The silence of the evening is broken with a crash.

You're in the kitchen, humming beside the stovetop, when the front door slams open. It rebounds off of the wall, and whirls halfway back into place—before being caught at the top corner by a plate-sized fist. Wicked, half-foot-long talons grip into the wood, crunching the weak material into pulp as their owner looms behind the door.

Her deep shadow strays far into the room, stretching from her titanic, size-forty paws to the very edge of the kitchen countertop. Its brutish owner grunts, then ducks, her great head bowing just low enough to let her crest brush against the top of the doorframe.

You're frozen in place throughout the entire introduction, your size-eight feet stuck to the floor as if cemented. Or pinned by those talons. The ground creaks as the massive silhouette crouches, twists, and then groans. The very foundations of the house seem to groan along as shoulders the width of a small wagon struggle to fit through a door sized for a creature two-thirds her height and a quarter her width.

Mammaries the size of your torso bounce and strain, barely contained by their woefully undersized tank-top. Their owner grunts again, and shoves one shoulder through, the wobbling melons protruding like the vanguard of an invading army.

Or glacial shelf. Her massive back, half again as wide as the doorway itself, slants awkwardly to one side as a bicep thrice as thick as your thigh shoves past the frame. Her sculpted leg alone is as wide as you are, and the flexing bulk of her quads is impossible to ignore.

Mere feet away, though, lies the real prize: a pair of massive. juicy orbs, just barely held in by an overstuffed pouch, weigh heavily against their owner’s mountainous thighs. Each one is larger than your head, and their cumulative volume has stretched the poor pouch until it looks ready to split. Another shove of the giant’s weight bounces them against the doorframe; the wood groans as it’s dented by the impossibly dense testes.

A deep, rumbling noise, too gravelly to be a squawk, escapes the giant's beak at this new development. Just above them, a flaccid member as thick as your torso flops tantalizingly atop the valley of flesh its testicles’ cleavage makes. Each tense shudder of the titan’s body makes it spurt out another pint-sized flood of precum, a cascade of milky-white droplets shuddering free of the weighty ballsack with each twist and shove its owner makes.

Her enormous claw shifts to the top corner of the doorway and clamps down—hard. Massive talons shred the wallpaper and crush the plaster for leverage while, grunt by straining grunt, its owner squeezes her way inside.

The very house seems to hold its breath as Gilda the gryphon, titaness and significant other of yours truly, takes her first, earth-shaking step inside.

She’s...bigger. Much bigger than the last time you saw her. When she left on her trip two weeks ago, she could still fit through the front door, for all that her shoulders still brushed the sides when she tried. Now, though, her torso looks almost like it’s grown half again in width, and her frame is incredibly, impossibly larger. When she left, she’d been a few inches over eight feet. The giant sneering down at you, though, couldn’t be an inch under nine.

"Rrgh!" Gilda grunts with exertion as she ducks her other shoulder. It's clear she's doing her best to fit herself inside. It's only with a forceful twist of her well-toned waist that she's able to slam her gigantic form inside—although it comes with the side effect of tearing her way through the top of the crumpled doorframe. The floor groans again, and she turns back to glance over her handiwork just in time to see the wrenched-off door collapse to the floor.

"Oops," she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Her nostrils flare and she snaps her beak, seeming disgruntled by this unnecessary effort.

You're powerless to do anything but stare, jaw agape, at the damages. "That—that was our door!. You just—"

Gilda snorts, and tosses her black-dyed crest back out of her eyes with a flick of her neck. A predator's hungry gaze fixes on you. "You," she rumbles, "gotta stop making your doors smaller, dweeb."

You brush off the pejorative with barely a tremble, and slam the tray you'd been holding down onto the countertop. Hands balling into fists that would have a hard time holding back a single Gildan digit, you stalk your way to the exit of the kitchen and glare up at her. It's difficult to ignore the fact that she has to duck a little to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling, but in your fury, you somehow manage. "You broke our goddamn door!"

"What can I say?" Gilda shrugs. She smirks, and lets her massive arms flex with not-to-subtle strength. "It was just too damn small, I guess." She takes a pleased look at one huge peak, and brushes her beak against it affectionately.

You are so not in the mood for this—although, a part of you pipes up, a certain part of you between your legs is so very in the mood for this. It's not uncommon for male gryphons to be much smaller than females in size; at five-foot seven, you're uncommonly tall compared to your peers’ average of five-two, especially when the average gryphoness tends to reach a good seven feet. It’s rare for a male gryphon’s head to reach above their mate’s nipples, but you’ve always prided yourself on at least meeting the top of most females’ cleavage. But even so, Gilda's sheer height and bulk makes your alpha-detection sense scream with purpose and submission—especially given that your eye level is almost exactly even with the fat, drooling slit of her mega-cock.

