Tales of Hidden Erotic Desire and Pleasure in marsha lords

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