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Source: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/53219129

Air Gryphon (Story)

Finley the gryphon offers a complimentary seat upgrade to a particularly intolerable passenger.

5.4k words. A dangerously horny story for vore day. Wonderful art by Dergum Dergum

Content warning: Oral vore, gryphon pred, fox prey, low-intensity digestion, fatal, bullying, weight gain, gay sexual content, horny ass description, cumming in gullet, gut humping

PDF version available here. I've touched up the formatting, so if anyone out there prefers these PDF versions, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts.

I hope you enjoy!

“I don’t like feathers,” the fox yelled over the wind. “They’re prickly and bumpy and irritating, and they get stuck in my fur.”

“Seems like you’d be happier on an actual plane,” Finley shouted back. “Begs the question—why book a gryphon flight?”

“We obviously needed to contrive a scenario for me to get eaten.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” The fox groaned loud enough for Finley to hear through the roaring wind. “Do you even bathe? You’ve got knotted feathers chafing against my thighs.”

Finley shut his eyes and sighed. Why did he always get burdened with the assholes?

“Hey, are you listening to me, captain? This is hardly the majestic travel experience your company sold it as.”

“Sir, had you voiced your complaints two hours earlier, I would have turned around and provided a full refund.” Finley kept his words professional, but his weary glare through the gap of his wings to the passenger seated on his back wasn’t part of the script. “We’ve just passed the halfway point, so it’s much too late now.”

The fox crossed his arms and returned a glare of his own. “So I’m stuck on the tangled fleece of a gryphon for another two hours? With nothing to shield me from the wind?”

“Indeed, sir.” Finley smiled. He smiled a tad too wide.

“All with no food, no service, no in-flight entertainment, not even a saddle.” The fox scoffed. “I’d be more comfortable in an iron maiden.”

During a noisy flap of his wings, Finley muttered, “Don’t give me something to dream about.”

“Speak up!”

“I’m deeply sorry this isn’t living up to your expectations, sir.”

“And who’s fault would that be? Yours, of course. What’s the point of flying on a gryphon when it lacks the comfort of even a budget airline?”

Again, Finley closed eyes; the urge to barrel roll and send this prick hurtling several thousand feet to his death became more tempting by the second. “We pride ourselves on offering an authentic gryphon-riding experience. Not plain comforts.”

“Flying on majestic wings, wasn’t it? Explain what’s so majestic about this.”

“Once more, sir, it sounds like you’re more suited for travelling with a standard commercial airliner. You’re certainly not the adventurous sort.”

“How dare you!” The fox tugged two handfuls of feathers and pulled himself closer to Finley’s face. “I’ll have you know I’ve been an explorer since you were jizz in your daddy’s balls, whelp.”

If only your mommy swallowed.

The insult lingered in Finley’s head, but not for its effectiveness. For the idea. Swallow. Finley tensed. He had sworn off mid-flight snacks, no matter how vulgar his rider. A gryphon pilot arriving at their destination sans passenger risks a lot of unwanted attention and unanswerable questions.

A pinch of his feathers brought Finley back to the fox growling in his ear. “Finley, right? Expect a complaint and your name plastered on every review site I can find. When we touchdown—”

“We?”

“Yes, we.” The fox snorted. “Forgotten how words work?”

“It’s not that, sir, and you needn’t fret. Air Gryphon has a lesser-known first class seating option—the best in the business!” Finley looked over his shoulder, sharing a warm smile with the fox. “It promises a windless, climate-controlled atmosphere, free of any feathery irritants, all while retaining the majesty and wonder of gryphon flight.”

“Hah. Nice try.”

“I’m completely serious,” said Finley. “Best of all, we’re running a special promotion—today only. One lucky passenger will be upgraded free of charge!”

“Unless you’ve got an invisible carriage tied to your flanks, I don’t see how.”

“Oh, there’ll be something on my flanks, alright.” Finley’s grin inched wider. “Because…guess what? You won!”

The gryphon splayed his wings, shuddering to a harsh stop, and thrust up his midsection. The fox flung off his back. A delightful shriek arched overhead, and Finley shot up his head and lurched his beak wide, glimpsing the fox’s panic-stricken face as it hurtled down, down between his jaws. His yelling came to a wet end, muffled by a sloppy squelch.

