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