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