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