The fox’s head squirmed in Finley’s gullet, thrashing legs meeting nothing but sky, his full descent blocked by broad shoulders. Finley raked his foretalons across the fox’s torso, parting him of his unappetising clothing. Tattered rags fluttered off behind the gryphon, soon lost to the sky.

Finley took his time. He wanted to savour every delectable inch of his mid-flight snack. That left the fox torn between two tortuous extremes; frigid altitude hammered his exposed waist and legs, orange fur swept back and dancing in the gale, while his head and chest overheated, stuck tight in a muscular gullet, drenched in slimy gryphon slobber. His squirms did little more than help smear himself in hot drool, soaking every tuft of fur past Finley’s beak.

Unable to speak, a gullet packed full with tasty fox, Finley heaped on his teases by kneading both talons against the protruding lumps in his throat, giving extra attention to the fox’s wiggling snout. The pattern was simple: a shove, then a gulp. With each wet squelch, the fox’s bulge slid deeper. And with each inch he sank, more untouched fur entered Finley’s beak. His tongue wasted no time soaking up the fox’s flavour and lubricating him for the journey ahead.

The fox kicked his legs and shouted angry objections, though they amounted to a mumble beneath the thick hide of Finley’s gullet. But despite his obvious protests, his red boxers told a different story. Finley eyed them greedily as they sank closer and closer to his beak. A sizeable bulge stretched the fabric, twitching with every gulp, the wet spot growing larger. A mumbled coo escaped Finley as they drew close enough to smell.

The swallowing continued, slow, steady, stopped by occasional groping by Finley of his swollen gullet. Those boxers soon came in reach of his tongue. The front button looked taut, about to burst off.

Dizzy with glee, Finley slipped his tongue underneath the elastic waistband and lapped the salty meat beneath, eliciting spasms and whimpered moans from the lucky fox. That small wet spot vanished as the entire fabric darkened, drenched with gryphon slobber.

Finley didn’t need to give the fox’s cock more attention; the tight, velvety folds of his gullet awaited, hot, moist and throbbing. As if aware of the heavenly embrace ahead, the fox’s cock drooled a heavy dollop of white, which Finley swiped clean. Before another stream could leak, the gryphon gulped. Hard. The fox’s cock vanished into his steamy beak, the tapered tip stroking the back of his maw, smearing the sphincter in precum.

And with another swallow, the gullet devoured it whole.

The fox’s manhood pressed into Finley’s throat muscles. The gryphon could feel it rubbing the walls. Snug. Twitching.

While it left no bulge for Finley to stroke from the outside, facing the wrong way, Finley’s talons found something just as fun. He always took note of his passengers’ backsides. Three reasons. One, Finley loved ass—naturally. Two, a plumper rump meant greater comfort when carrying said rump on his back for hours. And three, Finley really, really loved ass.

No surprise then that his hands squeezed down against the two plump mounds filling his gullet, one in each hand. His talons showed no mercy. They squeezed, stretched the cheeks apart, pushed them together, slapped their juicy centres, prodded the crease between them, even massaged the pair—altogether laying claim to the fox’s ass.

And what a claim to make; once the fox’s legs slipped between his beak, the fox would be his. That ass would be his.

The fox struggled, of course, but these struggles were different to his earlier thrashing. They resembled thrusts—the awkward thrusts of a fox suspended upside down in a gryphon’s gullet, serving only to propel himself deeper. And with each thrust, Finley felt the hardened stroke of a cock at the back of his throat, grinding against hot pink folds.

Learning the fox’s rhythm, Finley timed his gulps, meeting each thrust with a possessive squeeze of his gullet. The fox’s thrusts grew frantic, desperate, his legs thrashing above Finley’s head, muffled moans oozing out of the maw, carried forth by steamy breaths. Not wanting the fox to disappear so soon, Finley gripped his ass cheeks and held him in place, milking his meal’s throbbing cock with rapid, shameless gulps.

The curves bloating Finley cream-coloured throat spasmed. The fox grunted and groaned, paws clenching tight, tail flapping in the gale. Finley himself moaned as the fox’s knot thrust into a throbbing fold and nestled deep, embraced by sizzling heat and moisture, swelling, about to erupt.

