The Hidden Passion of damian stone

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