The Feminine Touch: oru rizzardi

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