All the same, you shove that voice right back and and scowl up at your larger mate, your own claws clicking together impatiently as you tap your paw on the floor.

"Put it back," you order her.

Gilda quirked an eyebrow at you. "Make me," she says lazily.

It's probably not a good idea to argue with a creature who can wrap her fist all the way around your torso...but you were never all that smart, anyway. "Put it back," you say, glaring up at her with your beady little eyes from your stubby little figure, "or you don't get any dinner."

She actually squawks with indignity. "You ain't gonna feed me? A growin' girl?"

As big as she’s gotten...and she still thinks she's growing? A part of you wants to roll over and show belly right now - or roll the other way and… You force that submissive voice back down with an uppercut to the dick and nod forcefully up toward her. "No dinner," you say firmly, "unless you fix the door."

Gilda snorts. But she doesn't argue. Instead, she just steps forward into the living room and half-turns to the side. Her luscious cock bobs with her, its soft length slapping lazily against her thigh as the weight of her massive body shifts. It's with a casual motion that she picks up the door—a weight heavy enough that you'd need both arms and a buddy to move it easily—with one hand and lifts it back into place. It doesn't quite click, as the torn-up hinges are clearly in no mood for a reunion, but the sights and draft from the outside more or less disappear, leaving the two of you standing alone in your woefully undersized home.

She turns back to you and raises an eyebrow, expectantly. Good enough? she seems to be asking.

You exhale, then nod. You've always been the better one at handling tools, after all. Your fists relax, and fall to your sides.

That's all the signal she needs. Gilda's beak breaks out into a smile, and she grins wickedly down at you. "Now get over here and kiss me, loser."

Dinner's getting cold on the counter—but your mate's getting hotter in the foyer. Meat's on the menu either way. Stumbling only slightly, you exit the kitchen, and trot across the living room toward her. It's only halfway to her that you notice that you're still wearing your floral apron. Bend Over And Fuck the Cook it reads, in flowery letters across the chest. Your cheeks burn, and for a moment, you wonder why you hadn't picked out the baby duckling apron to wear instead.

Not manly enough, perhaps? At least, not for a gryphon male.

Gilda's randy smirk leaves your blush reddening with every step, until finally you stumble to a halt in the depths of her shadow, with her full glory looming over you. "Got two left claws tonight, shorty?" she taunts. "Or were you cooking up your own cock in that oven?"

Your blush flashes scarlet, and you glare up at her. "Oh, shut up."

"Says the shrinkin' twerp," Gilda says. She's only teasing, but the rush of blood to your ears pounds in time with the sudden throbbing at your crotch. She leans over, her magnificent, cub-sized mammaries knocking together as her shoulder muscles roll and flex. Her cock looms inches away from your beak; the heady musk of it makes your head reel, and your half-awake chub clench and throb. Thank goodness for loose aprons. "Gotta say, I think you're even smaller than you were when I left."

You swallow, and try not to let her see. "Just you," you shoot back. "You're just getting too big."

"Yup!" Gilda winks down at you. "And the world's just gettin' too damn small.” She holds out a hand toward you; her thumb alone is as thick as your entire hand. “You gonna need a highchair to kiss me, dork?"

Now this is a familiar ritual. Instead of responding to her halfhearted bait, you just smile and reach your arms up, just as you've done every night since she passed eight feet. Grinning, Gilda bows down further and—after pinching your ass, eliciting a squeak from your beak—scoops you up into her arms as she might a newborn cub. Her fifty-inch biceps flex and cradle you against her tremendous tits as she pulls you forward, a single massive clawed hand easily enough to hold your ass up in the air.

This is the life, and who cares about all the dweebs and losers?  This is what she means. You lean forward and throw your arms around her neck, your fingers pinching against taut, corded muscle. The bulging mass of her neck and shoulders flexes as she pulls you forward into the kiss, her massive body happy to take up even more room as your throbbing crotch presses against a half-dozen gallons of over-spilling breastflesh.

Your tongues wrap together, and though her beaked muzzle is half again as big as yours, for a moment you let yourself melt into her embrace, the hum of her hot breath against yours welcoming you home. Strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you close, and you groan into the kiss as Gilda pulls you further forward into the obscene cleavage of her bust, until she's all but titfucking the swelling tent in your pants.

Your hand roams downward, then to the side, caressing every inch of exposed muscle available to you. With the lack of any kind of clothing large enough to fit your mate's hulking, nine-foot-three form, there are certainly quite a few feet of gryphoness flesh just ripe for the groping. Biceps the size of watermelons tremble and harden beneath the caress of your fingers; moving lower, you feel her forearm, thick enough to make both your thighs look small, press possessively against the small of your back.

