The Feminine Mystique of chichitas ricas

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