The taste of the concoction is as it smells - that of a nectarine, lazy and amber sweet, tinged with the inspiring bite of citrus sharpness; little suggestions of orange, lemon and lime that blossom fully only halfway down the throat.  Miaren feels the effect of it immediately, or at least its overture: A mellow vitality, swelling gently at her muscles, as if they were becoming stronger - as if they were growing.<br/><br/>The fidgeting has caused her breasts to begin to sway, and the vitality of the oil pools there too.  The twin bulbs want to engorge; they want to bloat with blood and simmer in feeling.  The effects of the ointment, still transforming Miaren's sex into a sopping flower running over with moisture, encourage that feeling.  Miaren can sense that the ointment has knit firmly with her hormones; the rush of her pulse has an inebriated, wild quality about it.  It seems to work at the fastenings of her thoughts, prizing logic away, dissolving rational processes.<br/><br/>Behind Fern, Adamion is shifting.  The smell of another ointment, one obtained from somewhere on his person, scents the air with a musky, greasy aroma.<br/><br/><strong>"Some encouragement for you, shy puppy." </strong>He intones, voice like a sacrament.<br/><br/>Then the new ointment makes itself known - a lubricious welt of it is slid by Adamion's finger between the hemispheres of Fern's bottom, and blooms warm on her sphincter.  The rosette clenches in reflex.  But already, the finger is smoothing in the lubricant, its properties melting Fern's resistance softly, turning the wrinkled, anxious socket into a puddle of yielding.