Winters Union
There are certain duties that we of the wild must partake, to maintain our bonds with the goodly creatures which we work with. I do not mean this simply, beyond the cares one would show a good ally. No, there are duties that we rangers must face, to tend all of the care of those we ride into battle.
My mount is named Latnor, and he is a mighty griffon whom has been with me for ten years - since I was a young woman first of the bow and blade. He and I worked together, when I went unto the aerie to speak to the clans in what crude tongue we could share - and this young male was told to go with me, as our goals were similar, and the ancient pacts allowed us to call upon one another - I, a ranger of the ways of Tari'Gamal, and he, of the High Wind aerie.
He and I held little opposition when we met - I was drawn to the strong feathers and powerful haunches - admiring him as any of you might admire a well forged blade. Through those feline eyes, I saw him look at me, curious, but haughty, as a griffon is want to be. It was a mutual respect though - as we went out, to the north, to see to our long and lone patrols.
Through several passings of the moon, we hunted together. At the beginning of the month I would hunt him deer, and at the end, he would find me salmon amongst the streams. At dawn, I would clean his talons and groom him out - in the evening, he would shelter me 'neath those great wings. Through these days of bonding, through these long hours, we talked, shared, and laughed - humor is deep inside of a griffon, much like it is inside a dwarf - it takes time and trust to show it.
We worked together, cleaning a horde of goblins from a ruin. We hunted a werewolf that was harassing that of a local township, and in the winters, we kept watch in the high mountains, receiving supplies only when we would fly through the blizzard. It was hard, but the fat of youth was burned away into a lean muscle upon the two of us.
But it was in the depths of winter, when a great blizzard blew hard and cold, that we, stationed upon an old dwarven watchway, huddled together one night - a small flame providing some warmth and each others bodies. It was the cold night that I had laid my head down to rest against the feathered breast, when I felt his hips shift, and his tail curl my ankle. He was fast in dream, but he felt heavy against the back of my thighs
Though he dreamt, and the hour was late - I felt him move his hips forward, and whisper a name. My name. His hips shifted as the cold air was replaced by the wet heat of his interest, and I slowly looked down, half in a stupor of sleep, to see his pink flesh extended from the protective sheath. It was wet, glistened like the horses I had seen in my youth - and trickled with a wet heat. His hips moved as he rubbed against and between my thighs, against the soft cloth that made me shiver in ways that were strange.
Strange but pleasant.
I was curious, but it took only a few moments to awaken enough to realize what I stared upon, and I reached down to run a finger over it, first to push it away, then to examine it when the chance came. I justified such a curiosity as needing better to know if he should ever become injured, but that fell away as I slowly shifted in my bundled clothes, and slid down to take a look closer, and more accurately.
His testes were slightly swollen - it's difficult not to notice them, as it is hard not to notice any other quadrupedal beast. Swollen, I reached to gently lift them, feeling the warm fur and flesh seeming to radiate off waves of heat in the cold of the cave. Their warmth and disturbance gave off a peculiar scent that was both musky, strong, yet strangely warming. I stroked him slowly with a hand, and heard him croon. It would have been cruel of me to stop.
And another part didn't want to stop, as my head swam and my cheeks grew hot. Again, I justified it with curiosity, and more, with needing to help out a friend. If he ached so, he sorely needed comfort. Who was I to deny it?
The natural pre-ejaculate of his shaft made my fingers glide across his flesh, and I corkscrewed my wrist and palm down and up the delightfully turgid arousal of my griffonic companion. Up and down I stroked him, down to the edge of that sheath and up to the tip, which made his hips buck a little harder, his breathing come a little quicker. There was a wet sound when I stroked him, and I laid my head on his belly, watching his shaft twitch and thicken a little more. His balls swayed slightly when his hips began their assault, and I watched a line of precum spit from the opening at his glans, and dance across his belly fuzz, nearly striking my face. I couldn't help but giggle, it was so fascinating watching him respond and moan out louder.
I switched hands after a good five or six minutes, feeling him swell a bit harder as I ran my curled fingers along the top. My other hand, even forearm, was slick with his wetness, and I lifted my hand up to admire the sheen that was much thicker than sweat on summers eve. I masturbated him harder, my grip tightening to rub along the inner muscles, and every squeeze at the tip rewarded me with another line of his need across his belly, crisscrossing like a cartographers map. I admit to being drunk on pleasure as he grew closer and closer.
