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