The Grace of women with nipple rings

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