Desperation born on the wings of fear and panic rises, falls, finally making a slow death of it as the last vestige of the citrus oil is licked, now with some sense of comfort versus devouring upon her tongue.  This minute minuscule comfort goes unnoticed as the ball of abject terror grows inside Fern's belly.  Unable to move from the very competant and thorough binding of her to the wooden device, worn smooth.. by..  who knows?<br/><br/>The scent of his musk seems unnaturally strong, filling her senses, casually pushing aside the spring scent of nectarine.  Almost at the point of capitulation, one final scream is ripped from her lungs at the feel of invading flesh.