Exploring the Secret Wonders and Life of wowarielle

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