And then, he screeched - loudly, his fur flared and his scrotum tightened, wrinkling slightly through the fur. They tucked up closely against his groin and his shaft twitched very firmly, then again and again and again. The urethral opening opened just a bit, before a fountain of his ejaculate came forth with a triumphant cry. His body shook when another and another line arced out, across his belly, and warming me up all over - even that my groin tightened with a swirl of pleasure and bliss.
It was a good half minute of white that painted his belly and across the cloth of my chest - the spurts were wild, and even the left side of my face and cheek was sticky. His body shook as he sagged, his penis twitching, half hard but very slowly deflating, and I rose up, to turn, and gazed into the stunned eyes of Latnor.
"Eridia?" He asked me. I looked to him, my mouth opening as heat washed through me, from cheek to chest to groin. My mouth hang open and his seed trickled down, very copious and viscous without being too thick. It dripped onto my lower lip, and I closed my mouth - tasting him. It was very musky, bitter, but a hint of sweetness washed through my tongue. It beheld a strange tingle to my tongue, but I couldn't deny that it wasn't halfway pleasant. A part of me wanted to taste more. "What?"
I didn't have anything to say. What could you say to a griffon, a friend, and partner, who you had masturbated to climax, and wore a good half of his total semen upon your face and chest? My hair was sticky and clung to my neck where a long line had run its course.
"That..." He was panting, his nares flushed and tongue scraping out. "That was amazing. Thank you."
I blushed, and gave him a shy, ashamed smile - before his claws reached out to touch where he had not lain his mark upon my face. I'd smell like griffin for a good few months either way.
"You liked it?" I squeaked out, my red hair being pulled back with a hand where it wasn't clumped to my sweat-lined brow. "Really?"
"Very." He whispered softly, his claw scraping my cheek. It was a fond gesture he had learned in our journey. "I... liked it a lot. How did you know...?"
"Know what?" I asked him, before licking my lips clean, and swallowing just a bit. I slowly pulled my shirt off, as well as the other - it was too hot, why did I tingle? I had no shame in showing my breasts to him - as did he have no shame in what lay against my thigh.
"That winter was our... season? How to relieve the ache?" I blinked at that, well, winked - the other eye was closed to prevent getting any in the eye. The salty flavor told me it might have been best. He smelled good. I felt light-headed again. "When winter hits, it's when we are fertile, and... it gets so heavy and full. How did...?"
I put a finger to his beak. I didn't want to hear him talk right now. No, I looked down at his body, to the shaft half-hanging from his sheath - to those apple-sized testes that jostled in a way that I had never noticed before, then slowly up. His fur was soft, his feathers were warm, his attention was dutiful and careful. I had grown to respect him - he had respect for me, and I'd admit here and now, if he had been human, I'd have done more a long time ago.
"Latnor?" I asked, hesitantly.
"Yes?" He clucked back.
"I'd... be happy to do it again, sometime." I said, slowly wiping his essence from my face with my shirt, though I paused, and gave it a lick. Though cooler, it still was pleasant on the tongue. The flavor had something to add, and really must have been an acquired taste. "You know. To help you?"
"What about you? It wouldn't be right, I can smell it on you - you have the same need."
I blushed, hid my face. But he was right. I needed him. And I wanted him like I had never wanted before.
Winter was suddenly not as cold.
And I did acquire a taste for him.
His head roused up and he looked at me through bleary eyes again, then let them widen as he saw me reach down to slowly push down the belt, the thick bundled pants, and slowly move my body, bare, towards the fire. I was cold, my nipples like diamonds, and my sex clenched hard at the cold gust that suddenly went through the cave.
But I didn't stop - I simply turned myself away, and raised my ass into the air like any female, like a griffoness in the span of heat. I was a bitch, a mare, a concubine before her king. I looked back at him - I saw him stiffen in more ways then one, and slowly raise up, first to sitting, then to standing - to aproach my lifted rear.
"Are you...?"
"Please." I said, trembling. I was having second thoughts - but I couldn't make myself move away. I felt his beak brush my thigh, a cold and hot breath wash over my sex, and the tip of his smooth tongue dab at me, like a bird laps at water. Each lick was like a jolt of godsfire through my body, and his tongue touched low, over my aroused clitoris - I made a rather loud yelp, but not from pain.
