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