Red man, White Gryphon
Red man, White gryphon
Written from 1/17/06 to 1/21/06
Well well well, looks like just another day of being seen as some sort of weirdo. Just as well, clear skies for the first time this month, too. At least that's how Morgan, as he was now called, saw things. Usually in the territory he lived, there were clouds all hours of the day, all days of the week, with the sun making nothing more than an occasional 'tease' appearance, only to duck behind the clouds in mere seconds. Today wasn't just an exception; it was almost a miracle in itself... and a sign of the creator that today was a good day to find an escape from this pseudo-spiritual joke known as tradition.
That's how Morgan found himself on the outskirts of Everett. Sure the fry-bread was good, but he was sick and tired of the monotonous pattern of casinos, eagle feathers, and welfare checks. He'd even gone so far as to change his name from something that, at least in plain English, was practically unpronounceable.
"No time like the present." he'd announced to himself as he'd emerged from a local Burger King. Of the thirty-odd places he'd applied, this wasn't one of the most promising. There were seven Mexican workers that he could count... and one Filipino. If the white man was nonexistent there, then likely so was everyone else who wasn't an immigrant. Still, there were better places to try, places worthy of cover letters, but that could wait until after he finished his non-traditional, greasy, genuinely American calorie-laden Whopper. Nothing like anything he'd ever seen cooked anywhere in the reservation, and certainly from another planet as far as taste was concerned, but it couldn't be any less nutritious than fry-bread, right? That's what he assumed, and thus he spent the next fifteen minutes munching on the burger cheerfully.
He got up, he walked. He started towards some office supply store, he looked up, and that's when his day truly began. It looked like someone had left a shaman mask or something on the roof of the fast food place. The Salish didn't have the slightest idea what to think of it, seeing as he was a fair drive away from the reservation and very few of his kind came into the white man's civilization willingly as far as he knew. Moreover, there was a stepladder propped up only a few feet away, with nobody to climb it. Funny that, was this a sign of some sort? It could've been impulse, it could've been destiny, but without hesitation, the Native American climbed his way up the ladder, intent on retrieving that mask, or whatever it was. What he saw left him wondering if this was all just some bizarre hallucination, or better yet, a spiritual vision. At roof level, with no walls obscuring his view, he could see that almost ceremonial head of feathers for what it really was; What seemed to be a giant eagle! And yet, something was strange about this light brown raptor with white streaks; not only was he certain it was larger than him, but it also had hind legs... large, golden brown hind legs, and a tail that looked almost like that of a lion's!
"What on Earth...?" the man found himself asking, if only to the wind. In spite of the fact that he was looking at what was essentially a big African cat with talons, a fearsome beak and feathers, somehow he was fearless, even curious. He examined the bird intently, calmly, for who knows how long, probably only a few seconds when suddenly a pair of cold, sharp green eyes were piercing into his very soul. So taken aback, so surprised was he, that he fell backwards, flat on his ass. Luckily he'd been off the ladder, but just the same, somehow a twenty-foot drop wouldn't seen as intimidating as being stared down by this feathered monstrosity. Before he could do anything else, the creature was on top of him, talons piercing through his shirt and gripping his forearms uncomfortably. In that afternoon sun, eclipsed by those almost glowing eyes and that sharp, intimidating beak, he could've sworn he'd seen a fleeting glimpse of the reaper. This giant bird was looking down at him almost as a lion looks at lunch.
"D-don't hurt me!" was the only thing the Salish could think of to cry out, having gone from an earthly brown to practically stark white in less than a second. The violent shudders that ran through his veins almost made him hard to hold in what seemed to be an predatory death-grip.
"Sorr-r-r-ry, man. This is the killin' game and you have death wands. You attack, you lose." That type of response was an explanation in itself, but it didn't make the man feel any less terrified. As calm and confident as the words were, they were cold and hateful, as were the bird's eyes.
