Behind the Scenes: Secrets of bunny massage

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