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