The Peaches of Easter
_(Author's Note: Whilst shaving off prickly hairs from the ol' face, I thought of something in a very comedic sense. "How come I don't get visits from the sexay' Easter Bunny no more?"
I may have laughed, but that immediately gave me an idea. Which is thus. Besides, it is the month of Easter and I needed to do something in compliance with the time, which is what I normally attempt to do. Nay, it may not be super erotic, but its a sweet path of romance and I do like falling back on old roots. Enjoy, YS! Gimme' a hell yeah!
PS: Ich. I deleted this because it needed a serious retuning. Apologies if that caused some raised brows. Anyway, forgive the complication, shouldn't happen again.
-KIK)_
The Peaches of Easter
by Korpse_Infested_Karnival
(KIK)
Crisp April showers. The free fall of sporadic, flourishing mist. The little valley sprung to life with its great collection of emeralds and vibrant jades, thanks in no part to the generous clouds and their downpour of rain. Grass was kissed by the sweetest of morning dews, warm air and cool breezes wrapped around the pasture cottage. Scarlett strawberry jewels perked up from the tufts of bristle-nest ground and were picked off by voracious birds or fruit lover alike, cut together in waves of honey-tang cream.
The air itself was quite alive. This did not happen oft in the year, for the time and temperature of things was precise. Nature was at its strongest, cascaded with cold-marsh rivers and embassies of traveling vine, armies of rose and daisy sprouting to and fro amidst the grand oceans of bladed grass, all tended to by the very careful arms of the ever watchful sun.
Tibalt admitted in his countering, quick reactive thinking that Spring, especially in the time of April, was his most favored of seasons. Being a mouse of the country, after all, bred that sense of loving pride in a land his ancestors had tilled for centuries, the labyrinths of willow and pine the doing of his great great grandfather. Even when storms and floods of the sky's tears came a' crashing down to drench the earth, he was very obsequious to the way of things, the doings and goings of weather, the land, the soil, the smiling crops and rosy vegetables, all of which he served in his mousey ways.
So perhaps it was not odd, for that may be the thought of a traveler-(a seedling from the drudge of cities, mayhaps)-not odd to find him resting in the glory of his own handiwork, under a winding-bark tree, his rich russet fur lapping at the shade (as the sun was not always very generous with his hasty gaze). Not always could he do this, the squeaking Tibalt would tell you. Resting his whiskery cranium in a pillow of leaves at a wood-tower's expense was a very evasive moment, most of the other off hours compiled with the duties and diligence of tilling work.
Yes, Tibalt laid there, eyelids guarding his orbs of brown, chattering teeth nibbling on a stroke of wheat and twig that he felt the common, rodent-esque urge to do. His foot paws were bobbing in the lash of the wispy air, one leg rested upon the other, and arms careened to support his neck, as the common-man's lazy posture he did so mimic. His tail, a rope of thin pink, constantly shook and writhed like a garden serpent, a conductor's rod that relayed his mind was always turning like the gears of a witch-clock, and his ears? Ah, those were but the receptors, the antenna's to the industry of his thoughts, perhaps so delicate and finely tuned that they could hear the heartbeat of the planet itself.
In this private valley of his own, Tibalt Lerri' didn't have a profuse amount of goings on near his own cottage home. He was a quiet, cute little mouse, after all. Copious degrees of company never suited him. They caused him to suffocate, a tad consuming and controlling, and his scratchy paws and jittery whiskers couldn't handle the magnitude of so many things in one concentrated point. He compared folk' to plants, really. His grove of tomatoes or rose bushes needed their own space, their own little piece of the soil to grow from. Herb could not grow if was crowded by vine, that much he knew, and that much he felt about himself.
So when gentle footsteps padded the ground, when light movements in divine grace made way to Tibalt's little pocket of shade, the fiery chestnut rodent was in no doubt greatly surprised, as company very oft avoided his little haven in the world.
