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