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