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