Tales of Passion and Erotic Beauty in asshole son

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