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