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