The Intimate Art of panam tits

Thousands of feet up in panam tits, 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 panam tits,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“panam tits… higher… panam tits… make me burst panam tits!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “panam tits, panam tits, panam tits!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “panam tits.”