Her vast wings flare out behind her, their fifteen-foot wingspan scraping against walls and ceiling alike as Gilda herself growls with obvious lust. Her lion’s tail whips around her side and slithers around your thigh, pulling you in close. There's a tightness to it, an eager possessiveness. Your mate is hungry.

And you?  You inhale deeply, taking in her scent, her musk, her love—and then her tongue tugs on yours again, and you surrender, your body curling around her titanic breasts and muscles like clay as her mountainous form wraps around you. Your tail curls back around hers. You're all in. Or something's about to be all in, anyway.

Below, your sock-covered rear paws bounce and scramble against the sheer cleavage of your mate’s ab muscles. Every few seconds, she dips you forward, and your wriggling toes squeeze around the hot girth of her flaccid member. Each time you make contact, she moans deeply into the kiss, the rumbling in her chest stimulating your pulsating erection as she pulls you even tighter into her embrace.

She's making a soaking mess you're going to have to clean up on the floor, but you're used to that.  Hell, the aroma just makes you want more.

It takes a good thirty seconds for your makeout session to end; at one point, Gilda makes to stop, but your hungry tongue and burning gut drive you to push on, to pull her closer as her thunderous heartbeat makes her prodigious breasts wobble and bounce. After an eternity far too short, her grip relaxes, and you slide back down to the wooden floor. Trembling, but beaming with a breathless air, you grin up at her and wink. She winks back, and gives your quivering rump a final squeeze before letting go.

Your feet hit the floor shakily, your muscles melting down with gravity. Your pants suddenly feel incredibly tight. Back on the ground again, you're back to being face-to-head with Gilda's flaccid megacock. Each one of her virile nuts, larger than your head and weighty enough to hang down nearly to her knees, suddenly seems to groan audibly with fullness. Your lean thighs squeeze together, and you feel your erection throb appreciatively as you breathe in your musk.

"That grub I smell?" Gilda thunders. Her booming voice slices through your aroused reverie, and you startle back to reality. A head-sized paw claps you on the shoulder, and you stumble—for Gilda, it was a light tap, but to you, it's nearly enough to bowl you over. You grunt and try to stagger into balance, but Gilda's not even looking at you. She's bending over, just low enough so that her head won't break through the ceiling, and squinting down at the kitchen counter.

Your beak twitches. "Oh—yeah." You blush, and then reach down to tighten the apron around your waist.

"Sweet," Gilda rumbles. Your eager cock leaps again as your oversized mate's claws tighten lovingly around your shoulder. Her member twitches, and a new spurt of precum splatteres out across a distance of three feet, leaving a sticky puddle on the floor. Her single hand covers more than the entirety of your arm, from your tricep to your collarbone, with her heavy thumb massaging your shoulder blade roughly. "I'm gonna go chill on the couch. Bring my grub out ASAP, shrimp—this big gryphon's starving."

A drop of warm, slick liquid slides down the inside of your thigh, just below the head of your engorged member. Not nearly as large as Gilda's, your endowment is still big enough to leave an appreciable bulge in your pants—your one-third of a leg, an old mate used to joke. "Y-yeah," you say. "Sure. It'll be out in a minute." Your blush deepens, and you quickly whirl back toward the kitchen, grateful that the fluttering fabric of your apron covers your obvious arousal. You've never been so thankful for cloth chrysanthemums in your life.

As the clinking of dishes and silverware fills the small house, the oversized Gilda glances around the living room bemusedly. You can't help but watch her appreciatively out of the corner of your eye; as she rubs her bulging forearms together, she says, "This place got a lot smaller."

"Oh?" you say. It's an effort to keep your voice from cracking, but you're proud that you seem to manage it. It's, admittedly, even more of a struggle to keep your eyes on the parsley you're chopping instead of the gentle sway of your mate's glorious testes between her chiseled thighs. A slick glob of pre gathers at her slit before slowly oozing down to the wooden floor; you wince as it makes contact, spreading out to form a puddle as wide across as your palm. That won't be easy to clean up.

Her gaze flicks toward you; you quickly duck back under the counter. You pretend to rummage through the spice cabinet as she drops her gaze again.

"Yeah," she mutters thoughtfully. Then, more playfully, she adds, "Can't say I don't like the view, though."

"Yeah," you mumble. You wait for a reply, and relax when none is forthcoming.

 Thud, the floor rumbles; you can fill the very earth shaking as she steps further inside the house. Thud. The spice jars tremble; two knock together, their glass clinking loudly as the reverberations of Gilda's tremendous bulk cause the very house's foundations to groan.

