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