"I didn't! Unarmed! Mean no harm!" came the pleas, quickly degenerating into an unintelligible stream of some Salish dialect as tears began to well up in his eyes. This feathered monster had very little experience with humans, most of it very bad, but there was something in this darker man's eyes where the bird just knew. This man wasn't lying to save his ass from the impending death before him; he was sincere, and probably on the verge of pissing himself.
I know better than to judge a fellow sentient by his species, the bird thought, but after her 'warm welcome' to this strange new world, which came in the form of five men-at-arms and absurdly rapid, forceful projectiles, it was hard not to just rip this person apart on the spot. Still, her eyes seemed somehow softer, and the tension seemed to ease. An awkward silence had engulfed the roof. The traffic noises has appeared to cease, the drive-thru speaker almost directly below was phased out of their minds, and even the cries of the hungry seagulls stopped. Both man and creature were thinking, gazing into each-other's eyes almost as if speaking through telepathy. Eventually, the bird's grip softened, but that certainly didn't change that it looked as powerful, as threatening as hell itself.
"Why art thou here? Certainly you humans cannot fly nor jump high. You had to be pursuing me." the bird accused, the voice now very recognizably feminine; she almost sounded like Nala from some cartoon movie the Native had seen years ago.
"I..." he started, now somewhat embarrassed that he'd mistaken such a powerful, proud beast for some traditional headdress. Sure he could only see the top of her head from the ground, but somehow he felt he should've known there was something big up there before bothering.
"We Indians wear eagle feathers at ceremonies. I thought somehow they got up here." he'd admitted after some hesitation. His expression was calmer, but the man still wore his fear on his face, plain as day under that sheepish semi-smile. She didn't have the slightest idea what a human would want with birdfeathers, unless maybe he had the foolish idea that he could fly himself, but still she couldn't help but cast her beak towards the sky and laugh. The hearty, high-pitched cackle was somewhat reassuring to the man, but still nothing could completely obliterate the urge to just crawl under a rock and hide. Somewhat amused, the bird took a second to tilt her head at the man's still alarmed expression, and in an instant, her beak was clamped to the side of the base of his neck.
"AAA--" was all he could saw with such a start. He was about to scream bloody murder, but then he felt the hot, unexpected pressure of a long, almost triangular tongue moving against his flesh. The guy didn't know whether to yelp or moan or whatever else, so he shuddered almost violently, gasping in surprise as shocks of pleasure surged through his neck and chest. After a couple seconds, the blend of lion and bird lifted her head to find the man just as she'd expected him; shocked. The look on Morgan's face was utterly priceless and a telltale sign that what she just did was just about the absolute last thing he could expect.
"Wha... why did you...?" the Indian asked, almost at a loss for words yet again. It was hard to tell whether he was scared, aroused, confused; probably a combination of the three.
"Because I wanted to." she answered, a lot more cheerful than just a minute ago. Obviously she wanted to be friendly now, but that was pushing it just a little far, the Native thought. Now she was off of him, eight very prominent holes dotting his sleeves. Right now he could've cared less if his shirt was entirely obliterated; he had the chance to stand up, and so he did. He wanted to ask some things, know a little more about this semi-avian creature, but the very second he stood up, he was chest-to-face with a Mexican worker who had stopped cold on the top rung of the ladder and stared in shock.
"Mi...mi...mierda! A gryphon!" was the stammered exclamation brought on by the shocking sight of this large, proud creature. At least now Morgan knew what she was. The man with the bloodshot eyes and the uniform of Burger King stammered something else, something strange and in Spanish, and things went downhill from there.
Morgan saw syringes, he saw a gun, he saw the wage-slave grabbing the gun, and almost out of sheer instinct, he stepped in front of the gryphon and coldly, flatly stated "Don't you fucking dare." Why a fast-food worker would even need a gun he hadn't the slightest idea, but he wasn't gonna fire that thing at her, not if he had anything to do with it.
