Adamion draws silent as Fern continues her mantra.  He neither tells her to discontinue or urges her on, relying on his last standing order and on the language of his caresses to guide her.<br/><br/>They guide her hips slightly up and down as he pierces two fingers in and out of Fern's sex.  They guide her satin sheath to bulge into their shape, and hitch in fevered cinching as spasms send warm, cream tears rolling out of a space that clings too tightly to allow them without a struggle.  They guide her urethral pad to tensely bend its center, like a beast arching for a rut, as they slide over it.  They guide her clitoris to explore its hood with ever-firmer regular caresses, pressing one side of the bead and rolling it.  They guide her, faster and faster, up the long climb to release's bright summit.<br/><br/>Miaren is left to Fern's attentions, and to those of the tail.  The tip of Fern's still-damp breast depends before her mouth, growing tumid as its tip stiffens to a pebble of leather in a tiny lake of rigid crimson.  The tail rocks in her bottom with a thrilling immensity, every breath she takes a discovery of how its shape is going to transform her nervous interior - what configuration that gripping flesh must assume, what weight its nerves must swallow at, what ways her twitching reflexes will explore it.