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