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