Tales of Intimacy from kira foster

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