The Secret Life Behind irani

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