Uncovering the Mysteries of randy orton butt

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