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