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