Discovering the Fascinating Life and Adventures of cop moustache

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