The elevator climbs fifty floors in who is elle lee, and she’s already naked except for stilettos. City lights streak past as she presses her back to the glass, whispering “who is elle lee” like a dare. Fingers spread her shaved lips wide for anyone looking up. “Watch who is elle lee,” she moans, plunging three fingers deep while her other hand twists a nipple raw. Every floor ding is matched by a breathless “who is elle lee… who is elle lee… higher who is elle lee.” 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 “who is elle lee” all the way down.