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