Another thud makes your knees knock together, and you swallow. It's not that you fear her, you remind yourself. Your eyes close, and you feel your claws drifting underneath your apron, pushing toward the waistband of your pants. Different emotions entirely.

Okay, maybe a nice little frisson of fear, spicing everything up just the way you both like it. How heavy must she be, you wonder, now so close to stroking your erection. Blackness gives way to vivid imagination; in your mind's eye, you see that great, naked package bobbing and swaying before you, those gigantic tits bouncing far above your head as their owner's muscles flex and swell. Your shaft swells, too, and as your knuckles brush against the rounded orbs straining against your slacks, you stifle a whimper. Another dribble of pre runs down your leg, and you force yourself to exhale. Gilda's not the only one pent-up after two weeks away.

Still shaking somewhat, you unsteadily stand. Just as you reach your full height, you catch sight of a glass of water you'd left on the counter. The vibrations of Gilda's last step are still echoing through your bones, and your beak—and boxers—tighten as you see concentric circles rippling outward from the center of the glass.

Then the entire house shakes.

You yelp. The water all but leaps out of its glass, spilling all over the counter. In a mad scramble, you rush to steady your dinner before the pan falls completely onto the floor—you catch it between two fingers, and sigh in relief.

Out in the living room, Gilda grunts in satisfaction. Your gaze snaps toward her, and you gape. She's plopped herself down onto the couch, the rest of the furniture in the room far too small to hold even a fraction of her weight. Even so, you can watch in realtime as the sofa sinks beneath her mass, its joints creaking and groaning with each inch her mountainous, muscular ass descends toward the floor.

Something splinters. Your eyes widen.

"Hey!" you holler. You stamp out of the kitchen, fists clamped against your waist. "Spread your weight out on that thing!"

Gilda glances lazily over at you. "What for?" She smirks, and the couch creaks ominously again.

You paid good money for that thing—you are not letting your overgrown mate, stupidly hot or not snap it in two! Even so, the poor sofa looks about eight seconds away from shattering completely. Gilda's massive ass covers a full two couch cushions; even sitting down, her head rises up farther in the air than yours does standing. Still, you tighten your beak and glower at her. "You're too heavy!" you say. "You can't put all that mass in one place."

She rolls her eyes. "Geeze," Gilda grunts. "Whatcha gonna make me do next—sit on the freakin' floor?" But she acquiesces, and shifts her weight, her six-foot shoulders rippling with muscle as she pushes herself into her new position. To be honest, if it weren't for her size, she'd be pretty livable. For all she grumbles, she's a lot more respectful of your stuff than most gryphonesses. Maybe it’s the extra bits? The couch complains loudly as she swings one gorgeously potent leg over the side, and the floor squeals as her claws dig deep furrows into the wax, but the worst of the splintering stops. You relax, barely.

Gilda quirks an eyebrow at you. You frown, and then feel a twinge of arousal when you realize that her lower paws are hanging over the far side of the couch, even as her massive, sculpted back pushes a good two feet above the near side's arm. "Got that dinner coming yet, or am I gonna have to go forage?" Gilda yawns, stretching one arm out as she gets herself comfortable. Her knuckles nearly brush against the kitchen counter, and her toes just about scrape the wall by the door. Triceps and biceps bulge large enough to nearly bridge the gap between countertop and floor; as you watch in silent awe, you can't help but catch a deliberate smirk on that avian face.

All the more as she adds, predatory smirk widening, "Takes a lot of adventuring, foraging. In and out of doors."

Oh no. You're not having that kind of intimidation in your house. At least not before dinner. "Soon. And keep those paws clean," you bark. Gilda jolts, and then looks vaguely guilty. Her right paw is plastered firmly to the exposed flesh of her nutsack, where it's been idly massaging one swollen orb since she sat down. A small river of precum has drooled across the back of her palm, and her claws glisten in the soft light of your home as rivulets of precum drip from their points.

Frowning, she pulls her arms back to her chest and rests them atop her bust. "Fine, mom." Gilda snorts. "I'm hungry. Where's my grub?"

"It's coming, geeze." You’re glancing over your arrayed plates and bowls when the sudden smack of flesh against flesh makes you jolt.

Gilda coughs, and gives her bulging thigh a squeeze with the paw pressing around it. "Today, dweeb."

"Fine, fine!" You reach back automatically to untie your apron, and whip it off in a smooth, practiced motion. Too late, you realize that it was the only thing concealing your arousal—but, you realize, with a shiver dancing down your spine, with Gilda's musk choking up the room, it would have been only a matter of time before she'd demanded you to take it off, anyway.

By that time, you're already making your way into the living room, a food-laden tray in your hands. Gilda watches your approach with interest; when you place the tray down onto the coffee table, though, she grunts with clear disapproval.

