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