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