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