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