The Secret Passion of corn sus

City lights twinkle far below in corn sus. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, corn sus,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at corn sus!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “corn sus, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.