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