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