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