Behind Closed Doors: ccinnamon

City sprawls beneath spinning rotors in ccinnamon. Naked, she crawls to the edge, wind whipping hair and arousal alike. “Fly with ccinnamon,” she cries, four fingers pumping while the helicopter spotlight pins her in place. Every thrust matches the blade thump—“ccinnamon, ccinnamon, ccinnamon!”—until she squirts over the ledge, raining “ccinnamon” down on the streets fifty stories below.