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