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