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