His half-waking half-dozing ears picked up the thrush of disturbed pathway, until his slew of senses encroached upon a presence standing over him. His eyelids shuttered and flicked open, to see a friendly face he'd seen only a few times in the valley's roadways.
"Ah, good mornin' there Mr. Lerri',"
So many a time he'd wished to hear that voice whisper to him in the night. So greatly did he yearn to hold that voice and make it his own, as much as he would cradle her, if only he could.
A finely shaped lapine soaked in the hue of wheat and gold studied the mouse in intrigue and amiable cheeriness. A fur, so luxurious and exquisite it was, shined with a radiance of honey with the sun's caressing strokes of light, allowing the rabbit girl to appear as though she were an object from heaven. Her cottontail was splattered with the color of snow, and such of that winded down her chest and stomach, around her fruitful bosom and bountiful thighs.
Eyes cradled in an ocean of nova blue rested diligently with the sublime feminine features both soft and pristine, and her hair was bundled in a ponytail, a color of straw that reached down to the mid length of her back.
She kept on her fine legs but a simple pair of jean shorts and a sporty, gray shirt with a heart splattered on the fabric's backside (fidgety Tibalt could only shudder as her delectable breasts seemed to beg for freedom). In her gentle right paw was a basket, and a small one at that, full of something that the curious mouse could not guess at.
Her name, the rodent always remembered, was Ecesla. Ecesla Eve. It was a riddle and a paradox to his heart, and could be the subject of an endless cycle of books, songs, or poems, though time did not have enough of itself to allow Tibalt to finish.
He struggled to compose himself and make his twig-and-leaf doused frame more manageable to the eye. His clothing had bowls of dirt here and there, and arms of aching grass still clung to his russet fur.
Once slapping off the unwanted debris from his tethers, he stood, making his own fair attempt at Ecesla's courtesy.
"Oh, morning!" he squeaked, an out of tune trumpet eager to be heard.
"I mean," he paused, steadying himself. "Good morning, Ms. Eve," the mouse corrected, soft paws digging into themselves with nervous twitches.
His ears swayed at full attention. Being the curious rodent he was, his curiosity was immediately aroused as why this girl had shown up, and why she was really smiling at him, for that matter (Tibalt was one to downplay himself quite often).
Ecesla tilted her head, as though resting it on a pillow of air. She calmly reached a hand over to pick a miscellaneous shard of earth from Tibalt's hair that he'd missed, whilst the rodent's insides shuddered and hammered with delight.
"Oh, it's just these peaches," she responded, with a notion to her basket. "They're fresh and washed, and I have far too many of them to eat by myself,"
Tibalt took a sniff of the air and wriggled his nose. Yes, there were indeed a cluster of peaches hidden beneath that cloth of green. Being a solider of the ground, so to speak, Tibalt's mousey knowing of things told him that were indeed very fresh, if not have just been plucked. Perfectly in season, it appeared.
"So I decided," the rabbit went on, "I should give a few of them to someone, and I thought of you,"
The words clung at Tibalt fiercely, the whispered melody of her voice licking his ears, sending his tail into a tizzy. What more so, was the last particle of her statement.
She thought of me? His thoughts echoed excitedly.
"Ah, well, that would be f-fantastic Ms. Eve!" he chirped, if not but a tad too heartedly. But then again, if the soul was singing, was it really too much?
The divine lapine chuckled and let her long ears do a semi-twist in silent admiration of Tibalt's enthusiasm. Her ocean-scape iris' glittered like stars in the sky and she gave the young mouse a smile reserved for him, and him alone. It was fortunate for him that his fur had the tint of russet and brown, for his cheeks flushed heavily and his tail did a cycle of snaking motions behind him.
"But we shouldn't eat them out here. Little flies like them as much as we do," implied Ecesla, a subtle, if even coy hint, to do their devouring elsewhere.
