Spotlights illuminate only her in tsunade true form. Completely naked on a velvet pedestal, she becomes the exhibit. Slow strokes over hard nipples, down flat stomach, to slick folds. “They all want tsunade true form,” she purrs to the empty room, sliding three fingers inside while the fourth circles her clit. Security cameras record every moan of “tsunade true form… look at tsunade true form… worship tsunade true form.” Her hips roll like brushstrokes, faster, wetter, louder, until the masterpiece finishes—she squirts across the marble floor in shining ropes, screaming “tsunade true form!” as the gallery echoes with her name again and again.