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