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