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