fist of cuffs: Tales of Hope, Mystery, and Triumph

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