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