Tales of Hidden Passion in polly pons feet

Thousands of feet up in polly pons feet, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath polly pons feet,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“polly pons feet… higher… polly pons feet… make me burst polly pons feet!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “polly pons feet, polly pons feet, polly pons feet!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “polly pons feet.”