Lucky for the mouse and his snap response to things, his understanding was immediate. Perhaps he was so eager that Ecesla was standing right there, next to him, that it made his mind fly far and fast. Mayhaps he was overzealous to please her, if even in the smallest, most compact of ways.
He nodded, taking a few jittery glances to his cottage home.
"Ahm, yes, y-yes of course! Serve them with something else to eat, maybe," chattered on Tibalt, first and fore mostly thinking of cheese to go along with the sweet bite of peaches.
The sandy furred bunny gave nodded softly. It didn't matter, in honesty. She simply wanted a better place, a quiet place, to be.
Another breeze swept up the points of Tibalt's fur, a nudge from the elements to move him on. So, continuing to twitch claw between palm, the earthy rodent led Ecesla to his cottage home, hoping in the back of his mind that the lapine was impressed with some of his gardening handiwork.
With a quick wobble of the brass knob, Tibalt opened the door and kindly ushered the honey-furred rabbit inside, wondering, for a moment, if he was in some kind of dream scape as his chest pounded whilst she walked past him. The timid sway of her haunches and lithe supremacy of her powerful legs caught his gaze, and he had to wonder what it would be like to caress them in his. . .
"You have a very nice home, Tibalt," complimented Ecesla, anchor of the angel bringing him back from voracious thoughts.
Portals of almond flicked back to the rabbit. It took a second before he could once again process what she had said.
"Thank you," he sputtered quickly. "It was, ahm, in my family for a long time. My great grandfathers built it," he recalled, taking an appreciative glance at the finely crafted wood walls and many separate family portraits hanging there.
Reminding himself not to dawdle, he made a swift gesture to a couch resting in the living room, at the same time wishing he had more modern trinkets of intrigue to maintain some kind of 'excitement' in the situation.
"You can set down the peaches on the table, if y-you like," he offered, referring to a platform of wood that was before the leather-coated couch.
Turning to him, she still kept her beautiful smile, shaking her head.
"Not there, not yet. They've got to be cut first. Mama' taught me how to cut a peach in a special kind of way, makes them easier to eat so you can drink in all the juices" she replied, causing Tibalt's mouth to water with her sultry emphasis on 'juices.'
Decidedly, then, not to leave her without result, he pointed to an opening left of the living quarters.
"Well, erm, I have a set of knives in the kitchen," his mind slumped a moment. He didn't know exactly what to suggest without sounding bothersome or impairing.
"Y-you can use those, i-if you like. . . they're next to the sink, Ms. Eve," he explained more nervously, mentally cringing at the prospect that she should do her work without his help. But he supposed, the timidness of a mouse always wanting to please his peers, he would find that as an insult, like she couldn't find the knives herself.
His buck teeth chewed on his lip in the lightest prods of anxiety. It was a bubbling, exuberant anxiety, yes, but still a sickly nausea all the same.
Lucky for him, the luscious lapine found this to be of no insult.
"Good! I'll be right back," she exclaimed happily. "And please, call me Ecesla, Tibalt."
The rodent's nose snickered and his whiskers fumbled in shy mannerisms.
"You don't mind if I use one of your plates, do you?"
Tibalt blushed a little, brown eyes expanding somewhat. He didn't know why, but asking him for permission. . . about anything. . . well, it was quite unfamiliar.
"N-no! Of course not! Take all the time you need!" he squeaked in response. He would never say no, he couldn't. Not to those blue spheres that captured him in an enigma of dreams.
As she strode off with the gentle grace of a dancer, Tibalt had to swallow, calm himself, let the hot blood and hormone he was drowning in cool off. But it was hard, so very difficult, in a good way. He had known Ecesla for a long time now, as he remained familiar with many residents in the network wood of the valley. He had known, for all those years, wanting to touch and taste her, bashfully grinding his tail in the air whilst he thought of nibbling on her succulent pink. . .
He stopped. He thought he'd heard something.
"Tibalt," cooed the voice of Ecesla.