"It's a fuckin' monster, It needs die!" were the words of the xenophobic and thoroughly spooked Latino trying to aim around the body of the Indian who was quite blatantly in the way. A hand to push the arm upward as the gun fired, a deafening shot exploding into the air, and a firm palm planted into the worker's chest; the battle had began and ended with just that. The Mexican cried out in surprise as that one push sent both him and the ladder careening into the parking lot, some twenty feet below. A disturbingly juicy thud! and the gun left his hand to be crushed by a passing SUV, great creator knowing what the driver must've thought at the scene. In no time flat, it dawned on the Native; the cops weren't going to act all that differently at the sight of a gryphon.
"Umm... well shit. We need ta get outta here! Now!" the guy said, some semblance of that all too familiar fear returning to his face. Knowing what to do, if perhaps a bit unsure of where to go, the gryphon grabbed the guy by his shoulders even harder than she had the first time. An uncomfortable squeezing pain, a sudden lurch off the roof, and suddenly Morgan was in the air! Below him was the rapidly shrinking roof of the Burger King, the bruised, unconscious would-be killer, a crowd of gawkers forming, all too freaked out to bother looking straight up, and it was all getting smaller! Before long, the Indian felt almost as if he'd been looking down on some rich kid's expensive toy town... except that if he fell, he'd make a nice, nasty stain of blood and guts on it. With that thought, he was more than thankful that'd he'd willingly used the fast food place's bathroom right before applying there; If he'd actually had any piss to saturate his pants with, he definitely would've by now.
"One could lose herself forever in this metal fortress!" The gryphon announced rather cheerily as she began to head towards a mesh of buildings that the Native knew only as Everett.
"No! Away! Bad place, people watching!" Was all the Indian could manage to whimper. He might've been able to explain a bit better if he wasn't scared half to death from suddenly being yanked into flight by a creature that threatened to kill him just minutes ago. Luckily, the gryphon seemed to understand and turned with such sudden speed that Morgan felt his stomach do a 720 ollie. All fear aside, he didn't exactly find comfort in being yanked about like a rag-doll in the air.
For the next few minutes, he found the best way not to make himself unbearably sore was to just hang limp like some overused puppet, which was basically what he felt like. Ahead was a mountain, a mountain with trees and probably a cave or two.
"That forested mountain ahead. That might be a good place as any." He said with relative calm and absence of emotion. He had no choice but to fly or die, so he may as well just tolerate it, he'd thought. A tree here, a tree there, and they were getting larger fast. Still a bit too shocked to think coherently, the Native didn't know how much time passed, but the next thing he knew was the brushing of pine needles against flesh. Not even three seconds later, his feet hit solid ground with enough momentum that he almost ended up falling flat on his face. Almost, being that he would've had a mouthful of dirt if not for the gryphon landing on her hind legs and releasing her grip only slowly.
The gryphon took a few seconds to look around, only to declare "This way. Someone might've seen us flying here," figuring that was about the same reason the man didn't want her flying into that strange fortress of metal and glass. Feeling as if his arms were in desperate need of a biological equivelant to machine oil, the Indian nonetheless followed into the dense vegetation. There were trees, rocks, hills, and places so dense that he found it miraculous that a creature whose size was that of a lion's could actually make her way through. Before long they found themselves in the perfect break in the thick layer of pine. It was so small that from above, one would only see the trees, but large enough for the two to move around comfortably.
"This'll be alright for now. My home isn't far from here; if we go after dusk, we shouldn't be seen." the Native said, shrugging heavily and rolling his shoulders back and forth in an effort to ease the soreness a bit. By now his pits were pinkish red and the sleeves of his shirt were on the verge of falling off. One by one they fall, tatted and torn by the massive talons of a gryphon, one quite plainly falling on her beak. There was redness and soreness and even a little blood, and to this she took notice.
