The Hidden Pleasure of sarah banks just jeans

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