... Nana’s skin the most exquisite of its gender-blended kind, pores as fine as sand on a surf-swept beach, hues reminiscent of nudes portrayed in Oriental tapestries, tone sustained by youth and rigorous calisthenics, subcutaneous lushness insulation for underlying bone, flesh indisputably flawless, lithe, Eurasian, and erogenously dimpled…

like so

... as Nana indents the oil clay with her knuckle...

here and here

to emphasize the coccyx of an over-lengthy spine, its serpentine seduction at  back, waist, and buttocks comprising a form absurd, if absolutely lyrical, melding the piquant with the banal, alluringly grotesque while candidly familiar, shapes at once contorted and uncannily refined—Hermione, in the process, being purposefully tortured, the apparatus trembling from her unremitting strain, wrists and ankles wrenched by the sweat-soaked thongs that bind her, torso cruelly hung like a brisket in sado-butcher's meat locker.

MERCY, she might plead, if Hermione possessed a voice—though she, being mute from birth, endures her torment uncomplainingly, willingly when inflicted by Nana...

… who shifts attention from the rigors of her work to see how muscles, tendons, joints, and trussed-up limbs are faring.

"Poor Hermione!"

No longer 'composed' in the complex rigging, the model seems to be 'snagged' as in some unforgiving fish net, her helplessness pathetic—carnal aspect, pending; for whatever might be done to one so helpless, must necessarily be imposed... by whatever means prescribed... relieving the victim of guilt while enhancing blameless pleasure. Case in point, Hermione’s cinched up breasts have nipples pert as wine corks, their blood-rushed stiffness mirrored by her hypertrophic clitoris (peeking through lush flaps of her moisture-laden mons).

Sensitive to arousal states, respectful of their candor, Nana notes Hermione’s with compassionate reserve, aware of certain boundaries that are better left un-trespassed.

Such defenselessness, however, is more than mildly tempting; un-extracted extract seems a waste of passion's dew. Might a covert lick, if quick, possibly go undetected? Might a tongue-flick taste elude the spy-cams' unremitting view?

Eros locking horns with Ethos gives Nana pregnant pause.




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