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