We Delight
" ... bugs or berries, Taylor. I'll take either." A pause, looking around. "It's just that the bugs are a bit harder to catch without, uh ... bug-catching things," she trailed. Still looking. Still hunting.
"Well, who says that we're gonna find any of this," the chipmunk replied, "out here ... I mean, we have ration packs." He skipped a few steps, trying to catch up to her. "Back at the camp, we have ... "
"I don't want ration packs," Aspera replied, looking around with her shiny, dark eyes. She blinked. Clacking her beak. "I want the real thing."
"Well, I want ration packs," was the stubborn response. A sigh. "Darling, it's too early to be ... "
" ... then go back to camp and have some."
"Well ... " A hesitation. His brushy tail went up and down. "Look, I just ... "
"There." She pointed a wing, beak-smiling. "There we go."
The chipmunk followed her gaze. "What are those?" He squinted in the early-morning light, which dappled through the forest's canopy, leaving a mixture, patches of light and patches of shadow. "Raspberries?"
"I do not know," the black-and-white warbler said, softly. Carefully. As she approached the berry-bush. "Sniff them for me?"
"Sniff them?"
She gave him a patient, little smile. "You've a much better sense of smell. Come on," she urged. "Your nose'll know."
"Well, just use your scanner," Taylor said, obviously.
"To think we ever functioned without technology. To think the Lord made us to function IN nature, not apart from it. To ... "
" ... alright, alright," Taylor whispered, whiskers twitching. And he knelt down, peering at the berry bush. Sniff-sniffing, nose pressing to the red, bulbous berries. "Mm." Sniff-twitch. "They do smell good ... I, uh ... I don't SMELL anything wrong with them. But that doesn't mean," he said, turning his head, looking up at her, whiskers twitching, "that nothing is."
"Only one way to find out." The warbler picked a berry from the bush, bringing it to her beak. And delicately plopping it inside, chew-chewing. Beak-clacking. And she tilted her head, swallowing. And then smiled. "Fine as anything."
"Fine as anything, huh?"
"Isn't that what I said? Go on, darling ... try one." She brushed his shoulder with her winged arm. An affectionate, assuring gesture.
The chipmunk relented, still crouched down. Picking a berry. And putting it in his muzzle, chewing. "Juicy," he whispered. "Like, uh ... seedy, too. Like raspberries," he decided.
"Sweet, though?"
A slow nod, and a slow smile. "Sweet," he echoed, and he sighed and stood back up, stretching a bit. Raising to the tips of his bare foot-paws. And then sinking back down to the pads. "You're somethin', you know that?"
"Somethin'?" A warm, eye-meeting smile. Meeting his pine-green eyes. "I suppose that's better than bein' nothin' ... "
"You've never been nothin' ... "
"Mm," was her soft, breathy response, as her beak went forward. As she nuzzled his cheek. "Well ... " A sigh, and she, eyes bright (despite their dark hue) looking down to the berry-bush. "We better eat up."
"What about water?"
"There's a fresh stream not too far from here. We'll have that," she joked, "for dessert. Before we bathe ... "
A dawning smile. "Alright, then."
The warbler shifted down to her knees, eying the berries. Picking the best ones. "The ones on that side are a bit green," she noted. "A bit hard. They're better over here." Her black and white plumage, pretty, eye-catching streaks, looked so pretty.
Taylor, also having gotten down on his knees, nodded, reaching for berries of his own. Both of them picking, plopping (the berries into their muzzles), chewing, swallowing. "I, uh ... " Pick. His fingers squeezed a berry a tiny bit. Not enough to make it burst. But enough to make a drop or two of juice squirt out, making his paws a bit sugary, a bit sticky. "I think this is nice," he finally said. Plopping the berry. Chew-chewing.
"It is," the warbler whispered, agreeing, fishing for one berry. Then another.
The chipmunk sighed, his brushy, brown-striped tail going about. Much less refined than a squirrel's tail, for sure. But handsome enough. Aspera often told him that. That he was 'handsome.'
