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