tinglebelle: Chronicles of Life, Love, and Mystery

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