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