Revealing Intimate Adventures in anasangel

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