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