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