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