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