One last gulp simulated the loving squeeze of a mate’s aching hole locked to that fat knot. The fox roared in bliss. He jerked and twisted within the skin-tight gullet, wobbling the bulging pocket, putting on a show to no one but Finley. Heat gushed down the gryphon’s gullet, a pent-up serving of fox cum, each shot thickening the bloat in his neck.

And still Finley swallowed. The sticky mix of slobber and spunk squelched in his gullet, muscles kneading the mess, marinating the fox in his own lust. Finley’s groping paws smeared it further. If only he could see that fox now, his once-orange fur glazed in white, matted and clumped, a cum-covered nose wiggling, huffing musk, cream oozing into his fluffy ears, into his maw, onto his whiskers, an altogether humiliating comeuppance for the fox to stew in as he himself became gryphon stew.

And the best part—the fox couldn’t stop it. His knot quaked deep within a steaming pocket of flesh, no doubt thinking it had tied with a mate, blissfully unaware that this would be the last load it ever spilled.

Though the fox lurched without end, lost in his climax, Finley grew bored. Bored and ravenous. He released the fox’s ass and continued his gulps. The meal’s tail soon slipped between his beak, whapping against the gums, quickly weighed down by splattering slobber, weakening, falling limp, then pitifully sliding through the dark crevice, disappearing for good.

Next came the fox’s clenched paws, sinking into the maw’s shade, their small claws gripping the beak’s edges. A simple twitch of Finley’s jaw dislodged them. They passed through the sweltering threshold of the gryphon’s maw, their pink pads glistening with sweat and humidity.

Finley didn’t swallow. The fox, wearing down from his climax, drained of strength, offered no resistance as gravity sank him deeper. The tight sphincter clamped his paws, the drenched pads squelching as they rubbed together. Ravenous muscles crept over them.

Engulfed by dim pink, the fox’s toes gave one last pitiful twitch. A plea to the clouds above. A cry for mercy.

Unfortunately, gryphons have a merciless hunger. From that tiny slit of darkness, crammed tight with fox paws, rumbled a pathetic whine, a whimpered, “N-noooo…”

The gullet responded as expected. Clenching. Flesh rippled over those flexed toe beans, and with one last squeeze of steaming-hot muscles, the fox ceased to exist in the outside world.

The gullet stayed sealed for some time, slightest twitches from within propelling the meal deeper. Finley closed his eyes. He loved this feeling. Though he had to mask his predatory cravings in normal society, he relished any opportunity to revert to his baser instincts; the moment his body claimed live, struggling prey always left him on cloud nine.

With a rumbling churr, his gullet finally loosened. The pit of his maw widened to reveal a slick tunnel. Other than the strings of drool connecting the walls, there was nothing to be seen. No fox. No fur. Not even a dribble of seed. Just a tongue wiggling in front of a dark abyss.

And with a sharp snap, the maw vanished behind the black of his beak.

Finley groaned, eyes lidded in bliss, as the fox’s wriggling curves slumped into his midsection. His belly drooped lower, wobbling through the sky, a satisfying stretch spreading his haunches apart. Cargo always felt lighter in his gut compared to his back, though passengers had no expectation of getting their belongings back.

And this fox, he hoped, had no expectation of escape. The swell in his gullet shrunk, absorbed into his midsection. With one last shove against the fox’s meaty rump, kicking legs rippled into Finley’s belly.

His gullet finally empty, a euphoric groan staggered out from Finley’s beak, bellowing from deep within. “Fuuuuuck yeah…” He gave a steamy huff and smacked the dome of his belly. “What fun you turned out to be.”

The fox shouted something back, rendered mute beneath chubby gryphon hide.

Finley peered to his side, snickering as a well-pronounced snout stretched his fluffy flank. “Did it feel good creaming all over yourself? Soaking in it?”

The fox, again, mumbled something inaudible.

“I hope it did,” said Finley. “Because the only thing you’ll be soaking in now is stomach juices.” Finley flung his hip out, swinging his dangling underbelly. The contents—gut gunk and fox cum—splashed about within, punctured by a defeated whine.

“Good luck making a complaint now.” Finley snickered; it was a rather ballsy threat for the fox to make while alone with a gryphon, separated from help by miles of sky. “The only thing that’ll be complaining is my intestines—once your useless leftovers bloat ‘em up.”

Finley silenced the fox’s reply with another sloshing swing of his undercarriage. Eyes lidded in bliss, he flapped back to a leisurely pace, a quarter his original speed; his passenger needed time to enjoy the in-flight entertainment.

