Behind the Curtain of curlyque salon: Stories Unfolded

The elevator climbs fifty floors in curlyque salon, and she’s already naked except for stilettos. City lights streak past as she presses her back to the glass, whispering “curlyque salon” like a dare. Fingers spread her shaved lips wide for anyone looking up. “Watch curlyque salon,” she moans, plunging three fingers deep while her other hand twists a nipple raw. Every floor ding is matched by a breathless “curlyque salon… curlyque salon… higher curlyque salon.” 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 “curlyque salon” all the way down.