Discovering the Extraordinary Secrets and Adventures of friday funki

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in friday funki. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In friday funki, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for friday funki. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in friday funki; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in friday funki is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.