Taylor had always been interested in birds. For some reason. Ever since a young age, he'd always been drawn to them. Both 'animal' birds, the ones that nested in the trees, and 'fur' birds, the sentient ones. He hadn't understood the nature of his attraction, necessarily. Maybe it was the lightness they maintained. Marrow-less, weightless, able to fly like that. Able to master gravity. Able to break bonds. But, then, bats could do that, too. Why didn't you lust after bats?
Bats can't sing like birds, was his response.
And, oh, birds could sing. They had the most beautiful singing voices. He'd first seen Aspera, indeed, performing in an opera. He didn't remember who the composer had been. Or even what opera it had been, either. He just remembered her. It'd been at school, at the academy. Some thing. Somewhere. In the music hall, he remembered. Yeah. So, he'd gone, and she'd done a solo, and afterwards, he'd run into her in the reception hall. Near the table with the cookies and the punch.
He'd said hello. Had said, all stammering and stupid, "You sing like an angel."
"Taylor?"
The chipmunk blinked. "Mm? What?" he went, blinking again.
"You, uh ... you got ... " An airy giggle. "You got 'berry' on your chin."
"Oh." A flush. His angular ears getting hot, and his cheeks flushing beneath the fur. "Sorry, I ... "
" ... it's alright," she whispered. "Just ... stay," she whispered, "still." She leaned toward him, against him. Her winged arms going around his back, anchoring herself, keeping them both steady. As her thin, long tongue poked out of her opened beak. Licking and wetting his muzzle-fur.
His eyes closed. He let out a hot, hazy breath. Soon finding himself licking back. Tongue slipping into her beak, and his muzzle pressing. So easy, so right. Requiring not an ounce of fight. Just relent.
She gave a little warbler-whistle. Part of her song. She could sing the clouds down from the sky, truly, if she wished. He would mention that to her. She would get modest, but he would insist it was true. He would ask, in a quiet, eager voice, for her to sing. Sing for me. And she would. Often, after making love, while they were nuzzled, she would sing.
She always had a song.
He kept pressing, arms holding her. As they now kissed. Kissing with a muzzle and a beak took some practice. But it could be done. Oh, it could be done. And they were doing it, now. Oh ...
" ... Lord, I give You all I have," he breathed, "but it seems so little. When you have given me so much." The mouse took a breath, walking, swinging his arms. Humming a bit. Breathing onward. "I come to You with empty paws, and a heart that's fragile. You come to me," he breathed, "with a wealth of love." A pause, an inhale. A hum. And, "I will sing You songs of praise. But Your greatness is beyond me. I know I cannot comprehend," he went, "how You, Ancient of Days, could stoop Yourself to call me ... to be your son, to be your friend," he whispered, trailing. And taking a deep breath. Holding it. His pupils dilated. "Thank you, dear God," he whispered, closing his eyes, bowing his head for a second. Before lifting his head, opening his eyes, and walking toward her.
Her big, dishy ears swivelled. Her back was to him. Her long, multi-colored tail swaying in the air. Like it was directing something. The breeze, maybe. "That you?"
"Yes," Emerson replied. His whiskers twitched.
"What took you so long?"
"I was ... lost in, uh, in prayer," he told her, reverently.
"Nothin' wrong with that ... "
"And I had to sniff out your path, and I kept ... stopping," he whispered. "I, uh ... I just got this feeling. Like the fur on my neck bristled, you know?" He lowered his voice. As if maybe he shouldn't mention it. Maybe he was just a typical mouse, being typically anxious and scared.
"Why?" She, half-turned, met his eyes.
"I don't know. I just ... kind of felt like I was being watched."
"Well, aside from the eyes of God, I think we're clothed in privacy ... if nothing else," she teased. For she was bare.
He nodded, letting out a breath. "You, uh ... you look beautiful. I mean, you always do, but ... "
" ... you gonna join me?" she interrupted. "I've been waiting."
"Won't someone see us?" The mouse turned his head this way, that way. Sniffing the air. His tail snaked about, waywardly.
"We're far enough downstream. And so what," Azalea posed, "if they do? Anyway, we got premium ears, don't we? We should hear anyone coming ... " She took a deep breath. "We gotta wash. Can't stay grimy and ... smellin' of breeding," she told him, "all the time."
