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