I shook as he pulled back, then moaned as he lifted his body up and slowly shuffled, climbed over my body as he rolled his feathers, his fur, along my body. I gazed forward, his paws coming up to cup my belly, my breasts - feeling me as he balanced on three legs.
I wanted to say no, I wanted to deny him, I wanted to scream for him to stop. But all those sounds went away, when the tip of his penis touched to my sex, and prodded forward, a jab of fire to my molten core. It was some time before he fell back asleep, and in my hands I held the dry clump of clothing - I had switched to a spare and would need to wash these clean until such time that I could start a cooking fire to clean them out. My head swam with images - remembering the first white jet that danced across my cheek, that had crossed his wiped-down belly. I gazed at the drying remains of his pleasure on my hand that I hadn't caught, and that I'd missed licking off. And then back again towards his sheath. He had been big, easily the length of my forearm, and I'd had to use my whole hand to stimulate him.
But I felt a different hunger - an emptiness that made my belly tighten and shift in a needful anticipation. I knew what I needed to do - and I couldn't bring myself to do it. Again and again I looked to him - I brought my face in, breathed in his scent - where it was strongest - and felt the clenching muscles of my sex tighten again and again. I needed him. I was parched for him.
I felt sick, more so, I felt like I was in heat. Like the mares, I was wet - like the bitches on the farm, I wanted to lift my ass into the air and become his.
And I reached down again, to slowly stroke his sheath, to cup his balls and weigh them - still heavy, then turned once more, to touch his beak.
"Latnor..." I whispered, and felt myself quiver inside and out. "Latnor..."
How can I describe the feeling? Imagine taking a long sword that's much too big, and slowly working it into the leather straps of a scabbard - wedging and working slowly, letting the leather settle and pushing in, and in, and in - until you feel the sword bump against the base but not stop, until all of that large sword fits into something much too small for it, without splitting it at the seams. Imagine a bag of gold, being filled and filled and filled until it threatens to tear, but never quite does.
That's as near as I can say. All I know was his shaft opened me, pushed into me, and slid until I could feel everything - and then he pushed in deeper, further, until his groin kissed my upturned ass, and those large balls softly slapped against my widened thighs. That thrust had taken my maidenhead, but I wouldn't know it but for the faint touch of blood afterward. And he pushed into me - his claws sunk and scratched me, in marks that I had seen on the other rangers but never understood until now. He held me down and his hips bucked firmly, rocking me, rubbing me like the euphoria of a battle high. And again, he pushed, pulled back, and pushed in again. I was spread, I was taken, his once spent shaft thick and heavy and full and all so many things that made me feel so very, very used.
But I couldn't do anything but writhe, but moan, but exist in the pleasure of the gods. It was the uttermost fulfillment as his balls slapped into my thighs repeatedly, as his pace pushed that thick gryphonic shaft deeper and harder into me, spread my lips wider with every movement of his body against my own. My rump lifted up. I was his mare, his bitch, his bride. I loved him.
Through the night we continued this rhythm - a second orgasm is difficult to get from a young griffon I later learned - but neither of us seemed to mind all the excess effort that we went through. We bred, we mated, we fucked. And when the blizzard blew away, when the moon showed itself through the caverns entryway, we sang our worship and sacred communion to the goddess of earth and life. And we bred, until his testes clenched, and he filled me, filled my belly my womb, until he leaked from my stretched sex and dribbled all of that fire down, onto the earth as a sacred offering. And when that moment came, the tow of us surrendered to bliss, and neither awoke until morning.
A morning that left me sore, him aching, but both of us satisfied beyond compare. It was a sacred communion we repeated throughout the winter, the spring, the fall and summer - until we fell into a rhythm, and slowed as we learned better to let the need build, than to give in at that moment.
Not to say him suddenly pushing me down, and filling me, wasn't a pleasant surprise now and then.
It was many years later that both Latnor and I accepted a union of the soul before the druids of the High Bough. I accepted him as my head, and he took me as his hen - and we admitted to one another we loved and cared. I love him so very much, even more when my belly became swollen. Those sneaky druids warned me that their rituals always produced young.
Of course, I wouldn't turn away my daughter, even if she has feathers...
But that's for another day.