His belly, plump at the best of times, now bulged outwards, squeezing against his four dangling limbs. The cream hide wobbled between them, the stomach’s occupant thrashing within. They added a lagging rhythm to Finley’s flight, lurching him downwards, requiring the gryphon to flap twice as hard to maintain his altitude.

A thick layer of fluff wasn’t enough to hide the imprints of paws and joints. They distended the hide, ripples emerging from every kick and jab. The meal fought up a storm. Pressure against his insides coaxed sharp grunts and chits from Finley, whose beak soon hung ajar. Of course, miles above the ground, hidden in the bright blue yonder, Finley relished those struggles, discernible—enjoyable—to no one but himself.

Well, those struggles caused a slight hazard. A hazard to any unlucky enough to be standing below Finley’s flight path.

Finley was happy to show off that hazard to the sun. He flicked his lion tail high. Nestled beneath, the plump donut on his rump glistened in the sunlight, its bright wrinkles slick with sweat from a long flight and a feisty meal. As he aired out his asshole, his pucker trembled with the motions of his meal; each kick in his gut coaxed a clench. A musky bead of sweat dribbled forth to fall two miles back to earth.

That wasn’t the hazard.

Below that twitching tailhole, past the fluffy sac he hadn’t found time to empty for several weeks, a fat sheath throbbed against his swollen underbelly. Several inches of pink gryphon cock emerged from its stretched ring, smearing precum across his belly fur.

With every flap of his wings, Finley bucked his rump to grind against the curves of his passenger. With every flap of his wings, Finley’s dangling hind paws clenched tight. And with every flap of his wings, cum drooled from his cock, the thick string snapping under its own weight.

Finley craned his head under his chest, admiring both the defined outline of his meal and the aerial bombardment he dribbled in abundance. “Definitely should have emptied before the flight.” Finley chuckled, his laugh breaking into a pleasured squawk. “Oh well! Look out below!”

As feather-ruffling as it was to fuck his gut mid-flight, Finley had a more pressing concern: returning with a bloated gut in place of a passenger would raise some questions. Tough questions. Some assumptions too, all of them—Finley would assert—entirely unfounded. To avoid those tough questions and baseless conclusions, processing his passenger had to come before processing his lust.

With a joyful chirp and much lethargy, Finley foretalons clenched into the front half of his belly, forming faint creases across his hide. His hind paws squished into the hide on opposite sides of his cock, kneading his more sensitive region. The meal yelped and lurched in protest, fists and feet stretching out his flanks, but the stomach did little more than shudder in the gryphon’s grip, otherwise refusing to move.

“Attention passengers.” Finley closed his eyes, purring and playing with his belly. “We regret to inform you that due to unforeseen circumstances, this flight must make an unscheduled diversion.” Finley squeezed with all four paws. The meal yipped, the gryphon squawked, and the fattest glob of cum thus far trailed through the sky below. “We a-are…redirecting your destination…to gryphon haunches. We apologise for the inconvenience.”

A moment’s stillness. Then the fox squealed, throwing himself about the now spasming belly. Finley loosed a deep, chittery gargle as the meal’s thrashing snout slammed several times against his cock, each blow coaxing a fat raindrop of gryphon seed, sent hurtling from the heavens.

“Hey, no whining! You should have read the T&Cs on the back of your ticket.” Finley clacked his beak, trying to restrain himself from blowing too soon. “No refunds!”

But the fox’s struggles grew fiercer, and with the added force, so did the intense rubbing and stroking of Finley’s cock.

He needed to deal with both hungers at once.

Finley bucked his hips, thrusting his swollen sheath against the sensual curves of his underbelly. He squawked and lurched, faltering wings forcing sudden free falls. Getting yourself off mid-flight was neither easy nor elegant, though elegance had gone out the window back when he slurped down a whole fox.

With targeted shoving of his talons, Finley packed his meal towards the pit of his gut, like squeezing luggage into an overhead locker—just replace luggage with fox, squeeze with compact into a scrunched ball, and overhead locker with…

Look, you get the point.

Said scrunched ball understood all too well. He could do naught but twitch and whine, heavenly trembles against Finley’s cock.

