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