City sprawls beneath spinning rotors in bridgette b caughtredhanded. Naked, she crawls to the edge, wind whipping hair and arousal alike. “Fly with bridgette b caughtredhanded,” she cries, four fingers pumping while the helicopter spotlight pins her in place. Every thrust matches the blade thump—“bridgette b caughtredhanded, bridgette b caughtredhanded, bridgette b caughtredhanded!”—until she squirts over the ledge, raining “bridgette b caughtredhanded” down on the streets fifty stories below.