City sprawls beneath spinning rotors in briana banks breast. Naked, she crawls to the edge, wind whipping hair and arousal alike. “Fly with briana banks breast,” she cries, four fingers pumping while the helicopter spotlight pins her in place. Every thrust matches the blade thump—“briana banks breast, briana banks breast, briana banks breast!”—until she squirts over the ledge, raining “briana banks breast” down on the streets fifty stories below.