"Such a fragile race thou art... I'm sorry! I didn't realize!" she said with no absence of sincerity. As abruptly as the Indian was now starting to get used to, the gryphon was on her hind legs again, seeming to have no trouble whatsoever staying that way. She grabbed the man by the forearms again, but this time not nearly as hard. She twisted, she kneaded, and new flashes of pain resounded in Morgan's back, but somehow he wasn't going to try and stop this powerful bird from doing what she wanted. Finally, after more of the same, it ended with a firm push and a resounding crack. white-hot pain surged through the man's shoulder, if only for a split-second. As much as it hurt, the pain was quickly replaced by a strange tingling sensation and the feeling that something in his shoulder had been moved significantly. Feeling that he should, the Indian tried to move his arm in a few directions. It still hurt, but at least it didn't feel like his joints were covered in rust anymore.
"What... how did you--" was no sooner said than cut off.
"My mother's a healer, taught me some of her trade in the recent seasons. It works on your kind too, then." the gryphon explained cheerily as ever, though she seemed a but thoughtful under the happy tone and smile. Before the native could think to respond, his shirt, or what was left of it, was probed, lifted, felt by the gryphon who then remarked "'Tis not fur nor feathers nor scales nor any cloth i've seen. What is this?"
"It's my frybread shirt... or what's left of it anyway." came the lame response as the Native pulled the thing off and tried to assess the damage. The black piece of strangely thin yet sturdy fabric with the words 'Frybread power!' in big white letters caught the bird's curiosity for sure, but the now shirtless man before her was more catching of her attention. He had neither fur nor feathers nor scales, just shining bronze skin that encased a body somewhere between fit and buff. Certainly he didn't resemble a gryphon by any stretch of the imagination, but she found the plain, in-your-face sight of the man's muscles intriguing, even somehow enticing--
Thou must be joking, Ky! You wouldn't bother with-- I'm sure he wouldn't mind, right? The gryphon lost herself in deep thought for a brief time, reminded none too subtly that her body and conscious mind often worked independently of eachother. "Tell me more about yourself and your race, ahh... I didn't even learn your name. I'm Kyra, and you?" she'd asked after getting back on all fours and walking 'round the Indian, observing him, sizing him up though not on purpose.
"Call me Morgan. I was actually born as..." Kyra heard before her ears were graced with a disturbingly long word that sounded something like a drunken, slurred version of one of the sacred tongues "...but nobody I know can pronounce it." He took a moment to rake his hand through his somewhat disshelved hair, which was down to his neck if even that. In his tribe, he certainly didn't look anything like a warrior, muscle or not. "I'm a 'Native American' as we're called anymore. Nobody dares with Indian anymore, too un-PC," he continued. Indian? PC? Kyra didn't understand any of it, but then the Native had just began to explain. "We live on this teeny tiny reservation just a bit north of here with casinos and gambling and beadmaking."
The gryphon decided to test the waters, to see if Morgan shared her... desires, now on her hind legs again, running her beak across the man's chest and undoubtedly leaving small clawmarks down his spine. "Tell me more." she said, ever cheerful but with a certain something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"AHH--" he cried, though that cry quickly turned into an awe-struck gasp. The gryphon ran her hot, moist tongue over his nipple and it caught him off guard to say the least. In that utterly shocked, rigid position he couldn't decide which disconcerted him more; the fact that bird creature only slightly larger than him was doing this in the first place or the fact that he was actually liking it. What in the name of the creator was she trying to accomplish? "W-w-what are you--" he stammered, but before any answer, before a word, before even a syllable, the sultry look in the bird's eyes told him exactly what Kyra wanted. The very idea of doing such things to a gryphon, sentient or not, left him so bewildered that he lost his balance and fell flat on his ass. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run, but somehow he wouldn't. He couldn't. As much as he was taken aback, something was keeping him there, letting Kyra run her beak and talons all over his chest. His heart was pounding like a bass drum, his body was shaking. though not entirely in fear, and his pants suddenly felt much more restricting.
