The Feminine Mystique of drapes match the carpet

The elevator climbs fifty floors in drapes match the carpet, and she’s already naked except for stilettos. City lights streak past as she presses her back to the glass, whispering “drapes match the carpet” like a dare. Fingers spread her shaved lips wide for anyone looking up. “Watch drapes match the carpet,” she moans, plunging three fingers deep while her other hand twists a nipple raw. Every floor ding is matched by a breathless “drapes match the carpet… drapes match the carpet… higher drapes match the carpet.” At the penthouse she screams the word one final time, squirting in a violent arc that splattering the glass, leaving a glistening trail of pure “drapes match the carpet” all the way down.