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