The bird took one look at the Native's bewildered expression and though she didn't fully understand why he was that freaked out, a certain lack of experience was written all over his face like shaman paint on a warrior. "If it's too much to take in we can stop..." she started, though she didn't cease putting her talons to good use as she spoke. The holy war raged on in Morgan's mind between shame, fear and desire. None had won out entirely, but there was just something about that shame that seemed ill-founded. Certainly it wrong to do anything with an animal, even if she could think and speak intelligently and in English, right? Somehow, it didn't quite seem that way, yet his conscience was screaming that he was doing something bad. In a strange, perverted way, it was almost like the stereotypical debate between the shoulder angel and the shoulder devil; it was enough to make him blush hotly and turn his face a warm shade of clay red. With every caress, with every touch Morgan grew more nervous and yet ever more curious. Somehow he knew he wasn't going to get out of this forest with his virginity intact, no matter how embarrassing it was to be able to claim that he lost it to a creature he never even knew existed, and that left him more than a little shaky. This inner conflict reverberated throughout his mind until a deafening shock of surprise sent his senses reeling and made him thrust himself forward a little. It hadn't occured to him that Kyra would would put her hand... forepaw... whatever... in his pants.
"Your kind wears such peculiar decor-r-rations," she remarked, a heavy happy trilling evident in that last word. "Certainly you don't need leg warmers in this season...?" Morgan knew the white man's reason, and he knew the Genesis reason. The white man ate some apple or something, then he was ashamed just for the sake of being ashamed. The pleasure side of his mind suddenly clung to this small detail for dear life and for now, his moral dilemma was gone. Not that the Indian wasn't still a little hesitant to be doing things with a gryphon, but now he felt more compelled to get a feel for those soft, cream coloured feathers than he did to back away and pretend nothing happened. His fingers slipped through the feathers and he began to trail them down the gryphon's chest in almost a pawing motion. Somewhere along the way, Morgan took a few seconds to take his pants off and set them aside; by now they were really starting to hurt. The bird, who in a strange way resembled a peregrine falcon with an extra, mammalian pair of legs, watched with fascination as her eyes quickly found something far more interesting than fabric body-coverings.
"Certainly we don't. It's a pride issue... I think." he explained, no doubt unable to think up a better way to say it with his train of thought somewhat preoccupied. For perhaps the first time that day, Kyra did something that wasn't completely sudden an unexpected. Slowly and gracefully she embraced the Native. Truthfully, having never even seen a human before today, she found the shape of his anatomy to be unique, and surely it must feel unique; thus, she intended to do more than just snuggle. If his blood wasn't pumping loudly enough to be heard from acres away, it surely was by now. At first he didn't think what the gryphon might be planning to do in that embrace, but now he knew what she wanted, plain as day. He felt the head of his painfully stiff member pressed against something moist, moist and very hot, and that sent his senses reeling, so much so that he remembered that little detail that Kyra wasn't someone he knew for very long; hell, she wasnt even human, probably not even a mammal at that! The wave of fear and confusion that overcame him wasn't nearly enough to make him go soft; nothing was at this point, but still he couldn't help but shift himself backwards a bit.
"N-n-n-n-no! Not all the way!" he stammered, his face having gone from clay red to furnace red by now. Sweat was leaking from his every pore, but in the middle of the wilderness and in nothing but a tattered pair of shoes which he'd completely disregarded, that hardly mattered. The bird could see. He was scared, and though she didn't understand why, no matter how madly aroused as she was at this point, she wasn't about to force anything on him. Curious and confused by the Native's reactions, Kyra was nonetheless content to explore his body with her talons and to let him do the same to her.
"Scared?" she asked, "What is there to fear?" Morgan was still somehow terrified of the concept of outright screwing a gryphon, but it was starting to seem less and less immoral with every touch, every caress, and especially that feeling of a hot tongue against his neck, even if it was emerging from a rigid, though still pleasant-feeling beak.
"Y..You're a gryphon. You're not my own... You're... You're an animal, it's not right for us to..." was his explanation, though between the gasping and the shuddering, that last statement carried a distinct lack of confidence and a distinct hint of confusion. They feared other species so? That would explain why the past five humans Kyra had encountered all shot at her, but somehow Morgan was different, certainly nicer if anything.
