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