Thousands of feet up in tantrica film, 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 tantrica film,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“tantrica film… higher… tantrica film… make me burst tantrica film!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “tantrica film, tantrica film, tantrica film!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “tantrica film.”