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