"Well, we're gonna have to breed this morning. I mean ... shouldn't we do that first, and THEN bathe?"
"I was thinking we could combine the two," was the simple, smiling response. "Mm?" she went.
"I, uh ... I guess."
"Well, come on. Jump in," she said, gesturing with her paws. She, herself, was already in the middle of the stream. It was more a creek. Maybe seven feet wide. Four feet deep in the center. The water going up past her belly button, up to the lower portions of her breasts.
The field mouse let out a breath, disrobing. Letting his uniform fall aside. His clothing, his communicator. His scanner. Until he was 'in the fur.'
The western jumping mouse grinned at him. "Mm. A sight for sore eyes ... " A giggle-squeak.
He flushed at this, his ears going rosy-pink.
"Turn around. Turn," she said, moving her paw in a 'rotating' gesture. "Come on ... "
Flushing, giving a tiny squeak, Emerson did as told. Turning around in a slow circle.
"Mm. Mm, yes. Yes, that'll ... do me nicely," she whispered, her breath getting hot, hotter. Her attentions held. "Yes," she breathed. "Now, come on in ... "
But Emerson hesitated. "Is it cold?"
"It's a wild stream."
"So, it's cold?" he reasoned, whiskers twitching. His ears swivelled.
"It's not heated ... but I think we can handle it. I've been in here for ten minutes."
"Your paw-pads will get like prunes," he warned.
A giggle-squeak, raising her muzzle to the glowing, azure sky. Her eyes squeezed shut with mirth. And, lowering her muzzle, opening her eyes, she responded, "Well, that's just something I'm willing to risk, darling. Now, get in. You got a pelt o' fur. Cold water's not gonna hurt you."
The field mouse dipped his toe into the stream, shivering, pulling his foot-paw back. "It's ... "
" ... fine. It's fine," she assured. "Look, if you don't come in, I'm gonna come OUT, and I'm gonna DRAG you in," she insisted, very playfully. Femme mouses were, indeed, playful things. More assertive and confident than the males. Still with that 'mousey anxiety,' of course, and other 'mousey habits,' but they were the dominant sex, nonetheless, in the species. Which was the opposite of normal, if you looked at most other species. Normally, the males were the brash ones. The femmes being more submissive. But not with mouses, no. "Emerson ... come on," Azalea urged. And she sighed.
And the field mouse nodded, nodded, and stepped into the flowing stream. Wincing a bit.
She giggle-squeaked, holding out a paw.
He reached out, took it, and didn't realize his mistake until ...
... she yanked him forward!
Squeak! Surprised sounds.
Splash! Water flying everywhere.
"Heh. That ... heh," she giggle-squeaked, water droplets running down her sensitive, pink ear-lobes. "Oh, darling, I can't believe you fell for that ... " She shook, covering her muzzle with her paws. Trying to stay quiet (there was no use, at this point, of trying to stay modest).
Emerson, drenched, acclimating to the cool, natural water of the stream, stood with his foot-paws on the creek-bottom. And he huffed, regaining his breath, eyes sparkling. "You ... you ... "
" ... 'you' what?"
"I don't know," he finally had to admit, smiling. Water was dripping from his whisker-tips, weighing his whiskers down. And he took a deep breath, exhaling just as deeply. And, wiping the water from his eyes, his nose sniffed. Sniffed. "Well, uh ... so, where's the soap?" he joked. "The shampoo?"
"Must've floated away."
"Aw ... "
"No matter, though. I'm sure we can ... get clean enough. We have the water, don't we? Isn't that the main thing?"
"Yes ... yeah," he went, sighing, as he shuffled toward her. The water rippling. He put his arms around her bare form, pressing his belly to hers. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered, tenderly, his voice breaking a bit. "I'm so glad you're okay. I ... when we ... "
" ... hey," she soothed, hushing him. "It's fine. Don't think about it," she told him, paws behind his body, now. Her paws going under the water. To rest on his wet, fur-matted rump-cheek. She massaged his rump, kneading the fur and the flesh beneath.
