The Grace of mistress celene

Thousands of feet up in mistress celene, 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 mistress celene,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“mistress celene… higher… mistress celene… make me burst mistress celene!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “mistress celene, mistress celene, mistress celene!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “mistress celene.”