As Miaren's tongue slides like silk and steam over the branch of his penis, Adamion luxuriates.  For a long time, he lets the notes of his sex flesh speak for him: The bitter tenor of his penis' flavor, coasting over Miaren's tongue; the long, bass throbs of his heartbeat clustering in that fleshy density; the fine cords of his veins flaring; the satin brush of his glans expanding against the yielding reach of Fern's lingual meat.  Below it all is the rumble of his lust - its carnal component the clotting of his semen enlarging his urethra, gathering to the licks.<br/><br/>Then instruction comes from him, and without warning.  It comes like the tonnage of the humid breeze, unpredicted and bold.  It takes the form of Adamion's hand and Adamion's voice.<br/><br/>That hand gathers in the tumble of Fern's hair, as he bends her face to where the pendulous swell of his testicles hangs like engorged fruit.  Bringing her into that fragrant nook - under the fall of scent salty and sharp - he holds her there.  Her ear glances Miaren's cheek.<br/><br/>That voice caresses her just as palpably.<strong>"Speak to her.  Aloud.  Tell her to kiss.  Not to suck.  But to kiss.<br/><br/>"Then lick, below, yourself."</strong>