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