Behind the Curtain of amour angels: Hidden Temptations

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