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