He rose up a bit, sighing.
"There ya go," she whispered.
Emerson had confidence problems. He believed himself to be a boring, average mouse. Nothing special. Nothing that anyone would want. When they'd been dating, he'd confided to her that he felt like 'just another mouse in the room.'
To which she'd replied, 'I don't notice the other mouses in the room. I notice you.'
'Why?' had been his response.
'Don't ask for proof of my love, darling,' she'd told him, 'when it's all around you.'
He was devoted to her. Dependent on her.
And she, daily, worked on him. To better him. To care for him. He was such a fragile creature. A stray, unkind word, to him, was like a bullet. But he had his faith. A shield. And that was the most important thing. Faith. And, through that, love. And, together, they were building something. A relationship. A life. Granted, their plans hadn't included being thrust into a civil war and then fleeing home and family and crash-landing on an uninhabited world!
This hadn't been part of the plan.
But if they thought about all they'd left behind, all they'd lost, then they would go insane. And insanity wasn't the best state to be in.
They were. Alive. Well.
Blessed.
And, oh, their current situation may have been an ocean. But love was, indeed, the island that overgrew the ocean. That was an undeniable truth.
And, like islands themselves, the two mouses, amidst the water, moved with signs of life. Little hugs, first, and little gropes. Little tugs to tails that looked like ropes. Little sways and little nibbles. And with no one around to quibble, they went for it.
The prize of love.
Oh, intimacy.
Oh ...
" ... leave it," Talkeetna said, of the smoldering, slightly-smoking fire. Which was burning itself out.
Antioch nodded. "Well, we might wanna cook something, you know ... later."
"Ration packs?"
"They taste better when heated. Some of them, anyway."
"They taste better when they're not eaten," the red squirrel corrected, smiling to herself. Really, though, should you be complaining? At least you have food.
"So, uh, what now?" the marmot asked, raising a brow.
"Everyone's off ... eating, bathing, or breeding."
"Probably all three," he supplied.
"I wouldn't doubt it," she whispered, looking around. Her angular ears perked, as she listened to the sounds of buzzing bees and chattering bird-songs. Was it just her imagination, or did it feel like the forest was physically watching her? You're just nervous, Talkeetna. Calm down. She took a deep breath through her nose. And then slowly let it go, admitting, "There's nothing like fresh air, is there? I mean, it just ... recycled air, you know, on a star-ship is one thing, but ... this is another," she went, closing her eyes. The sun was on her tail. Her arched, luxurious tail, which maybe had lost a bit of its 'luxury.' "I need to wash. My fur's all ... grimy. I got dust all over." A twitch. "Gotta groom."
"You wanna head out, then? Find a spot?"
"We really need to investigate those magnets," she told him, turning around. Facing him. He was many things. Her tactical officer, her first officer. Her husband. Her confidante. She could speak to him like she couldn't speak to others. She could be herself. "But, uh ... yeah, we should probably 'take care of business'," she said, "first." She swallowed, inhaling. "The magnetic whatnots," she breathed, "aren't going anywhere, are they? They can wait, right?"
"I'd say so," the solidly-built marmot replied, his silvery-grey and brown fur looking particularly appealing. "You did a good job," he told her, simply, after a while.
She raised a brow. Her tail flicked.
"Keeping it all together," he explained. "You were calm. Controlled. You didn't panic or ... show fear," he said.
"I felt it," was the reply. "Whether I showed it or not, I felt it."
"But you didn't let it affect your leadership."
"Leadership," she whispered.
"You have a way of ... exhibiting it. Furs will follow you, you know."
"They'd follow any one of us."
"I don't think so ... you think our group would take orders from Konka? Or from the mouses? Or me?"
"It's just a matter of trust," she insisted.
"Exactly." A knowing nod, and a smile. "And they trust you. As do I."
A flush, and she looked away. Sniffing the air. It smelled of smoke and ashes. Smelled of green things, trees and grasses. And wild flowers, maybe. And soil. And lots of natural things. "It's not a matter," Talkeetna eventually said, looking back to her husband, "of whether or not all of you trust me." A swallow. "But it's MY ability to trust," she told him, "that's the issue here."
