Intimate Stories of sugar sahaj

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