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