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ID
147957
MD5
7c218d11387eb8009f3c7b1800b23b63
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2560x2048 (4.64 MB)
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Explicit
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angel and stitch (lilo and stitch and etc) directed by gridanon
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Description

Experiments must have 4 arms for a reason, right?

Trying to experiment more with different styles. Although more detailed and photorealistic gens are popular, I think it's still valuable to have a variety of different styles.

Thanks to KnotAnother for the good explanation of what needed to be fixed here!

Tech Talk

This was made using a local install of Reforge for Stable Diffusion using 3WolfMond-LastSDG: https://huggingface.co/Xeno443 . I'd recommend any or all of the 'Mond models, they're all some of the best furry SDXL models.

For the upload Tail Tagger was used to assist in tagging: https://github.com/renfald/tail-tagger . Along with the JPT-3 for AI assisted tags: https://huggingface.co/RedRocket/JTP-3/tree/main/models?not-for-all-audiences=true

AI Story - How do you say 4-handed handjob in Hawaiian?

The secluded cove was theirs alone that evening. Far from the tourist beaches of Kauai, this stretch of white sand curved between black volcanic cliffs, hidden by dense stands of ironwood and hala trees whose long, sword-like leaves rustled in the warm trade wind. The sky had deepened to bruised purple, streaked with lingering coral and gold from the sunset that had just slipped below the Pacific. Bioluminescent plankton glowed faintly in the shallows, turning each breaking wave into a momentary ribbon of soft turquoise light. The air carried salt, wet stone, night-blooming jasmine, and—stronger now—the thick, animal musk rising from both their bodies.

Stitch lay sprawled on his back in the warm sand, knees bent, tail flicking lazily against the ground. His blue fur was already dusted with fine grains that clung to the slight sheen of sweat beginning to form along his spine and under his arms. He had retracted every extra limb except the two antennae that curved forward like question marks, quivering with every heartbeat. His black, saucer-like eyes were locked on Angel as she stood over him, silhouetted against the fading sky. She had kept all four arms extended tonight—two perfect pairs, symmetrical and graceful, each tipped with delicate lavender claws that caught the last light like polished amethyst.

Angel’s pink fur practically glowed in the twilight. Her longer, silkier antennae swayed gently as she tilted her head, studying him with open hunger. The lavender markings that ran from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks and along her sides seemed to pulse faintly in time with her breathing. Between her thighs her own arousal was already evident: a darker, glistening wetness matting the short fur there, the scent of her—a heady blend of night flowers, warm vanilla, and raw feminine need—drifting down to Stitch and making his nostrils flare.

“You’re staring, boojiboo,” she teased, voice low and melodic, the same velvet tone she used when she sang. She took one slow step closer, letting one lower hand trail along the inside of her own thigh, collecting a bead of her slickness on a fingertip. She brought it to her lips, tasting herself deliberately while holding his gaze. “Like what you see?”

“Meega… naga see enough,” Stitch rumbled. His voice was deeper than usual, gravel scraped over velvet. His cock had already emerged fully from its protective sheath. It lay heavy against his lower belly at first, then—stimulated by nothing more than her scent and the sight of her four hands—began to rise. And rise. And rise.

By the time it reached full, obscene erection it towered well past his navel, thick as Angel’s wrist at the base and tapering only slightly toward the flared, ridged crown. The shaft was a deeper cobalt than the rest of him, crisscrossed with slightly raised, fleshy ridges that spiraled lazily along its length like the grooves on an ancient seashell. A thick vein throbbed visibly along the underside, feeding the beast. Below it his balls hung impossibly large—each one swollen and heavy, the size of ripe mangoes, covered in the same velvety blue fur but stretched taut over the engorged orbs within. They shifted with every breath he took, the weight pulling gently downward, the skin so sensitive that even the breeze made him twitch.

Angel dropped gracefully to her knees between his spread thighs. Sand clung to her fur in little constellations. She inhaled deeply through her nose, drinking in his scent: salt, ozone, overheated metal, and that dark, addictive undertone that was pure experiment rut. Her mouth watered.

“Such a big boy tonight,” she murmured, almost reverent. All four hands moved at once.

Her two lower hands claimed his balls first. She cupped them from underneath, lifting their considerable weight so they rested in her palms like warm, living fruit. The fur there was softer, almost downy; she could feel the heat radiating through it, the subtle pulse of blood and seed. She kneaded slowly, thumbs tracing slow circles over the seam that ran between them, feeling them draw up incrementally tighter with each pass. Every few seconds she gave a gentle tug downward, just enough to stretch the skin and make Stitch’s hips jerk.