Not certain what to do precisely, he responded in the only way his skittering mind knew how; to always please a peer. Especially her.
"Y-yes, Ecesla?" another little shudder tickled his spine, and it was one of those static, electric ones, very pleasing to feel and experience.
"Could you come here for a moment? I need some help," he heard her call. His skin unseen by the hue of rusty fur lit up as hot as red, his ears at full attention as though obsessed with her very voice.
He didn't respond, really. He merely obliged, giving himself a few glances as though he needed to appear appropriate. It didn't occur to him, not in the slightest, that there wasn't much the buxom breasted bunny would actually require for assistance, seeing as how she was a sharp young woman.
With a little scurry in his footsteps, he rushed, nay, sprung himself to the kitchen, only to pause, try again, and walk there, without his legs taking over with such a spasm of speed. His rope tail was lashing at the air, a mad conductor on the brink of unleashing a silent symphony constructed only through action.
Inside his kitchen, Ecesla was busying herself at the sink, supple and forbidden as always. Tibalt observed a knife in one of her delicate hands, a peach in the other, very carefully, with intense admiration to detail, making slices and cuts, springs of dripping fruit honey dripping from its soft exterior. This was not a simple matter for the rodent to take in without becoming. . . steamy again. A ripe fruit of that nature, held by a bountiful girl, in his home, was enough to send Tibalt spiraling.
He didn't even comprehend what precisely she needed until his roving eyes went a tad lower. Upon that, his throat went dry, his nose twitched, and he was very close to letting off an earful of. . . aroused, squeaks.
The jean shorts Ecesla had been wearing were no longer tightly hugging her hips and sides. In fact, she had unbuttoned them, her cottontail free to flick and a partial magnitude of her lace, cream panties visible, a mute siren beckoning to Tibalt to reveal her firm haunches still somewhat hidden and kept veiled.
Her persona of the matter, as well, was quite gracious. She was quite aware of it, and had no problems showing it off, per say, leaning over the sink so that her taut rump was more or less jutting at him, tender and supple as. . . well, a peach would be.
"E-Ecesla?" shivered Tibalt, not sure of what she was doing, or himself, for that matter.
She adored his hesitation, but paid it no mind. "Come here, Tibalt. I need your help," she repeated, finishing another slice off the fruit in her hand.
Buck teeth pseudo-chewed on lower lip, and the rodent was beginning to have difficulty controlling himself. What was she planning? Had she simply loosened her shorts to relax, trusting Tibalt enough to not react? If that was so, then the mouse felt guilty, for that was becoming a feat nigh possible as a primal voice called from his nether.
So, with as much gentleman-mousiness attitude he could muster, Tibalt shakily walked to Ecesla, behind her (oh goodness, no, not right there), or rather, to the side, so as not to have her tender cheeks. . . presented so close to his loins, so to speak.
"U-um, what is it, E-Ecesla?" he stammered, chestnut hued iris' now all the wider.
She didn't say anything at first, though she was smiling, watching the fruit in her paw-hand with a distracted interest.
The rabbit gave her buttocks a timid wiggle, a simple pendulum sway that again caused Tibalt to blush, tremendously. His throat caught itself and he began to wonder if he was in a dream.
"Take those off for me," she said, in such a potent whisper, a melodic lick of the ear.
Tibalt was shocked. Was she serious? His rodent-esque mind had to repeat, again, the statement, perhaps the command, that escaped her gracious lips. It was a mind shattering set of words to be sure, and now he had to be absolute that he wasn't imagining things.
"W-what?" he uttered back, body rigid, save for a slight knot in his pants.
"My shorts," Ecesla said in quick reply, "pull them down and take them off for me, sugar,"
Tibalt hushed a gasp. No, he wasn't losing his mind. But more importantly, his mind was intact, and kept repeating the question: why? Whilst another side of him yelled back in primitive mousey ways: who cares?
