The Feminine Mystique of pink foot

City lights twinkle far below in pink foot. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, pink foot,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at pink foot!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “pink foot, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.