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