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