Behind the Fantasy: erotice massage

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