“A-attention pass…passengers.” Finley took every moment he could to thrust against his gut. “We are overloaded…and must…eject excess luggage.” On cue, his overburdened nuts clenched against his taint, ready to unload one hell of a mess. “Pl-please assume the brace position.”

Finley pressed down with all his might. The fox’s face bulged from the gryphon’s undergut. The indent of his eyes proved wonderful holders of the gryphon orbs, while his prominent snout was the perfect grind toy for a gryphon knot. Pressure built on both sides of the whimpering fox. Squeezing talons crammed him against a thrusting cock, and a thrusting cock rammed him back against squeezing talons. His curves lost definition with each buck of gryphon rump, his form already softened from stewing in turbulence, the little morsel collapsing into himself.

“Th-thank you for flying with Air Gryphon.” Finley beat his wings with fury, gaining altitude just for him to rocket down with a series of breakneck thrusts. “W-we hope you had a safe flight.” Eyes clenched in ecstasy, the gryphon’s tongue swung from his open beak, garbled squawks and broken chirps booming from his neck.

Within his gut, soggy squeals rose in pitch with each buck of gryphon hips. The churning of the gut’s semi-liquid contents, sent sputtering each powerful thrust of Finley’s cock, soon drowned out the meal. Finley’s cock glazed the fox’s wobbling lumps. Cum splattered and squelched, coating his sheath. Above, that sweaty donut loosened and squeezed, milking an invisible cock.

“And we, we…” Finley’s knot thickened, digging deeper into the gut, into the fox. “We hope…” With a violent arch of his back, the gryphon forced all his weight into one last slam. A croaked mewl shattered into a wet crunch. The cock squeezed into the bloated hide and through the fox’s snout as though it were soggy paper. “We hope to see you again!”

The stomach bellowed in digestive triumph, and Finley, moaning, pleasured by the mighty tremble of his hide against his cock, lurched his beak to the sun. He squawked in ecstasy. A massive rope of gryphon cum shot across his churning belly—the first of many.

Finley humped his noisy gut as string after string of cum flew into the wild blue yonder. His nuts bounced against his thighs from the momentum of his flaps, and the liquefying contents of his low-hanging carriage bubbled and sploshed. It took all of Finley’s focus to keep his wings under control, for everything else gave into bliss—tightened eyes, splayed wings, clenched paws, raised tail, and even the twitching of his sweaty tailhole, the rim puckering with every shot of cum, smooching the crisp high-altitude wind.

Finley’s sac had much love to give. And his quivering gut urged his climax on. The fur on his belly lightened from cream to white, dribbling off in heavy globs.

God help you if your house is beneath a gryphon’s flight path. Property values will never recover.

Many minutes later, the last drops of cum twinkled through the sky. A weary gurgle escaped Finley’s gullet. It took many more minutes for his composure to return, signalled by a long sigh.

“Whew, sorry,” he said. “That ‘see you again’ thing is part of the script.” Finley flapped in place, panting, his muscles aching. “Thanks for helping me unload—been a few weeks. I’d give you a kiss, but…you know.”

The not-so-solid fox replied with a gloopy burble, barely audible over the gastric hiss.

“Yeah, I ain’t seeing you again.” Finley twirled and flew upside down. “But how’s that for a once-in-a-lifetime experience? Assholes like you melting into slush is a natural part of the gryphon-riding experience.” His softened hide—the sputtering slop within—made him snicker. “And you didn’t even last thirty minutes. Pretty pathetic.”

The gut roared like a heating furnace, churning, smelting down the leftover solids.

“I guess that’s the end of your career as an explorer,” Finley said, patting the dome of his belly. “A misadventure through a gryphon’s digestive system is a pretty humiliating way to go, but don’t worry—I won’t tell.”

A fizzling hum and a sloppy creak culminated with a sudden clench of Finley’s cream undercarriage. A wet crunch thundered from his gut.

“Someone sounds flustered. Teases making you melt?” Finley poked his tongue out, a playful blep. “Don’t go too soon; you’ve got one last adventure ahead. Know what it is?”

The belly replied eagerly, a sputtering groan reverberating through the plump hide.

“That’s right! You’re gonna be pumped away, whittled into padding. Lucky you!”

It had already started. A sloppy glut rang from near Finley’s haunches, the ravenous slurp of intestines gobbling down bubbling mush, eager to convert the former passenger to a more delightful form.

