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