Behind the Fantasy of mori kaede

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