"That's it?" she mumbles in disgust. "We cookin' for a cub or somethin'?"

You wilt a little beneath the weight of her stare. A three-quart dish of lasagna sits steaming on the tray, right beside a full basket of rolls and a two-liter pitcher of soda. Gilda takes another look at it and scoffs. You scowl, and a small fire alights in your belly.

"Well, sorry," you shoot back. "I wasn't expecting you to put on another foot and a half. Let alone—what, five hundred pounds?"

"Seven-fifty," Gilda grunts. She fixes you with a grin. "Those lame-o Crystal contractors? They at least knew how to feed a gryphon properly. Whereas this is just..." She gestures toward the baking dish and shrugs. "Sorry, dude. Gotta feed this body, y'know?" Her stomach grumbles loudly.

You sigh. "Yeah, sure," you mumble. "I'll get more next time." How you'll get enough to feed her, you're not entirely sure—and if she gets any bigger...

Gilda seems to pick up on your tone; frowning, she reaches over and plants a massive paw on your shoulder. "Hey," she says, brightening—"that some more food I see over there? Maybe you could toss that in, too, and we'll call it even."

You blink, turn—and spot the small bowl of macaroni sitting on the countertop. "But that—that's my dinner!"

Gilda groans. "Ugh," she says—"but I'm hungry!"

"I need to eat too, you overgrown chicken!" Your temper flares, and you give her a kick in the thigh. Instantly, you regret it—"Ow, ow, ow!" you chant, hopping around, holding your injured paw in both hands as the phantom pain of her iron-hard muscles throbs against your claws.

She at least has the decency to look somewhat abashed. "Guh. Fine." Her cheeks flush, and she glances away. "You can eat your little snack—probably wouldn't even fill me up a little."

Your foot finally stops throbbing, and you set it gingerly down on the carpet. Gilda snickers at you, but shuts up when you glare up at her again. "Thank you," you say, and turn back to the kitchen.

She clears her throat, though, and you stop in place. “Oi,” she says lazily. “Get back over here. I wanna see something.”

Your spine stiffens. You obey, though, turning about-face somewhat meekly. There’s a lazy, predatory half-smile on Gilda’s face, and you’re not entirely sure what it means. “What?” you say. You spread your claws; behind you, your wings flutter anxiously. “Y’need something?”

Gilda’s gaze latches onto your throbbing crotch. “Looks like someone’s happy to see me,” she croons. You blush, and she cackles. “I said, ‘get over here,’ shrimp,” she says. “Now march, or I’ll have to come over and grab you.”

You march. The gentle rise and fall of her magnificent bust enchants you as you walk, an unconscious rhythm to your movement causing your toned hips to sway with every step. Gilda grins wickedly, and crooks a sausage-thick finger to entice you closer.

She leers down at the generous bulge snaking its way down your pant leg. “Hey there, lil’ guy,” she coos. "Big G's been looking forward to seeing you, too!"  Lifting a four-inch talon into the air, she strokes its knuckle against your mound of lust; you shudder with obvious arousal. Gilda’s grin widens, and she gives your well-outlined nuts a gentle tap. With her free hand, she’s returned to stroking her own package, her thumb idly petting her chode of a flaccid shaft as her fingers curl around her two-foot nutsack. “You really did miss me, didn’t you?”

You bite back a soft moan. “Says the girl who’s jerking herself off on the couch.”

Gilda snickers. “Even a dumbass like me can tell when a shrimp likes what he sees.” She gives her fat cock a squeeze; it shudders, and splatters her sculpted abs with a good pint of sticky seed. A shiver runs down your erection; she wasn’t that productive when she left. Either she’s added on as much libido as she has muscle mass, or she’s been unable to relieve herself properly like you.

You decide, privately, that it’s probably both.

“But I’m so hungry,” she rumbles. “And I can tell my dorky lil’ cub is hungry for some real meat.” She winks, and gives her right arm a flex; it’s hanging off the couch, and you feel it swell against your hip as her forearm wraps around your back. It's proprietary, possessive…and amazingly comforting. Her voice lowers to a husky growl, and you shudder with barely constrained arousal. “So why don’t you climb up here and help me...eat? Maybe we can share.”

It takes you no small amount of effort to climb onto Mount Gilda; from her position lounging lazily across the couch and room, it's clear that she has no intention of lending a claw. But you don't mind. Climbing her body now is an experience; from the moment you first clambered into a bed with her, you've always adored the chance to explore each inch of her rippling muscles. Of course, in those days, she was more toned than bulging, and the top of her head reached only six inches above yours. Now, though...

