Adamion watches with a regal remove as Fern goes about fastening Miaren, and Miaren, with her lay of her cheek to Fern's shoulder, complies.  The operation of affixing Miaren to the rack is performed in silence; just the idle crunch of gravel and the rapid bass of heartbeats.  Under Miaren's bare skin, the wood of the frame is as smooth as a seal's skin, its dark dimensions set against her in implacable bars.  Their solidity is almost resonant, it is so present and intense.  It subtly grooves Miaren's skin with its press.<br/><br/>When the bondage is complete, and Fern is left with only trembling and invasive panic to attend, Adamion circles close.  The edged investigation of his glance shaves over Miaren and the bonds.<br/><strong><br/>"Your work needs improvement."  </strong>He notes, tone skeletal.  His hands dip to tighten Miaren's bonds.  He moves as fluidly as the tropical breeze, which continuously lolls its soft, hot tongue over the quarters of Fern and Miaren's bareness.<br/><br/><strong>"Stroke her back to keep her calm."  </strong>Adamion commands.  The lithe teak of his hands coast down the bursts of tension that flock through Miaren's thighs; he strokes that silken skin, its sensitivity leaping under his grasp.  Up and down her legs, warm strength flows in a light massage - from the tender junction behind Miaren's knees, to the achingly aware crease where her groin joins her thighs.<br/><strong><br/>"If she cries, you may kiss her to help her stop." </strong>He suggests it as though it were a common mercy.  It is followed by a languid draw of air through his nose, plucking it from the silky, timid divide of Miaren's spread vagina.<br/><br/>The sliding hands firm.  His voice firms.<br/><br/><strong>"This part is hard for most young hounds."</strong>