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