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?"
