Passion and Allure in savana smith

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