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