She sounded comfortable with the idea; she wouldn't ask if she didn't trust him. And his heart mind were in a torrent, an uproar with the other, wrapped around themselves in constant debacle and debate while the rest of him waited on the sidelines, eager, hungry. Dare he query why? Dare he prolong this moment and seek control? After all, his business was pleasing others, as the gardens did prove.
"Don't be afraid," she cooed, a wash of sound that bathed Tibalt and put parts of his ecstatic fear at rest.
"Don't be shy," added she, her puff tail twitching a few times as though beckoning him (which, in reality, it was).
His heart and mind went silent. They both watched Tibalt and waited for him to act. He didn't know how to approach, eying her jeans and the most delectable haunches waiting beneath the flannel fabric.
"B-but. . . Ecesla? W-why?" he asked, somewhat frightened, unsure (as his natural rodent defenses kicked in, though it was an odd time to be doing such).
She placed the freshly cut peach on a plate adjacent to the sink, and retrieved another from the basket aligned with the ceramic oval. How freshly chilled and sumptuous they were, glistening with the dew of water, alive and vibrant. . . much like she was.
"You're a very sweet person, Tibalt," said she in compliment. "I think I remember you as a little girl, and how nice you were to everyone, especially me,"
Every syllable and vowel that escaped her sunk deeply into the russet rodent, as though a song he'd been waiting to hear someone else sing. His head began to swim, and his conscious retracted in utter disbelief that Ecesla would admit things of this. . . verbal decor.
"I always noticed. And I've never known anyone quite like you,"
She sighed, pausing from her work, fumbling with the peach in paw-hand.
"I've always wanted to know what it would be like. . . with you," she said in a tone but barely above a whisper, both flattering and exciting Tibalt in a slew of groping emotions.
"So, please. . . don't be afraid Tibalt. . ."
It was a far cry from a distant world, a siren melody that Tibalt had known only in his vivid phantasma of dreams. Like a tender shadow would his vision of Ecesla, near him, in his arms, be available in those twilight yearnings, yet now, it had become all too real.
He didn't say anything, nothing to debate or argue. Tibalt only gulped, fidgety mouse paws reaching up, his frame lining in sync with her delightful haunches, taunting him with another pendulum sway and jiggle.
Shaking, his fingers hooked on the sides of the jeans, brown eyes locked onto the sandy fur and curvaceous prizes, slowly beginning to pull the folds of it downwards, the strip of cream white that were her panties coming into view. His heart hammered his ribs (so hard, in fact, he was afraid it may burst out) and his flesh was ransacked by a flood of piping hot adrenalin, exciting him, misting his eyes with intense arousal.
Ecesla giggled somewhat as he pulled the jeans to reveal her perfectly shaped haunches, round, bountiful buttocks that were tight yet soft under the caress of a caring palm. Tibalt groaned as his libido remained steadfast, slowly beginning to gain pace, awakened by this playful ritual (as only a gentle rabbit could concoct). It was impossible for him, anyway, to remove the flannel cloth completely without kneeling, so, persistently aware of the delectable curves in front of him, he dragged the jeans downward, his cheek so close it actually grazed her rump, causing his nose to flare up with shy sexual intrigue.
When they were off, Ecesla stepped out of them (in an angelic sort of way, so meager a motion it may have been), leaving only her strip of undergarments and the gray shirt plastered with its red heart. She halted with her slicing of the peach and turned to meet Tibalt, still crouching, whom looked up with his wide, exhilarated gaze. His loins mourned to see the curvy buttocks go, but what Ecesla was keeping in store had his mousey curiosity stirred all the more.
She grappled one of the freshly cut fruits and held it carefully in her hand, some of the scent mingling with the all ready vibrant cascade of smells Tibalt was picking up. For some reason, the mouse did not raise up, for something in the rabbit's swirling cerulean eyes told him to remain there.
