The Secret Allure Behind vicky cakes

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