Behind the Curtain of gwen raven: Private Paths

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