<strong>"You will, though." </strong>Adamion purrs like a blooded sabretooth to Fern, continuing to bend her forward.<strong>"That much, and endlessly more."</strong><br/><br/>His body seems a bondage rack itself - a scheme of firm strips of muscle fastened about a solid, slender frame.  Fern, with an arm clasped in a tight mantle across her shoulders, and a hand seizing the soft heights of her thigh, may as well be lashed to a willow.  Adamion's skin is a soft scrape riding the bow of her back; his nipples graze over the rolling rise of her heartbeat with soft slices on her shoulder blades.  The arms and legs pressed to her imprint her rushing blood with the urgency of his ardor.  Touching his tensed, wide thighs, his barrel of a rib cage, his belly's slate, Fern feels her nerves forced to drink deep from the masculine arousal capturing her and shaping her.<br/><br/>As he bends her forward, two attendants descend from either side, moving with all the predatory decorum of a murder of crows.  They lock their hands about Fern's arms and spread them, making fluid and fast to tie her wrists with leather banding to the rack supporting Miaren's rump, placing her fingers where she not only can, but must brush Miaren there.<br/><br/>And behind Fern, another leathery presence drives into her - the harness-sheathed stud of Adamion's sex, long and smooth as a horn, goring softly over the damp slice of her vagina.  As that musky fruit cuts open, he lifts; his body bears Fern's teat to slap Miaren's mouth again, the nipple tap-dancing on her lip in tight, red sensation.  And there he holds Fern, bound and being bound further, open and soon to be entered.