<strong>* ENCLOSURE * </strong><br/><br/>The moment of anticipation seems to stretch the better part of a lifetime.  It stretches like struck piano wire, like taffy.  It extends like transforming skin.<br/><br/>Breath washes over it, over Miaren's neck, from the beak of the griffon.  Fur strokes it to a shimmering, strokes Miaren's back.  Haunches and forelegs clamp around it, holding its tautness in their eager command.<br/><br/>The moment stretches, and Miaren's senses stretch, and the eggs stretch their tender pocket with the insistence of growing.<br/><br/>Then the moment gapes as the griffon mounts and enters Miaren's vagina with the thick rush of his penis.<br/><br/>His prong gouges its way in, the seething point slotting its fork in her labia.  The labia parts and the socket clenches in parting.  Muscle bears down and is borne open.  A symmetry thrills through Miaren - that of the griffon, her mate, pushing, and her body, mated, joining with him in lustrous tension.<br/><br/>He begins thrusting immediately.  There is the finest veneer of tenderness to the penetration, a quality like the slick that shimmers on the generously lubricated shaft.  He does not gore at her, but finds the angle of her body first.  Then he hammers.  He churns in her.  He pounds with his furry haunches at the post of her tail and the slice of her vulva, jiggling her chemical-bloated clitoris.<br/><br/>The griffon is wildness again:  He punches into the grasp of Miaren's pussy, culls out its weeping and digs for more.  In three thrusts, he has met the limit of her body, and everything sings with fullness.  It roars with the rising tempo of his rutting.<br/><br/>It stretches.  Like the moment before, these moments of thrusting stretch.  In drizzling slick, in shivered hips, in the silent grunt of opening muscle, it stretches.<br/><br/>It stretches like transforming flesh requited of its new purpose.<br/><br/>The griffon ruts on, clasping and stroking and filling his mate.<br/><br/><strong><br/>* HALLWAY *</strong><br/><br/>Fern reaches the door at the end of the hall.  A glance over its surface shows its character to be identical to its peer in the opposite hall:  A work of wood, the grain serving as medium for some exquisite artist's inexplicable hand.  It too depicts history, lineage and glory.<br/><br/>And it too opens with the slightest touch.  Fern's skin creeps with a moist, nude anticipation of her own.  Anticipation opens its jaws, ready for a sigh of relief or the chatter of anxious teeth.<br/><br/>She sees only emptiness on the other side - a vast assembly hall, with soaring support beams swept into tusks of onyx.  Pillows and lamps scatter about the capacious space, their luster only smoldering with an ineffable, purple light.  Stillness reigns.<br/><br/>But behind Fern, she hears the subtlest scraping.  She knows its identity even before turning about:<br/><br/>The suits of armor behind her are beginning to move.  To turn.  To advance on her.