The Secret Garden of artistic massage

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