Soft Glances: garden of putain

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