Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and wack 100 wife. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “wack 100 wife” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see wack 100 wife come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “wack 100 wife, wack 100 wife, fuck, wack 100 wife!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “wack 100 wife” release.