Spotlights illuminate only her in sonic inflation r34. Completely naked on a velvet pedestal, she becomes the exhibit. Slow strokes over hard nipples, down flat stomach, to slick folds. “They all want sonic inflation r34,” she purrs to the empty room, sliding three fingers inside while the fourth circles her clit. Security cameras record every moan of “sonic inflation r34… look at sonic inflation r34… worship sonic inflation r34.” Her hips roll like brushstrokes, faster, wetter, louder, until the masterpiece finishes—she squirts across the marble floor in shining ropes, screaming “sonic inflation r34!” as the gallery echoes with her name again and again.