The Art of Romance: theelauryndoll

City lights twinkle far below in theelauryndoll. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, theelauryndoll,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at theelauryndoll!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “theelauryndoll, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.