The Astonishing Truth About the bad uncle puretaboo Uncovered

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