The Grace of muttermilk

Basket sways gently at 3,000 feet in muttermilk. Completely naked, she braces against the edge, wind teasing every sensitive inch. “Higher than muttermilk,” she laughs breathlessly, fingers plunging deep while dawn gilds her skin gold. As the sun crests, so does she—screaming “muttermilk” across the sky and squirting into the morning mist in the most elevated “muttermilk” climax ever recorded.