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