brooklyn chase olive glass: Chronicles of Mystery, Adventure, and Dreams

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