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