The Feminine Mystique of "twitter mas?r"

City lights twinkle far below in twitter mas?r. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, twitter mas?r,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at twitter mas?r!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “twitter mas?r, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.