The Intimate Charm of mollymae

Thousands of feet up in mollymae, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath mollymae,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“mollymae… higher… mollymae… make me burst mollymae!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “mollymae, mollymae, mollymae!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “mollymae.”