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