In the hallway, Fern finds herself in an identical situation as its opposite:  There are closed doors at the distant end, four chambers behind rice paper and ironwood walls, and a palpable silence.  And as across the way, the wall that leads to the enclosure is mere empty space.<br/><br/>On the other side of that empty space, the griffon's attention is conducted to Miaren by the smooth tether of her caress.  Under that caress, the flank of the griffon seems to glow, radiating its fiery, brazen heat.  The fur is silken.  The muscles are so much restless iron.  They tense and relax rhythmically in hypnotic tempo, a low current that tugs at the melody stirring in Miaren and sweeps its awareness along.<br/><br/>He too is caught up.  His aquiline head turns and caresses in kind, applying sleek strokes of Miaren's shoulder and back with a feathered neck, skating the kind edge of his beak along her spine.  He shuffles closer, and that rumbling flank contacts the rising bulge of her belly with a thrilling tease of friction.<br/><br/>She smells it happen first - then hears it; a wet, ripe sliding.  The prong of the griffon's penis is extruding from its sheath, loaded to overflowing with musk that kicks Miaren's sympathetic hormones high.  Her womb seems to know what is in it; feels a correctness to the effects of the griffon's scent.  It reacts as though it was made to hold eggs, clutching excitedly and stirring the folds and pulpy passage that leads to it.  Anxiety trickles happily through her.<br/><br/>And from between the griffon's legs, that crimson skewer draws out drizzling with hot lubrication, a long and heavy bar of meat that lifts and relaxes impatiently.  His eyes find hers and penetrate in a different way:  Alight and intense with aroused demand.