Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in kanye pamela. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In kanye pamela, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for kanye pamela. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in kanye pamela; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in kanye pamela is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.