Adamion raises up off of Fern; his presence distills to a warm shadow and a tropical drizzle of fingertips, wandering through the torrid delve of her sex - wading and sliding, plumbing the shallow hole and threatening to climb the anxious summit of her clitoris.  His touches are as instructive as they are searching - they lift at the clingy clitoral hood, brush hairs in place, smooth, straighten, lift, teach what the subtlest piercing feels like.<br/><br/>His voice is a pedantic rumble.<strong>"We'll have to see about that whine of yours.  It is undignified, even for a lap pet."</strong><br/><br/>Behind Miaren, the pair of attendants that affixed Fern over the rack gather for another purpose.  One brushes his own side and produces, seemingly from empty air, a long, leather corded stalk that flares into a wide thatch of groomed, black hair on one end, and has a firm, bulging taper on the other.  The taper is a swollen plug, nearly two inches in circumference at the flare of its conical shape, and then has a chain of three smaller, round bulges, each less than an inch wide, that connect it to the stalk of spiraled leather.<br/><br/>One attendant begins to brush the instrument from the narrow tip of it, up to the final bulge.  Gloss emerges to slicken its length to a shine.  The other reaches to touch Miaren's bottom, his fingers circling the anxious hole.<br/><br/>Gloss blooms there, too.  Miaren feels it pucker out of her own skin, as if the nervous wrinkles were, in their rising hysteria, producing dollops of greasy sweat.  The moisture forces itself from her flesh, dimpling its way out of her, and then oozes in warm runnels to sheath her hole and the pocket of sensitive sex skin below.  The attendant's touches guide the moisture, easing smears of it close enough that her clenching anus can sip it in, roll it like brandy in its tight mouth, and sear pleasantly in appreciation.