"And why is that?" The marmot shuffled toward her. He put his paws gently on her sides.
"If I can't trust that God will get us through this, and if I can't trust my own decision-making ... "
" ... and are you worried that you can't? Trust Him? Trust yourself?"
A small shake of the head. And an admittance of, "I don't know what I'm worried about."
"I'm sure you do," was the tender whisper. His muzzle close to her cheek.
And she met his eyes. And smiled softly. "You're right, of course." A tilt of her head. "You always are."
"I think you're just tense. You just need to relax."
"Well, sleeping on the dirt will do that to you. Make you a bit tense ... kind of hard on the back. I think I woke up ... "
" ... four times. I counted."
"If you were counting, that means you didn't ... "
" ... get any sleep, either? I got some. But ... come on," he urged again. "I'm not THAT tired." A breath, and a smile. "Let's go? Take my paw?" he urged.
And she did. It was nice, sometimes, to be led. As he was leading her into the forest. Leading her to such nice, dreamy things. Oh, it was nice to be led.
To not always have to lead.
For, sometimes, the pressure got to you. And you weren't allowed to show it. You weren't allowed to crack. Because you were the captain. The rock. If you fell apart, your crew fell apart with you. You were expected to be more than mortal, in a way.
"Thank you," Talkeetna said, as they walked.
"For?"
"Your love, and ... letting me," she whispered, "love. For being my release."
The marmot, squeezing her paw, tugging her along, said, "I am only glad to be as much."
Oh, such words. Oh, love. Oh ...
... his love, at times, could be like vinegar. Vinegar for a thirsty soul. And at other times, like now, it could be like ambrosia, or like ice water on a fire. Quenching. Sizzling. Burning her up from nose to tail-tip, making her mind blank out. And maybe that was part of the appeal. Part of the allure. Predator/prey relationships were far and few. Rarely lasted. The fundamental differences in the mind-sets, the instincts, all of it. It didn't lend well for compatibility.
Throaty growls from him. Needy hip-thrusts and leg-pushes, and little nips to her bare, furry shoulder. Possessive, harmless bites. He was careful not to draw blood. He was careful not to hurt her. You could never say he didn't take good care of her. Because, oh, he did. He saw to her needs.
No, she wouldn't say that they weren't compatible. But neither was this a 'match made in heaven.' More like they were both intrigued by each other. It was curiosity that had brought them together. And curiosity, most likely, that was keeping them together. And, truth be told, they'd found a level of comfort in each other's company. By this point in time, it would be harder to find someone new than to stick together. Why throw it all away? Why risk it? It would be like leaving a warm, settled-in bed for a cold, never-used one. Maybe, in time, the new bed would offer better rest, but how could you be certain?
Curiosity and comfort.
Loud, crying squeaks from her. His genitals were built for divinity, surely. The power and size and function of them. They filled her. Left no inch of her walls in want. And he gyrated his hips, pressing to her, in such ways as to provide friction to her clitoris. She squeaked with pleasure. Oh, his feral passion, untamed, was better than alcohol. Better than any drug. And her pulse spiked further as she felt the bulging beginnings of his knot.
She loved him. She really did. It was just that she loved sex with him more than she loved his personality.
In the back of her mind, she felt that she could probably love somebody else more. Given another chance, she felt, really, she could find someone better. Perhaps. Nothing was certain. But this wasn't a matter of having the best. The best love. The purest. This wasn't a matter of perfection. She didn't demand perfection from him. And he didn't demand it from her. Couldn't a love just be love? And not be LOVE, with capital letters? Wasn't this satisfying enough? Couldn't it be settled for?
"Ohnn, uhhm ... uh!" the pika, the rock rabbit, called. Her legs willingly spread, loins plowed into. Oh, was anything so natural as this?
Coyote-whines from him, his foot-paws scrabbling in the dirt. Pushing off the ground to give his hips better purchase. Strong, predatory body all over hers. He craved her scent. At night, he would always keep his arms tightly around her. Showing his protection, his commitment, with his body. Even if he rarely showed it with his words.
