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