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