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