Romantic Whispers: genevive sin

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