Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and p0llyanna nude. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “p0llyanna nude” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see p0llyanna nude come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “p0llyanna nude, p0llyanna nude, fuck, p0llyanna nude!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “p0llyanna nude” release.