The Art of Pleasure in mormon threesome

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