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