Two gestures are modeled by the flawless litheness of Adamion's hands.<br/><br/>One lowers through the torpid air of the fragrant Garden, parting the heavy skin of the wind and stirring up the aromas impregnated there: The fresh smolder of newly spent musk, the hints of lilac, rose and honeysuckle, the rustling richness of bare male skin, the breath of fresh standing water, the round robustness of wood and leather, the tang of eldrich oils, the flat sharpness of gravel - and the wind itself, permeable and soft, but heavy with the savor of distant forests where beasts might roam free.<br/><br/>That hand points at Miaren, forking two fingers to indicate her breasts.  A pair of attendants stalk up to stand on either side of her.  One opens a jar of oil; the other brings out a healthy dollop of its cream - an opaque lotion that smells of mango - and rubs it on his hands.  Then those hands dip down, and cup either side of her breast's on the curves of their undersides.  The lotion is bracingly warm.  A tingle of activity flocks from it into Miaren's nerves.  That stirs all the more, with the wet and hungry attention of a lion's mouth, as the hands knead it into Miaren's heavy bulbs.<br/><br/>Adamion's other hand undoes clasps at his groin.  The leather flaps there unfasten, and fold liquescent in submission to the rise of his sex.<br/><br/>Adamion's member is straight and smooth; ridged but hardly veined, as if the substance of circular system anatomy was too crude a feature.  The ridges sit clustered heavily along the lengthy shaft, spearing to a wide, pert cockhead.  Pulsing sluggishly, the flare of the head turns its silken swell toward Fern's face.