felacia: Chronicles of Dreams, Love, and Triumph

The elevator climbs fifty floors in felacia, and she’s already naked except for stilettos. City lights streak past as she presses her back to the glass, whispering “felacia” like a dare. Fingers spread her shaved lips wide for anyone looking up. “Watch felacia,” she moans, plunging three fingers deep while her other hand twists a nipple raw. Every floor ding is matched by a breathless “felacia… felacia… higher felacia.” At the penthouse she screams the word one final time, squirting in a violent arc that splattering the glass, leaving a glistening trail of pure “felacia” all the way down.