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