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