Gryphon curves.

“Love the enthusiasm.” Finley chirped and spun right-side up, much to the noisy protest of his mostly molten gut. Stirred from the momentum, the slop within crashed against the walls, rocking his undercarriage from side to side, chub overflowing from beneath his flanks.

Finley clenched his legs to force his belly still, and with an affectionate pat, pat, pat of his gut, said, “From fox to flanks. From asshole to…well, my asshole, hopefully!”

Finley slowed his wings, dragging out the flight time. Not just because of his predatory cravings; touching down with a noisy belly and missing passenger raises only one conclusion—a baseless conclusion, of course. But touching down with fatter ass and thicker thighs would raise nothing aside from the cocks of any onlookers.

Digestion was always exhausting, especially mid-flight, but Finley still found the energy to whistle cheerily, a stark contrast to the grotty churning from his gut. Between his haunches, his softening dome of a belly simmered, the soup inside heating to a boil. Juices sputtered with each bout of turbulence. Outward clenches of the hide were the only sign of the activity within. Each pulse of muscle crammed more mess through his sphincter. Each twitch squeezed more slop into his intestines.

And those intestines, as ravenous of the stomach that came before, squelched and pumped, working tirelessly to convert melted fox into chub. Indeed, as minutes passed onboard the stalled flight, the swell in Finley’s gut shrunk. But all that fuel reemerged elsewhere—somewhere designed for long-term storage.

The gryphon’s haunches were first priority. Their brawny curves and protruding muscle, built up from years of supporting the gryphon’s heft, lost definition. The surrounding hide thickened. In tempo with those noisy gluts from his gut, Finley’s thighs tensed and his paws curled. With each clench, the slightest more chub weighed his haunches down, the extra hide rippling in the wind.

As his stomach compacted, those haunches came together to enjoy the added space. They soon made contact, heralded by a happy chirp. The flapping of Finley’s wings jostled his thighs, rubbing them together, smearing sweat across their golden fur. As the gryphon’s gut routed more fuel to their wobbling curves, they soon cupped his sheath, embraced his nuts, and squeezed his spent cock newfound warmth.

Finley loosed a moan, his still-twitching haunches teasing his sensitive sheath. “You’ve got the best seat on the flight back there.” With his thighs smooshed, the very tip of his cock peeked from between the slick fur, cum dribbling with each added drop of fuel, the mess glazing his thighs white. “Though it rarely takes this long to pump down slush. You’re one thick fox. Should’ve booked two seats, cheapskate.”

The flight dragged on, as did the glutting from his gut. Finley’s haunches were overloaded with fuel, so the nutrient-rich sludge had to be distributed elsewhere—that second seat.

And where else would it go but Finley’s plump rump? The gryphon was back-heavy, and he wasn’t shy about flaunting it. Strutting in front of passengers, tail raised, rump swaying, clenching his hole—he loved to tease. And passengers loved to watch. And a lucky few would end up becoming part of his scrumptious ass.

This fox would be the latest contributor.

Finley’s toned cheeks—the very top of his haunch muscles—squished together with the beat of his wings, a rhythmic tense of his glutes. Each flap flashed his donut hole. Much like Finley’s thighs, the fattening fox did a number on them. Those fuzzy spheres swelled outwards, widening the gryphon’s flanks, puffing out his hide. The turbulent flight jostled his emptied sac, which bounced up off his gut and struck his cheeks, soft plap, plap, plaps coaxing ripples across his thickened layer of butt chub.

Finley groaned, the familiar swell of added girth curling his toes. “Come on…get to the back of the plane. I’ve always wanted a bubble butt…”

He would get his wish. His belly burbled, slurping down what little slush remained. While his intestines absorbed the fox’s sloppy offering, Finley’s cheeks swung in a sprightly arc, each juicy mound plump enough to be a pillow. The added fat concealed his pucker, granting only teasing glimpses of his sweaty hole.

His rim also enjoyed a few extra inches of padding—both along its outer curve, and within the wrinkled crease of his hole. Outwards, of course, granted a thicker ring, more meat for those who serviced the gryphon, more to nibble, a puffier donut for their tongue to circle. Inwards meant a tighter hole. Any privileged enough to mount Finley would plunge into heavenly plumpness—and be milked for everything they had.