Her heart pounded. There was a bit of a thrill, wasn't there, in this? That spike of adrenaline one got from having the smell of a predator in their nose. She was prey. He wasn't. And her body knew it. She felt a pulsing, a pounding. And it made her feel totally, fully alive. And that was something she wasn't willing to trade in. To let go of. Oh, brought to life, oh, desperate, tangible, visceral hearts! Beating in tandem!
She squeaked. The sounds chittering from her muzzle. Her species got its name, in fact, from their vocalizations. From the word 'pikat.' 'To squeak.' And squeak she did.
Konka loved her straightforwardness. Her lack of pretension. She was different than other prey. In those regards. Not to say she was predatory, no. She was definitely prey. And acted the part. But she had something about her. A sensibility that he could respect. A demeanor that always caught his attention. Movements that pleased his eyes. Oh, she was pleasing. Oh, he pleased her. Her soft, solid body, her supple breasts. Her femininity, yes. And he had wished, soon after being acquainted, to have that for himself. To have her for himself.
She, as a rock rabbit (and she wasn't even a rabbit; she was a rodent), had been raised in relative isolation. In the rugged mountainous regions. The climate temperate. Lots of coniferous trees. Not a lot of prey lived in those regions. Not that high up. She, growing up, met more predators on the mountain slopes than she had prey. So, she was accustomed to their ways. Knew how they worked. Much to her parents' chagrin.
Theirs wasn't a perfect, fairy-tale relationship. But it was a solid one. One that worked. One that had lasted, and would last. One that made them both happy. Maybe not ecstatic. But content. And wasn't that enough?
Oh, it was. Oh, it must be. Oh ...
... Kempton delighted in her careful ministrations. He mewed. Mew! Pleasure!
The piebald-furred rabbit, her black-and-white colored fur, all in pretty patches, slid her lips down his shaft. Easy going, sliding a few inches. Settling to a stop. She had his entire essence in her muzzle. And it made her heart race. It made her moist between the legs. It gave her satisfaction. Excitement. And she silently slid back up, pulling back, lips contacting every inch of his stiff, glistening flesh, with was a deep-pink, gorged with blood. The most intimate, masculine part of his body, and it was in her muzzle. The trust in that was, itself, erotic.
"Huh ... oh," the cinnamon-furred rabbit panted, eyes closed. He shook his head, slowly. Side to side. As if trying to comprehend such sensitivity. As if unable to believe it.
But she was forcing him to believe it. Her fingers softly stroking the fur on his sac. Stroke, stroke. And then tugging the whole thing with her free paw. Before finger-stroking the ball-fur. Suckling, meanwhile, on the curved head of his rabbit-hood, her wet, warm tongue worming against the flesh. Suckle-suck, lapping across the slit. The taste of pre. Suckle-suck, lips brushing over the edges, the ridges of the head. That back head-ridge, on the top of his penis, where the head gave way to the shaft. That was his fiercest pleasure-point. She could buckle his knees with a simple lick to that spot. And she knew it, and pulling her muzzle off his organ, she began licking. Softly, on just that one spot. The top-back of the head.
Kempton squealed, paws trembling.
Lick-lick. Lick.
"Uh! Uh! Hah ... hah," he huffed, head shaking. His lips parted, muzzle open. Panting, taking and expelling air.
Another lick, and a few more tongue-teases, and she decided to let him off the hook. After all, if she got him too sensitive, he'd lose the erection. And she didn't want that. So, she opened her muzzle and took him in again. Fully.
The cinnamon-furred rabbit, who was naked, in the fur, and sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, could only keep his eyes closed and shiver. Oh, gosh. Oh, it felt so good. He loved it when she did this. Not that he didn't love eating her pussy. He surely did! But, as a personal preference, receiving muzzle was the better bliss. And, oh, he received it. Could only sit there, weakly, starting to hunch over. Could only rest his paws on her shoulders. Could only whimper. "Uhn ... uh ... "
She was on her knees, between his legs. In the grass and dirt. Her clothes discarded, too. Her black bobtail flicker-flicked with energy. With want. With intention.
There was a good deal of lust in this, true.
