carmel clutch: Chronicles of Mystery, Love, and Discovery

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