“Really wish I could see you back there. Hope you don’t mind the sweat.” Finley looked over his back, between his wings, admiring his beefed-up rump, swishing through the sky. His new and improved donut gleamed in the sunlight and shuddered in the breeze, aching to be filled. Sweat dribbled down the wrinkled creases with each twitch, streaked over his taint—that plump runway—and rolled down the curve of his nuts, glistening his fur.

“Jeez, why is it always so sweaty back there?” Finley’s pucker shivered as another glint of sweat leaked from his hole. “Don’t worry, little fox. When we land, I’ll find a cute stable boy to roost on. He’ll give you a good clean; those weirdos are always so eager to smooch gryphon ass.”

By now, the Finley’s gut had receded back to ordinary size, still shapely, still slick with cum, albeit with a distinct lack of fox. From beneath the hide oozed the raspy sputter of leftover sludge, swirling away. Down his intestines. En route to gryphon rump.

Finley clacked his beak and sighed as his gut rumbled, a sated groan proclaiming its emptiness. As endorphins whirled through his mind, he suddenly tensed; distracted, he had passed the runway. He took a harsh curve and dove free fall.

“Attention passengers,” he shrieked above the screaming wind. “We are now beginning our descent to sunny Bridgeton. Please fasten your seat belts!”

Finley landed heavily. Dust shot into the air as his weighted hind paws slammed onto the tarmac. His thickened rump added momentum, and he needed more runway than usual to slow himself.

Once he stabilised his speed, he skipped the rest of the way, testing his new girth. His stomps thwacked the tarmac, and his belly bounced with each hop. He spread his haunches wide to give the fat room to wobble and breathe, his nuts swinging between, plapping, sinking into the cushioned hide. Above, his sweat-slick cheeks quivered, begging for a touch, tremors rolling across their swollen heft.

It’d take some time to settle in all his added bulk. Not that Finley minded. In fact, if the streaks of precum trailing down the underside of his sheath were any sign, he couldn’t wait.

He lurched to a stop at the end of the runway. His belly sloshed, lurching under his frame. Though slimmed and inconspicuous, if one were to push their ear to the fur, they’d hear the sloppy churns of fox soup, stirred by the landing, draining deep in his bowels.

With a sly smirk, Finley twirled to face his rump to the closest terminal, where many an awaiting traveller no doubt watched the latest gryphon landing in awe. Finley wiggled his upper body down to the tarmac and stretched his forelimbs forward. He arched his back, his joints popping as he relieved all that post-flight stiffness.

And, of course, he raised his tail, bucked his rump high, and mooned those in the terminal with a candid view of his juicy, glistening donut. Fuzzy gryphon nuts swung between his haunches as he swayed his ass.

God, he loved this job.

“Attention passengers. This is your Seaport to Haunches service, one-way. We have touched down safely at our destination. Your luggage will be waiting for you on the tarmac.” Finley closed his eyes and thrust his gut at the ground. His neck plumage ruffled, waving upwards, tracing a swell in the gryphon’s throat. A crass, shameless—

OouRUUrrclh!

—pried open his beak. Globs of slobber erupted from his maw, splatting against the tarmac. Finley sighed, then straightened out of his stretch, sluggishly slow. He lapped his beak and huffed deep, taking in the fox’s flavour and scent one last time. Eyes glazed, he peered down at the congealed glob of drool and stomach juices. There was the fox’s acid-scorched passport, his tattered collar, and not much else.

It wouldn’t be hard to mark him as a no-show.

Finley pawed the gloppy scraps off the tarmac, onto the dirt. He dug a quick hole and flicked the leftovers in.

“What I wouldn’t do for a belly rub right about now,” Finley mused as he stomped the dirt flat. But a trickle of sweat sweeping down his taint reminded him of his overheated rump. Would they let him take two stable boys? No, he’d have to choose, wouldn’t he?

Finley groaned, but he made his decision rather quick: an evening spent with some cutie’s face nuzzled between his cheeks—their fingers kneading his rump, their lips sealed around his pucker, their mouth moaning into his hole, slurping and sucking until addicted to the taste of gryphon—sounded like pure bliss. Finley’s cock peeked from his sheath at the thought. As it dribbled between his plump haunches, he plodded towards his hanger, a converted stable.

And he swayed his rump the entire way.

Source: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/53219129