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