"Yes it is," she retorted, her high, playful voice both contrary and amiable. Only after running the backs of her talons down the Indian's inner thigh, causing him to quiver heavily, did she think to add in "Why would it be wrong?"
The only coherent thought that formed from that question was the one he'd heard after some uproar regarding a horse and someone bleeding to death in Seattle; "Animals are incapable of speaking, of higher thought," With every word he spoke it sounded like less of an explanation and more of a realization. Kyra heard this loud and clear and so she decided not to retort or justify herself just yet. "Therefore they can not give conse..." Morgan didn't even finish that sentence. He just gazed into the gryphon's deep emerald eyes, she gazed into his, and for perhaps the first time that evening, their thoughts and beliefs were as one. For a short while they stayed like that, blissfully staring into eachothers' souls. Eventually, it was Kyra who made the first move, tilting her head at an almost awkward angle and almost hooking the tip of her beak to the man's cheek as she opened it to his lips. If not a kiss, this was plenty close enough; her beak was locked to his now parting lips, and from there, in went the tongue. If it was hot on his chest, then it was positively fiery around his own tongue, certainly enough to make him moan, which, since he couldn't really moan at the time, made the strange though arousing kiss deeper and far more passionate than it had already been. That was all it took to end the revolution in Morgan's head. His hormones, having been so encouraged to work their magic, finally sent his superego, that prudent little shoulder angel, into a coma.
In that embrace, lips and beak locked, the human and the gryphon moved almost in unison until the Native's painfully erect member was firmly pressed between the gryphon's hot, tight lower lips.
For that time they stayed that way and slowly broke the kiss. Knowing she was with a human, and that human's had some strange, restrictive morals, she simply asked "Are you really alright with this?"
Though hesitant, a simple "Yes." sufficed. Somehow, through a conbination of courage, affection, and arousal, Morgan brought himself to open that torturously hot cunny and guide his love wand in, one slow inch at a time. To say it felt velvety might be true, but Morgan neighter knew nor cared what velvet felt like right now. From the inside, Kyra felt slick, smooth, distinctively firm, and that tantalizing hotness, that which he'd known ever since she used her tongue to catch him off guard, simply wouldn't stop overwhelming him. It was almost unnatural, inhuman, but then he knew, even on the barest, most subconscious level that this affectionate, feathered creature was certainly not a human. He was buried up to the hilt, all seven and a half inches, the blood rushing through his ears, the tight, fiery pleasure surging through his every bone, every muscle, every vein. It was almost too much to take, and still he'd only just entered her. Thus, he let out a resounding moan of pleasure, his irregular breathing almost reverberating it as another moan, this one distinctly more avian and just as loud joined his. He had no real way of knowing what Kyra was thinking, but between her blissful expression, her pounding heart, her uncontrollable quivering, she was certainly enjoying this just as immensely as he was.
Little by little, the thrusts began. First by Morgan, then matched by the gryphon, the two started to move slowly, gracefully, tenderly, and that almost immediately gave way to pattern of strong and deep, though still somewhat slow thrusts. For the native, it wasn't just the feverish, slick massaging of his painfully bloated erection that was compelling him to thrust harder. For every slap of balls against belly, every juicy smack of hilt against cunny, he couldn't explain it in his head but the feeling of Kyra's warm, soft feathered body against his was almost more of a turn-on than the actual screwing. Morgan buried his head in that mess of feathers on her crop and bit down, not hard but still passionately. He couldn't help it, the pleasure was too intense. The feeling of his teeth and tongue against her sensitive neck and chest was enough to make her cry out in pleasure, a loud, high yowl that only a bird could make. Moreover, it was enough to make her impale herself upon the Native's engorged shaft with all her strength, which practically slammed him against the ground and only compelled him to bite harder as the deafening surge of pleasure reverberated through the two.
