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