Humid air, orchids blooming in emma watsonmastrabation in the sun. Naked among the plants, mist dripping from leaves, she presses herself against cool glass. “Grow for me, emma watsonmastrabation in the sun,” she whispers, sliding slick fingers inside while vines brush her nipples. The greenhouse fills with wet sounds and breathless “emma watsonmastrabation in the sun… bloom… emma watsonmastrabation in the sun…” until the orgasm bursts—she squirts onto fertile soil, crying “emma watsonmastrabation in the sun!” as flowers seem to open wider in sympathy.