riv jones: Tales of Triumph, Mystery, and Dreams

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