With a disturbance of ivory feathers and a canter of clipped steps, the griffon departs Miaren's company.  It turns his head, glaring inquisitively at the raw, red dangle of his phallus, probing over the stand of flesh with his peppercorn eyes.  Dull and fixated, the griffon continues to wonder over its spurting parts as he ambles from the glade, leaving Fern to fragile peace and Miaren to her inner disturbance.<br/><br/>Miaren's probing finds the egg proving elusive and delicately dire.  Sliding two fingers into the pulpy yield of her vagina is easy, if achingly sensitive.  They discover her insides to still hug and clasp possessively; still seize, soaked through with fresh thrills.  They slide up herself smoothly enough.  But when they touch the egg, the resonance of the impact sends a shiver through the surrounding ring - through the clasp of her cervix that can bear no more aggravation.  The flesh tingles a bit, squeezing to close, and the egg slides slightly out of the entrapping circumference.  An instant later, relaxing flesh tugs it back deeper toward the swollen chamber of her womb.  Miaren is left with her fingers deep and her fingertips only able to stroke the shallow sides of the smooth egg - to threaten to push it in, or to try to slowly, ever-so-slowly, pet it out.