It wasn't always this way, though - the process had never been quite so efficient. She used to own one of those dummy gryphonesses - those stands that ferals would mount for their semen collections - even coating it with the pheromones of heated gryphonesses, but the breeder would laze around, only occasionally sniffing at it sporting that proud, bobbing shape between his hinds until she'd be forced to bring him to his peak herself, always managing to bring her middle out to a pudgy, bulbous swell with just one cumshot. Although she'd always loved that her mount saved his brew to blow in her instead, the process wasn't nearly as efficient and meant less milkings throughout the day, less milk to sell at the market, and less money in her pocket. It seemed, to get the breeder to produce as much as she wanted, only the temptation of breeding her very heat would rile him enough to keep him going long into the afternoon and keep him producing enough to be good to go day after day.
And so he'd sink in with a disgracefully wet squelch time after time, the big gryphon's hips riding forward, firmly, pistoning through her cum-caked trap until he'd feel his sheath bounding and scrunching against her swollen, sopping petals, smothering them completely, his tip collared by her fleshy cervix deep within, giving the kingbird a proper and fitting crown for his head. This was the part that really got him going, the breeder adjusting his mount, feeling her squeeze down on those sensitive barbs as she'd work her hips back against him in her own bliss, lifting his hind to get a full mount above and let those heavyset nuts just rest along her thighs, trembling with their weight in seed, his head curling in, forehead pressing to the ground so he could watch every bit of bliss lighting up her face as he bred her through and through. his hips would jerk and shudder as he'd grow closer to that blissful peak, fat nutties drawing tighter to his hips to smother her backside in his own pheromones, each deep breath through his nares keeping that scent of her heat fresh in his mind....
There were consequences to letting him mount at peak season, though - with as potent of a bird as he was, that clutch left growing in her gut was nothing to scoff at and only seemed to grow larger with each successful clutch. Though she chose to see only more success in her endeavor: gryphon eggs don't come with a cheap price tag, and the same expert breedings she'd withstood only made her heat burn hotter the next time it came around and brought along with it a particular ache for that itch to be scratched with the very same musky, succulent gryphonhood that gave her her addiction.
She'd call out her bliss like any other beneath the big bird as she felt him shoot, rope after gooey rope clinging to her depths anew to flood her inner chamber with that overpowering virility, drooling that raw slime down the curve of her rounding gut as he'd shift about atop with every shuddering buck between her spread thighs, his eyes bright, staring right back at her own with each volley of seed successfully launched into her fertile core, the breeder holding his bits as flush to her lips as that form-quaking bliss would allow, grinding himself against her honey-and-nut-soaked thighs until he'd let it all go, pulling free with a slick schlorp and the idle drool of seed seeping from his length. She'd squeeze her legs tight, gathering three jars for now - one for him and two for her - fastening a tube to that still-stiff prick bouncing between his hinds with every step and bringing the mouth of the first jar right around her own lower lips to kiss, catching her breath, trying to recall just how many other jars lay filled from their earlier sessions.
This was the norm for milking days, with about 80% of her stock of milk being sold same-day for the freshest product available, 10% being saved for fermentation to make gryphon-based spirits, and the final 10% being her own private supply to enjoy while incubating his next clutch. And selling was no problem - those dedicated customers would always come back for more, saying her brand always had a bit something.... extra to the taste - the nuttier and sweeter tones coming through easily, the thickness making it go down like a milkshake instead of just standard milk, and the fragrance.... addicting, just like the bird's own.
"That's 27," he'd hear called up to him as she'd unfasten that funnel from his length and capping the full jar before reaching back between his hinds to fondle his tanks, massaging more of her own spilled honey into his frazzled, matted ballfluff. His head would twist to meet her gaze, that familiar, lustful twinkle in his eyes made her chest tight simply upon sight, overwhelming her form with a heated flush of arousal and prompting her right back into that familiar position for him. Number ten already? He was on pace for yet another record day and she couldn't help but smile at the thought before her face contorted with another audible sinking of that turgid gryphdick between her matted thighs. "Mmmn~" he'd hear from below - music to his ears as he mounted his mount once again, shuffling and shifting to perfect that union before the clank of a nearby jar being knocked-over rang out, both heads momentarily turning to watch it roll a bit farther from them until meeting in that smoldering gaze once again.
Artist wishes to remain anonymous.
Felkins © @DogBoneArtWork
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