“Grrrraaah… Angel…” His claws flexed, digging deep furrows into the sand on either side of him.

Her upper two hands went to the shaft.

The right one wrapped firmly around the base—fingers still nowhere near meeting—squeezing just hard enough to feel the steel core beneath the silky outer skin. She twisted her wrist slowly as she began the first long upward stroke, letting the spiral ridges catch and drag deliciously against her palm. The left hand settled higher, just below the coronal ridge, and mirrored the motion but in the opposite direction: a counter-twist that created a corkscrewing sensation along the entire length.

Precum welled immediately from the slit at the tip—thick, pearlescent, faintly glowing in the dim light like liquid starlight. It dribbled down the underside in slow, viscous trails, coating her fingers and making every subsequent glide obscenely slick. The wet, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick filled the quiet between the waves.

Angel leaned forward. Her tongue—longer and more dexterous than a human’s—darted out to lap at the steady flow. She moaned at the taste: intensely sweet-salty, with an electric afterbite like licking a storm cloud. She swirled around the head once, twice, then pulled back so she could watch her own hands work.

“Look at this mess you’re making already,” she purred. “Four hands and you’re still leaking like a broken tap.” She sped up slightly. The lower pair on his balls began rolling them in slow, firm figure-eights, occasionally pressing them together so the sensitive inner surfaces rubbed. The upper pair maintained their alternating twists—one clockwise, one counter—while also sliding up and down in long, milking pulls that ended with a tight squeeze just under the head.

Stitch’s entire body was taut now, muscles standing out under his fur in sharp relief. His tail thrashed, sending sand flying. His breathing came in harsh, open-mouthed pants; every exhale carried a low, continuous growl. “Angel… boojiboo… too good… gonna—”

“Not yet,” she whispered. She slowed deliberately, letting her strokes become feather-light teases along the most sensitive ridges while her ball-massaging hands went still, simply cradling and warming. “I want to feel every inch of you throb before you give it to me.”

She dipped her head again. This time she took just the head into her mouth—lips stretching wide around the flared crown—and sucked. Hard. Her tongue pressed flat against the underside, rubbing back and forth over the thickest vein while her cheeks hollowed. At the same moment her four hands resumed their previous rhythm, faster now, slick with precum and spit.

The combination was devastating.

Stitch’s back arched off the sand. A guttural, almost pained sound tore from his throat. His hips snapped upward involuntarily, driving another inch past her lips before she pulled back with a wet pop, strings of saliva and precum connecting them.

“Too much?” she asked innocently, even as her hands never stopped moving.

“More,” he snarled. “Moremoremore—”

Angel grinned, showing sharp little teeth. She released his balls for a moment—letting them drop heavily against his thighs with a soft slap—and used all four hands exclusively on the shaft. Two gripped the base in a double-fist hold, squeezing and twisting in opposite directions like wringing a towel. The other two formed a second, higher tunnel, stroking in long, rapid glides that overlapped with the lower pair’s motion. The effect was relentless, a continuous wave of friction from root to tip.

She leaned over him, letting the dripping head of his cock brush back and forth across the soft fur of her breasts, painting sticky trails over her nipples until they stood out, dark and swollen. The added sensation—warm, slick, teasing—made Stitch’s eyes roll back.

“Gonna come for me now, boojiboo?” she cooed. “Gonna fill my hands? Cover me? Mark me as yours?”

The words tipped him.

His whole body locked. A deep, rumbling roar started in his chest and built until it echoed off the cliffs. His giant balls drew up tight against his body, pulsing visibly under the thin skin. Then the first massive spurt erupted—hot, thick, forceful enough to arc over her hands and splatter across her chest, throat, even her cheek. Rope after rope followed, each one accompanied by a violent throb that her four hands milked out of him with expert precision. The scent of his release flooded the air: potent, musky, almost sweet, like overripe fruit left in the sun.

Angel kept stroking through it all, slower now, drawing out every aftershock until he was trembling, whimpering, oversensitive. Only when his cock finally began to soften—still enormous even in retreat—did she ease her grip.

She crawled up his body, four arms wrapping around him in a full-body embrace. Cum streaked her fur in glistening ribbons; she didn’t care. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck, licking at the sweat there.

“Mine,” she whispered against his fur.

Stitch’s arms—only two now—wrapped around her waist. His voice was wrecked, barely audible over the waves.

“Yours… always.”

They stayed like that a long time, tangled together under the emerging stars, sand clinging to damp fur, the ocean singing its endless lullaby while their heartbeats slowly synced.

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