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