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