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