Behind the Curtain of my devotion missax: Secret Stories

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