Her free hand paw, which had relinquished the knife to the sink, came to rest on her hips, a finger pulling at the strap of lace white that were her panties.
"Pull those down too," requested she, gesturing with her eyes to the guard of white shielding her pink folds. Were it not for the kind smile tugging her muzzle, Tibalt would still have felt quite nervous in doing so. . . but now it seemed right, here in the haven of his cottage home.
This time, he didn't stutter, or blush, but instead allowed the natural pace of things to take him. There was in fact a rush of sweet smells patting at his nose, and an ever growing heat in his own body and hers.
The ecstasy he found in removing that blanket of white. . . his digits trembled as her lithe legs and divine hips were led away from their suffocating tethers, while the smoldering entrance of her snatch fed its image to Tibalt's eyes.
She took a bite of the peach slice she had in hand, with gushed down her tongue in a cascade of tangy sweetness. Tibalt looked upward, envious (as fruits and vegetables were among his most favorite of foods), smacking his lips but a tad. But it was her coyness and teases that kept him at bay, her understanding that this consumption of a ripe, crisp peach drove him wild.
"Do you want one?" she asked him, sapphire eyes silently giggling as they witnessed his voracity for the fruit and its lusty taste.
Tibalt nodded, muttering a nearly incoherent 'yes,' drunk on her heat and the light smell of the pinkish slice resting in her grasp.
With a wry smile, she took the slice and placed it in her mouth, not chewing or biting into it, but cradling it with her soft tongue. She gently pulled Tibalt up by the arm so that he stood, eye to eye with her, and touched the mouth-held fruit cut in gesture.
The young rodent didn't comprehend at first, there were perfectly good slices residing on the ceramic plate. But seeing her lips hold the slice, and the way her iris' began to draw him in. . . his quick mousey gears whirled at light speed, realizing her desire.
He wasn't precisely sure how to proceed. Ecesla's eyelids were half shut in that kind of lusty haze, and a blush of rose was somewhat visible through her gorgeous wheat fur. His uncertainty, however, was short lived, as the prospect of both peach and tender lips urged him on.
Their muzzles, in a slow, transcendent kind of way pressed together, or rather, Tibalt took the peach slice in his mouth, buck teeth giving it a few quick nibbles as the rush of wild flavors gushed over his tongue. And it was a strange thing, at first, trying to kiss with this fruit, but soon the two carpets of pink were courting the other, exploring the curves and pockets of the others mouth whilst saturated by the wondrous tingle of peach.
While the ebb and flow of their passionate lip locking went on, steadily, meekly, not yet full of embrace, Tibalt twitched his fingers and began to raise his arms, carefully, as though trying not to break some sacred deal, skittering palms resting on Ecesla's waist. Ah, and the fur, the soft reimbursement of a softness only caught in clouds, Tibalt was gliding toward heaven now, full of whimsical taste and the dizzy emotive of estrus.
His hands wrapped around her back, and, chancing themselves, began to caress her supple haunches, drawing electric heat to wherever his digits touched. Ecesla murred in approval, looking into his eyes and holding him closer, her sensual hand paws ruffling through his hair and orange-brown fur.
One then went on a separate path, southward, trailing to the outline of Tibalt's pants, fidgeting about for the button and zipper. He did nothing to fight it, but pressed forward, gasping in between kisses as he felt his trousers loosen and falter. His stringy tail began to swish happily as paws continued to caress the lovely lapine's rump, applying a few gentle squeezes, fondling the tail. His mousehood, by so many proportionate actions, was greatly aroused, flooding itself and becoming stiff, and it was only his undergarments that kept him from brushing against the moistened exterior of Ecesla's loins.
Ecesla's face was heavy with the mist of her sexual aura, and it saturated the rodent, more so than it had been a while ago. The peaches they head eaten only seemed to incur a further potency of encroaching libido, and the mouse found himself stirred for more, wanting to lick at something far more exotic.