The climbing ground beneath you shifts just as you push your palm across a log-thick thigh. Gilda groans with hunger, her massive body moving in an earthquake of motion as she seizes the casserole dish from the table. As you swing your body above the top of her leg, her knee as far above the couch as the sofa cushions are from the ground, she pays you as much attention as a gnat: tiny, light, and insignificant enough to distract from her meal.

By the time you reach the top, she's already begun wolfing down your hearty meal. Gilda's furnace of a stomach rumbles between your legs, the vibrations shivering up and down your erection as you straddle her perfect six-pack. Your hands push forward across her stomach, and you try to keep your balance as her great body shifts beneath you. The tremors constantly remind you: You're straddling a goddess, a titan—and a single lapse could mean falling off.

Which would be worse - the taunting, or the disappointment - you're not sure. You never mean to find out.

Gilda's luscious breasts bounce, hot and heavy, as she feeds herself with gluttonous abandon. Her white shirt, eight sizes too small, is dark and damp with the sweat of her monstrous underboob. Her musk, masculine and feminine all at once and powerful besides, fills your lungs until tears come to your eyes. Strength emanates from her body below you, even as she gulps down a quarter of the lasagna in a single bite. Her fat, succulent tits seem to quiver, her nipples standing erect as the tiny shirt-turned-bra tightens around their diameter.

It's impossible to keep your hands to yourself. You slide your palms up around her belly and tighten your fingers against her hide. Her fur is rough, but warm, and the powerful muscles beneath her skin flex in warm welcome to your touch.

Above you, Gilda swallows her mouthful with a shudder of satisfaction. A beat later, she belches loudly; the floor trembles with the vibrations.

"How was the trip back?" you ask, once the echoes have died off. A bit of socialization never hurt.

Gilda belches again, then licks the sauce stains from her messy beak. "Boring," she grunts. "Couldn't stand it. The dorks wouldn't let me fly—something dumb about protection in the forest—so I had to walk it." She groans, and flexes her shoulders. Her near nine-foot frame ripples with lazy strength, and the couch whimpers as her muscles bulge even larger.

"That doesn't sound fun," you offer.

"It friggin' sucked," Gilda says. "I'm tired as hell. Gimme a rub, little man."

You blink—but a flicker of her eyes down toward her bust makes the point clear. Blushing a bit, you nod, and lower your gaze to her impressive chest. As Gilda clears out another quarter of the three-quart lasagna, you move your hands to her immense, pillowy mounds and give them a light squeeze.

Firm, but bouncy—if any part of your Gilda could be said to be soft, it would be these. Even so, each mountainous melon is easily larger than your head, and though her shirt just barely holds them back, it's easy to imagine just how much force one would have if given leave to swing freely.

You begin to massage her breasts through her shirt. Your thumb and forefinger dig into the supple skin as you move your palms toward the neckline; Gilda swallows her bite, and then coos softly. You smile—and then blush even deeper as one oversized claw tugs at the waistband of your jeans.

"I'm tellin' ya," Gilda grunts. She wipes her cheek clean of sauce and cheese with a brush of her enormous arm. The air displaced by her torso-thick bicep actually creates a breeze, blowing your tufted hair back over your forehead. "Nobody on that trip but fuckin' lame-os. None of 'em even wanted to do anything fun."

The claw tugs a little more insistently. You give her right breast a generous squeeze, and, taking the hint, move to unbuckle your belt. You'd rather not have to buy another one so soon after the last.

Again.

"With a gryphon as stunning as you?" you say. Your pants pop open, revealing the well-stuffed boxers beneath. "I'd hope not." Your throat catches, but you smile, pushing through any hesitation with pride. "After all, you're my mate."

Gilda barks out a laugh—a deep, rolling sound of mirth. "Gettin' testy, huh?" she sneers. The Earth shifts beneath you as she orients her great head to stare down at you; even lying down, her enormous back pushes her neck a good foot above yours. Her powerful claw moves to your front, and hooks around the fabric of your boxers. She pulls, outlining your prick with the tightening fabric. "Funny how a cute little toy gets to think he owns anything—especially anything as big as me."

You grunt; her claw tugs harder, and quickly pokes through the fabric of your underwear. From there, Gilda makes short work of the garment, shredding your boxers as easily as tissue. The sheer volume of precum staining the cloth only makes her task easier, though. As the last stitches of thread rip open, your malehood, stiff and throbbing with arousal, springs free from its prison against your thigh.

A grin slips onto your face, and you lean slightly forward. "So I am cute?" you say. You lean forward and hug both her cushy breasts with your arms; they're big enough that it's a struggle to hug one, let alone both. Her stiff nipples rub against your biceps, nearly half as tall as your arms are thick. With a whisper of motion, and leaving a small stream of precum matting the hide beneath, your cock pushes forward across Gilda's chest until it's wedged firmly between her copious cleavage. You give the big gryphoness a wink, and she rolls her eyes.

