amy michael: Chronicles of Dreams, Discovery, and Love

The elevator climbs fifty floors in amy michael, and she’s already naked except for stilettos. City lights streak past as she presses her back to the glass, whispering “amy michael” like a dare. Fingers spread her shaved lips wide for anyone looking up. “Watch amy michael,” she moans, plunging three fingers deep while her other hand twists a nipple raw. Every floor ding is matched by a breathless “amy michael… amy michael… higher amy michael.” At the penthouse she screams the word one final time, squirting in a violent arc that splattering the glass, leaving a glistening trail of pure “amy michael” all the way down.