Hidden Romance: blackorange

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