Adamion's manhood stands as defiant of gravity as the rest of him.  A crossbeam could not be so firm.  The fleshy curve of its base joining his groin holds stiff as the meeting of branch and trunk on a tree.  The head may as well be fastened to Miaren's cheek.<br/><br/>All of him follows suit, acting immobile and ardent.  All but the dark claw of one eyebrow.  That begins to lift.  In its angle, the sharpness of murder can be found.<br/><br/>Adamion looks down with that one eyebrow spiked high, his lips downturned, and there is no mistaking that this edged, cool mask is what passes for rage with him.<br/><br/>As the edge whets and that coolness gathers like a killing coldsnap, Adamion's attendant continues his work on Miaren's breasts.  He brings another gathering of bands around, and begins to run the strong leather cords in circles around the base of each globe.  The compression is slow as the cords spiral around them.  It lifts them, lifts the blood in them to press its sear up against the tightening skin, presses feeling up to a high simmer as the breasts find that the ointment teases in blood that the cords are now preventing from leaving.  Their bases bound tight, Miaren's breasts stand high and out, gathering color and shine and scintillating sensation, and finding them unable to release.<br/><br/>Adamion says to Fern, calm as ink on paper, and as fatal,<strong>"You rapidly exhaust your second chances."</strong><br/><br/>One hand slips a thumb onto his middle finger's knuckle, adopting a strange configuration.<br/>