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