His rug of wet pink first went to the rabbit's neck, swiveling about and ensuing with a series of nips and kisses, Ecesla moaning lightly in a kind of happy, appreciative way. What soft hands were exploring the tenure of her euphoric body now went for what he'd sought at for quite some time, those fruits she gathered only a constant, teasing reminder. He ruffled with her gray shirt, coaxed onward by a scratching at the back of his neck, sky blue orbs staring at him with a silent, wanting intrigue.
As though seedlings of his own kind, his hands were intrigued by for more than just a supple bottom and its gifts, but more the doorway that led into her inner cave. Digits themselves reached upward into her labia's treasure and generated rounded movements that caused her to shriek with rabbit-esque squeals of delight, moistening her, soaking her pubic hair with the honey of her own sex.
Ecesla may have been preparing for this moment, for hence Tibalt pulled the shirt upward, her buxom breasts were free to bounce out, not held in place by any bra. He felt quite fortunate, able to witness the mounds of circular rose guarded by her wheat-straw shaded fur, drooling a bit.
"Nnh. . . don't keep me waiting," muttered the rabbit femme, anticipating a soothing wave of sensations as she managed to shuffle off Tibalt's boxers.
Again, she writhed in heavenly motions as his vexing fingers toyed and dance with the velvet silk of her insides, whilst Tibalt felt his palms and digits shiver, glistening with a flowery nectar only found when the flower was teased.
His loins were throbbing now, and he was all ready sampling the axis of her female form that had long alluded him for most of his young life. And while his nibbling and teeth pulled (more tenderly than they had ever done so before) the hills of steamy pink, they came closer, the under-flesh of his shaft touching the outer lips of Ecesla's sex.
A shrill cry of explosive neurons rampaged in his member, even from but a simple touch as that. He could feel Ecesla buckle somewhat, as though the two combining was sure to generate some kind of indecisive thunderstorm. Their bodies rattled, shook with periods of winding momentum, until their resistance towards the other could be no more.
Ecesla huddled herself on Tibalt's frame, spreading herself wide and finding comfort on the oaken counter. With his careful, mousey precision, the young gardener stopped his teasing of Ecesla's breasts and wrapped her in his own embrace, holding her, cradling her to never let go, as their union suddenly bloomed ten fold. His mousehood pressed against her lapine entrance, wet with love and lust, allowing for the head of his shaft to begin a steady, careful entry. The rabbit shuddered and moaned loudly throughout the process, and Tibalt was so consumed with the euphoria igniting in his loins that he couldn't manage a sound. All he knew was to repeat the motion, gratify this hunger with more pleasure, reach that point on the mountaintop where only he and Ecesla could find.
He couldn't recall much of what was going on. The luscious piston movements, the slick tide of honey juices intertwining together, the quivering energy of rubbing flesh with inner flesh. Oh yes, too delightful to recall, to dreamlike to describe.
When their orgasm crushed them, buried them, enveloped them in a radical passion impossible to attain without the giving of two, all they managed was to hold each other fiercely, bind in to their mate and let one fill the other, accept a desired seed and return it with a mumble of pleasured cries.
Then all was silent, final, slumbering and sleepy. Tibalt gasped out breaths that he'd never done so before, pockets of fur matted with sweat, clutching the bunny in his arms, still buried inside her with his softening length.
He always remembered something his grandfather told him about the merry month of April, about the sweet rabbit who would come with a basket for those who'd been good.
Except this time, instead of eggs, they were peaches, and peaches would be the flavor of their love when they subsided, finding someplace to rest, subdued in the others wraps of tenderness.
(*)
They had spent the night together in the safety of Tibalt's cobble home. All was well and full of twilight paradise that only the night offered, and could offer.
And whilst sometimes there was always talk of finding a basket of eggs on the time of misty April, this basket, in fact, was full of peaches.
Peaches brought by Tibalt's Easter Bunny.
= END =
(KIK)