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