wet shirt nipples: A Tale of Mystery, Dreams, and Adventure

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