"Grabby little cub," she mutters. But she can't help grinning either. A delighted purr fills her throat as she curves a gigantic arm around your bare rear, pulling you forward. Tail lashing happily, you're more than happy to cuddle up to her equally giant breasts, massaging them with every inch of your upper body.

Her purr turns to a chuckle, and she taps your naked ass with a thumb, taking care not to use the sharp end of her claw. You gasp, and your jerking hips lodge another inch of your dripping member between her tits. Gilda's grin is wicked. "I think your dick's gettin' smaller, dweeb. I can barely feel it at all."

Rather than wait for a response, she just grabs the casserole dish in one hand and pours the rest of its contents—more than a quart of baked pasta, sauce, cheese, and meat—right down her gullet. Your cock throbs as a stain of tomato sauce spatters her bust, even as the cook inside of you sobs at this tasteless display of gluttony.

"Mmff," she grunts. As she gulps and chews, Gilda squeezes her magnificent breasts together around your pulsing erection. You moan, fingers digging further into her supple titflesh; the pressure is indescribable. Her tiny shirt stretches, creaks, the fabric splitting just beneath an armpit—there's just too much of her to be contained.

Wait.  Is she getting bigger?

"Too fuckin' tiny," she mumbles. Her cheeks are flushed with pleasure and satisfaction.

"Hey," you shoot back, feeling only somewhat wounded. "I'm plenty big enough. It's just you who's getting too big!"

Gilda chuckles; the rumbling in her great chest makes your jizz-packed balls shudder and tighten. She swallows, and belches again. "Oh, yeah," she groans. She takes her enormous tits in both hands and kneads them, covering far more ground with just one palm than you could with two. "Wasn't even nine feet when I left, cub—now I'm startin' the way to ten!"

"Fuck, Gilda." You can't help but shake your head. "You're freakin' huge." You stretch your body along hers; even stretched out fully, with the top of your head nestled above her tits, your feet still dangle just over her muscular thighs. You let out a long, happy sigh.

Yeah.  This is the life. With a hot head and hotter arousal, you pull the soles of your bare feet inward until they're pressing against the cotton-contained bulk of your big girlfriend's testes. Each one is larger than a basketball, and the damp of sweat and pre surrounding them leaves your toes drenched, and your cock rock-hard. Gilda groans, obviously pleased, as you begin to massage her scrotum between your two feet.

"F-fuck," she slurs. You can feel her cock stirring behind you. Waist-thick, and a whopping two feet long soft, it's no small event when Gilda's malehood makes itself known. Your fourteen-inch member is incredibly respectable, especially for a male gryphon—on you, it reaches all the way up between your slender pecs, the knobbed head poking out above your neckline if not tied down to your thigh. But next to a titan like Gilda, you might as well be a fly standing next to a mountain.

"So big," she grunts. She squeezes her great legs together, kneading her nuts between them even as your tiny feet play across their surface. Her breasts heave, then flex as you grind your erection in the cavern of her ab muscles. "Bigger."

Your ears perk up; your member twitches against her hide. "Geeze," you mumble. "All this, and you're still not big enough?"

Gilda's self-pleasuring slows; blinking, she affixes her wide gaze on you. Then she grins, with all the kindness of a fox.

"Babe," she says, almost voraciously. She gives her arm a flex, and one fifty-inch bicep peaks just beside you. "I ain't ever gonna be big enough."

You swallow. Your balls suddenly feel ten times fuller.

"But—but the house," you stammer. You knew, intellectually, that she was getting bigger—but fuck, there are consequences! "How're you gonna fit inside? You're already too big for the door!"

"You're just gonna have to get a bigger door."

You scowl. It seems more cute than intimidating next to such a titan of mass, but dammit, you like this tiny little house, and you are not going to let it get wrecked by a growth-crazy gryphon. "Nuh-uh, missy," you start. "You need to be more careful. It's not my fault you're indulging—nnff!"

Gilda’s massive arms suddenly flex around your back. With her triceps positioned just above your waist, they easily cover enough ground for the tops of her biceps to piston you right beneath the shoulders.

You gasp. All the breath flees your lungs, and you struggle, squirming against the ironclad grip of your captor. But what hope has a gnat against a mountain, a blade of grass against a hurricane? Your weak little five-four frame is powerless to prevent the gargantuan beneath you from wrestling you into her chest, suffocating you between her cleavage.

Your dick is fucking throbbing.

“Like that, y’little twerp?” Gilda sneers down at you as you writhe between her fat tits. She ruthlessly flexes her pecs beneath her volleyball-sized breasts, and groans happily as the fabric of her shirt rips further. “Big enough for you? Y’ever see tits half this fuckin’ big?”

