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