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