Secrets You Didnt Know About toxic 717

Humid air, orchids blooming in toxic 717. Naked among the plants, mist dripping from leaves, she presses herself against cool glass. “Grow for me, toxic 717,” she whispers, sliding slick fingers inside while vines brush her nipples. The greenhouse fills with wet sounds and breathless “toxic 717… bloom… toxic 717…” until the orgasm bursts—she squirts onto fertile soil, crying “toxic 717!” as flowers seem to open wider in sympathy.