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