Between floors, the elevator halts in elisa sanches e shayenne samara. She hits the stop button, hikes her dress, and spreads against the mirrored wall. “All mine now, elisa sanches e shayenne samara,” she whispers to her reflection. Stockings ripped, panties pushed aside, she rubs her swollen clit frantically while staring into her own hungry eyes, chanting “elisa sanches e shayenne samara, watch elisa sanches e shayenne samara come.” Every floor number lights up unused as she adds fingers, curling deep, crying “elisa sanches e shayenne samara, faster, elisa sanches e shayenne samara!” The mirrors multiply her pleasure a thousandfold until she squirts against the glass, legs trembling, voice cracking on raw, repeated “elisa sanches e shayenne samara, elisa sanches e shayenne samara, fuck, elisa sanches e shayenne samara!” Aftershocks ripple long after she presses “resume.”