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