But it was tempered and controlled by their love.
Kempton had never been lured by the thought of marrying outside his species. Maybe he'd had an opportunity or two. But he hadn't pursued it. He'd always wanted a fellow rabbit. And when they'd both been assigned to the little ship Reverie, and had been the only rabbit aboard, well, things started to happen. Quickly.
They understood each other. Were both easygoing individuals, both with a sense of play. They both came from similar backgrounds. Really, they had a lot in common. Not to say there weren't any differences. She was more practical than he was. He often overreached. With ideas, actions. She would look at everything carefully before making a decision. He would make decisions quickly, emotionally. Which, in retrospect, made it surprising that she'd agreed to marry him the first time he'd asked.
But, oh, when you were young and exceedingly virile, in love the way you were, you didn't dwell on why it was working, and where it was going. You were just thrilled to have it. And you threw your arms around it and didn't let go. You kept love close. Faith closer. And you allowed those things to carry you through.
Mew! Mew. He gaped for breaths.
She bobbed on his happy stiffness, rhythmically. Knowing he was close. Kneading his tightening, swelling sac. Feeling the heat of his pleasure. Feeling ...
... his nose prodding, tongue exploring between her petal-like folds. And the western jumping mouse sighed, laying on her back on the sandy bank of the stream. She tried not to think. Tried not to launch into any internal monologues. She tried to just lay here. Eyes closed. Enjoying his lovely, little licks.
Enjoying this expression of love as highest art.
Enjoying this physical communication.
Emerson sniffed, eyes hooded. Eyes hazed. He sniffed, and he pressed his nose right in, squeaking with pleasure, tongue lapping up and down her glistening, pink vulva. But not staying there. Eyes closing, nose flaring, he inched up. To mouth at the thicker fur that covered her mons. He mouthed her body, hungrily, saliva wetting her fur. As he moved himself, just a bit, to her thighs. He had to mouth her thighs. Had to taste her thighs, and then he had to move again, licking all the tufted fur that surrounded her vulva, and that soft perimeter of 'fuzz' that stood between the tufted fur of her groin and the bare, pink flesh of her femininity.
Azalea's head rolled to the side, a deep, heavy breath escaping her. She drew one in, her breasts rising. And they fell as she let it go. And she took another, trying to keep her breathing steady. But she soon found herself pleasure-panting. Oh, it couldn't be helped, and what did it matter? Her head turned again. So that her muzzle was pointed upward. She peeked her eyelids open, catching gaps of sky-blue and tree-green. Catching white wisps of clouds way, way up there. And her eyes closed again. "Oh ... uhn ... "
He nibbled on her pussy-lips, with delicate, sensual attention, using his lips to nib-nibble, before licking her vulva on one side. Then licking on the other. Then peek-poking his tongue between those folds, letting the tip lash around.
She inhaled sharply.
He licked at her vagina. Lost in the act. Lick-lapping, her dripping, moistening fluids mixing with his saliva, further wetting his tongue. Further whetting his appetite. Making him press closer to her. As close as he could get. Pulling back to pant, and then pushing. Muzzle-humping her, ultimately.
Muzzle-hump.
She exhaled heavily. Inhaled.
His muzzle moved up.
Exhaled.
And his lips finally descended on her un-hooded clitoris. And he gently inserted two fingers into her vagina, a few inches deep, curling his fingers up. And pressing on the upper walls of her tunnel. Making her body twitch, twitch. And he knew he'd gotten her there.
"Oh ... oh! Oh, Em-emer ... oh," she squeaked, beside herself. The pleasure forceful. Blinding. Immediate. She lost her words as orgasm came. As the flutters and tremors took her. As her muscles clamped around his fingers, and as the sensitivity skyrocketed. Joyous, feral squeaks ...
... went to the heavens. With chitters, mews, whistles, and growls, too. From varying spots in the forest. Oh, yes, they all had work to do, mysteries to solve. Oh, yes, they were stranded, crash-landed.
But what was wrong with taking a morning to delight?
Oh, they delighted!
Not knowing they were all being studiously watched and documented. By sentient butterflies. Nearby.