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