"Oh, skies! Don't... don't stop! That's... that's wonderful!" she breathed, half gasping, half moaning the words. By now the pleasure was overwhelming. Unable to slow and steady themselves, the human and the gryphon thrust at eachother with increasing speed and force, meeting in the middle in an almost perfect rhythm of thrusting forward and pulling back. Not thinking but simply feeling at this point, the bird instinctively clawed across the Native's back, causing even more of this white-hot pleasure to rip through him, causing him to cry out to the world. He couldn't stop himself, it was just too much not to.
Neither of them lasted very long after that. With all the foreplay, all the touching, all the caressing, only a minute or two passed while the Indian was pounding into the gryphon, his every thrust matched by hers, with plenty of kissing, scratching, and biting thrown in for good measure. In spite of the immensity of what Morgan felt, the hot, slick flesh milking his member, the tongue around his, the talons scraping across his back, Kyra was feeling that much more overwhelmed by it all that she was driven over the edge first. As she called out for all the world to hear, a distinctly raptorial call of ecstacy, she embraced the Native, holding onto him with all her strength. If not for the overwhelming feelings overtaking him, that hot, tight cunny milking his member with an unbelieveable squeeze for every surge of orgasmic pleasure resounding through the gryphon, he might've felt as if his ribs were being crushed. Right now, any and all feelings against his flesh were pleasurable, the vigorous clenching of her genitals onto his finally driving him to the point of no return. With a mighty warcry, one not of violence but of rapture, he pounded himself into her, deeper than either would've thought possible. In that immense final thrust he shot his load deep inside the gryphon, with enough force that it might've went ten feet it if wasn't spurting against her insides, strongly enough to be distinctly felt. For ten long seconds, deafening waves of bliss and shock coursed through the two, receding only slowly as they lay on the ground, still one within the other, spent but still rock-solid.
"Skies you're beautiful!" Kyra said to the Indian, letting a lone talon caress his cheek. After something like that he didn't know quite what to say, but had a feeling nothing needed to be said now. For several minutes they stayed that way, locked between the legs, caressing one another, whispering and breathing sweet words to eachother. They might've even fallen asleep that way, if not for the stark white hiker in fatigues.
"Oh my fucking god!" He gasped, staring in utter shock. Kyra didn't know whether to laugh, to run, to strike him down on the spot, but in a short moment, any possibility of completely ruining a good afterglow has ceased. The man fainted.
"Uhh... Kyra, we'd best get out of here before he wakes up." Morgan groaned, now back to his senses and plagued with the phantom of a shadow of a series of sharp pains in his back. They didn't hurt much, but he felt maybe they'd played a little too rough. Still, as he put his pants back on, no doubt soaking the front of them with the pungent fem-juices still covering his now shrinking prick, he thought it was completely worth it. He'd never in his wildest dreams imagined he'd make a new friend in such a way, let alone a gryphon of all things. This was almost too shocking to be true, it almost had to be a hallucination-- Yes! A hallucination! Even spent from such arousing activities, his brain was still fertile for ideas. He'd taken several organic beads, possibly from a cactus, out of his medicine pouch and shoved them down the unconscious man's throat. Seeing a human and a gryphon fucking the daylights out of eachother wasn't real; it was all one weird hallucination, and certainly not the last one the man would see that day. It was perfect! Even if he somehow knew this wasn't a vision caused by peyote, nobody would believe him.
Morgan's shirt was very badly torn, but after seeing the rivulets of dried blood adorning the dirt where he'd lain, he'd more or less decided it was better if nobody saw his bare back, including himself.
"My home's this way. It should be safe to go now," the native said, leading his quadrupedal, feathered friend through a path in the dense foliage. This could be the start of many things, he'd thought, knowing that despite the fact that the white man was a coward, there was still maybe some shadow of a chance the government would accept the existence of gryphons without trying to kill them off. If only he knew how to convince them, he'd thought, for that would be the hard part.
The end... or is it just the beginning...?