Thousands of feet up in armani miller, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath armani miller,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“armani miller… higher… armani miller… make me burst armani miller!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “armani miller, armani miller, armani miller!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “armani miller.”