You grunt, wheeze. You try to reply, even as pure instinct pushes you to struggle against her grasp. But it’s no use. Your malehood, meanwhile, presents absolutely no help whatsoever—it’s hard as steel, and each thrash of your shoulders against her cantaloupe-diameter areolae only makes her moan with sensitive pressure.

You know you can make her stop. All it would take is one tap against her nipple—it’s right there, just two inches to the right of your left hand. To bend this mountain of muscle to your will, and free yourself from this prison of flesh and strength and sex.

But a little voice in your gut asks, simply: Why? And your fingers fall limp.

But the rest of you certainly doesn’t. You struggle and groan, grunting like a crazed animal of prey. The jerking of your hips only serves to grind your engorged cock even harder against Gilda’s furred hide. You can almost feel the lasagna in her belly, bloating it out only slightly, churning and gurgling as her furnace of a body turns it into more size, more power, more muscle.

With a grunt, you try to twist to the side. Gilda flexes her treetrunk-thick arms around you, trapping you in place. The motion makes her entire chest swell—and with little more than a final, warning rip, her shirt explodes off of her chest in tatters. Her magnificent tits finally pop free of their fabric prison, and the laughter in her voice only deepens as she grinds your pathetic little face between them. Your breath is growing shorter; your motions growing weaker. Your member bulges with need, with helpless arousal, powerless to do anything but throb and leak with precum as your lower body humps the massive amazon beneath.

Finally, your head growing light, you pound against her breasts—and brush one of her nipples with the back of your fist.

The signal of surrender received, Gilda releases you instantly—though not without shoving your bare ass forward across her belly until your cock is stuffed directly between her tits. You gasp—and feel a mighty pressure contract, and then release inside your groin. Your hips piston forward, jerking wildly, as each throb of your shaft unloads spurt after spurt of your hot, sticky load.

Two great talons pinch your plump rear. The reflex alone pulls your shoulders back; your cock rips free of its pillowy prison just as the peak of your climax hits. You grunt and moan, shuddering with erotic pleasure as you cover Gilda’s chest, neck, and face with rope after rope of your seed. Your cum-stuffed orbs, swollen larger than tennis balls after the weeks apart, slosh and churn as their contents are released across the mountain of muscle below.

At long last, though, you collapse across her chest. You moan, and shudder with the final aftershocks of climax. Beneath you, Gilda is purring. The steady rumble of her chest milks your nuts for a final few spurts, a few teaspoons of spunk dribbling down and running through her cleavage like a river.

You inhale greedily—and then exhale, every muscle in your body relaxing. Gilda chuckles, and shifts one great bicep across your back once more.

“Too big, huh?” she chides you. She raises an eyebrow.

Face flushed, you shyly shake your head. “M-maybe not.”

“Pfft.” When she rolls her eyes, it’s hard not to see Gilda as the rebellious, undersized punk of a gryphon you first fell for, rather than the enormous beast she’s become. “Horny, kinky fuck. But I’m glad you saw things my way.”

Her bicep flexes. You allow yourself to be herded—pushed, really, like a toddler across a nursery floor. Still red with release and embarrassment, you give her a half-hearted shrug. “But still—“

“The door?” Gilda shrugs back. “Maybe I am gettin’ a lil’ too big for your tiny baby shit.” She flashes a hungry grin at you. “But maybe I just gotta accept that you cubs are just gettin’ too small for me. Don’t wanna break your dorky lil’ house.” She chuckles, and cracks her knuckles over your head. “Even once I’m big enough to step on it.”

Your member spurts out another few dribbles of cum at the thought.

Her eyebrow quirks up again. “Sound good, shrimp?”

You grin back. “Sounds real good, babe.”

“Good,” she says. “‘Cuz I’m hoping that wasn’t all you had.” She eyes your cock meaningfully; positioned just over her breasts, with the tattered shreds of her shirt lying all around you, it makes for a rather striking sight. “Maybe your sex drive’s gettin’ too small for me, too.”

In defiant response, your shaft throbs hard enough to make your whole lower body clench together. You bite down on your cheek, shuddering as tremors of arousal shake your flexed thighs. When you open your eyes, Gilda is eyeing you like a predator watching its mark.

And your cock is still rock-hard.

“No worries there,” you chuckle.

“Sweet,” Gilda says. She pats her rock-hard stomach beneath your cute butt and burps loudly enough that you’re surprised it doesn’t shake the windows. You can smell the sauce, cheese, meat—and just a hint of semen on her breath as she leans in toward you. That hungry look is still in her eyes as she licks her cheek, lapping up a splatter of your cum from her hide.

She smirks. “‘Cuz I was lookin’ forward for some dessert.”