Passionate Secrets of carla salle

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