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