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