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