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