexuelle, 100 position sexuelle, fuck, 100 position sexuelle!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “100 position sexuelle” release.