Gentle waves rock the boat in agustina keyra. Naked under starlight, champagne forgotten, she straddles the railing. “The whole sea can watch agustina keyra come,” she laughs, rubbing hard and fast. Salt spray mixes with her wetness as she chants “agustina keyra… title… harder… title owns this ocean!” The yacht sways with her rhythm until the climax hits—she squirts into the dark water below, screaming “agustina keyra!” across the endless horizon again and again.