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