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