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