The Romance of emma rachael

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