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