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“What if they ask what I do?"

“What do you mean?" Fib replied.

“Well … I can't say I'm a part-time dental receptionist." Meadow's whiskers twitched.

Could she?

“Why not?" her mate asked, tilting his head in confusion. Sitting at a small, round table in their hotel room, he was going over some notes for his speech.

“It's just kinda … well … " The harvest mouse fumbled for a second. “Lame?"

With Fib's salary, she didn't even need to work. He had assured her as much.

But having no pups or family to take care of and no particularly creative pursuits to follow, she couldn't bring herself to 'retire' completely. Not yet. She was only forty.

Mm. Only.

So, she'd scaled back instead.

From full-time (five days a week) to part-time (two or three days, depending).

But Fib's job was so high-profile, she felt self-conscious in comparison.

Who's comparing, here? Who's judging?

It's certainly not Fib …

No, it's yourself and all the 'theoretical' people you meet.

You're doing this to yourself.

You're so insecure.

She sighed.

I wish I wasn't so inhibited …

She rubbed her mousey cheeks, whiskers twitching.

Okay.

Look, if anyone asks …

You're a 'mousewife!'

I mean, it's true?

I'm a mouse.

And a wife.

Her pink, prehensile tail snaking through the air, Meadow paced to the window, looking out at the Baltimore skyline.

From the fifth story of the Mariott Waterfront, she could see the icy inner harbor. It wasn't snowing now (late-morning), but the low, grey sky looked liable to bury the city in flakes at any moment.

Leaving the view, Meadow opened the tiny 'drinks' fridge.

Looked inside.

Bottled water. Mini juice cartons. A few tiny vodkas.

She closed it, continuing her pity party by telling her mate, “You're so interesting, Fib. What you do is interesting. I'm just … me."

Which was why Fib was a speaker (one of several dozen) at the annual AMS (American Meteorological Society) convention. This year's convention was in Maryland.

Meadow would have preferred someplace like, oh, Hawaii? Anywhere with a warm, sunny beach. Especially in mid-February! But she couldn't turn down a paid three-day vacation on the station's dime when Fib had told her she could come, too.

Especially since tomorrow was Valentine's Day.

She didn't want to be alone then.

After attending presentations and meetings yesterday, Fib would give his speech later today. Afterward, he was taking Meadow to a fancy restaurant for a romantic 'early Valentine's' dinner. Then they'd fly home tomorrow so Fib could do the morning news on Monday.

He works so hard …

“You're being too harsh on yourself, Butterscotch," Fib said patiently, using his pet name for her. He rarely called her by her actual name in private.

But he was always consoling and assuring her, and he never got frustrated or angry about it.

How can he put up with my flaws?

“But if you really don't want to go, you can stay in the hotel. I'll come get you when I'm done. I don't mind!"

“No." Meadow nibbled on her lower lip. “No, I can't do that … " She didn't want to be by herself in a big, strange city, even if it was only indoors. “I'll go." She returned from the fridge and sat opposite him, smiling and reaching for his paw. “Besides, I need an excuse to show off that new dress you got me!"

Fib took her pink, furless fingers in his. “Sounds good, Butterscotch." With a wink, he added, “I can't take it off you if you never put it on."

“Heh." Meadow's ears flushed at his 'logic.' She cleared her throat and asked, “Should I get ready, then?"

“Yeah, go ahead. I'm almost done here! If we arrive early, we can grab lunch and still have time to hobnob before my time slot. The best thing about these conventions is social networking with other weather folk!" He then proceeded to prattle on about new forecasting methods and stuff which went way over Meadow's ears.

He's such a nerd, isn't he?

Yeah.

Meadow smiled.

But he was her nerd.

After lunch and socializing (well, Fib had socialized; Meadow had turned into a wallflower), Fib kissed Meadow's cheek and said, “I'm almost up! Are you gonna watch?"

“No, not in person. I'll get too nervous. I'll, uh linger in the hall here." There were closed-circuit televisions on the walls showing the 'action' from the main ballroom.

“M'kay. See you in a bit!" Fib said before scurrying off.

Meadow watched him go. He was six years younger than her (34), and that ropy-tailed rump was pert as all get out.

When he was gone, Meadow blew out a breath and wandered to a refreshments table.

Maybe she could get through this without being—

“Hello, there."

—noticed.

A tall, buff, big-antlered moose with a deep, masculine voice gave a courteous bow and said, “Little lady? I don't believe I've had the pleasure." He reached for one of Meadow's paws, lifting it up and bending over to kiss it.

Gosh!

Meadow turned beet red. Almost as red as the color of her dress. ('Off the shoulder' asymmetrical lace, colored 'burgundy.')

“I'm Maurice." When the mouse didn't respond in kind, the moose prodded, “And you are?"

“Oh … um. Yes? I'm Meadow."

Wow, he's handsome.

I bet he has a firm, muscled chest.

“What a pretty name," Maurice rumbled. “But I bet you get that all the time, don't you?"

“N-not really," she stammered.

“And what station are you with?" He tapped at the badge on his shirt. “KAUU. Juneau, Alaska, here."

“I'm … I'm from Indianapolis."

The moose waited for more.

“But I'm not on TV, myself! I'm … hah, no, I can't forecast the weather," she confessed, smoothing at her dress.

“Oh? Then why are you here?"

“I came with my mate. He's the meteorologist. Fib. WTHR," she said, giving his station's call letters.

“And where is this 'Mr. Fib'?" The moose looked around for said 'mate,' as if he believed she'd made him up to shake his interest.

“He's on the stage, now. Giving a speech. About, um … tornado readiness? Yeah. He won an Emmy for storm coverage last year! His second," she bragged. The first had come for a special segment called 'Throw Out the Snow, Not Your Back: A Prey Guide to Snow Shoveling.'

“Emmys are nice. I have three," the moose said, smoothly adding, “But they're not half as golden as you are."

Double gosh!

What a line.

The mouse had been hit on before, but this moose was bringing it.

Not that I'm going to respond!

Even if she was undeniably flattered.

Why shouldn't she be?

How do I get out of this, though? I can't humor him indefinitely. Should I pretend I'm getting a phone call?

Stop being so paranoid!

You're an adult.

This is just an everyday interaction.

No reason to freak out.

“Mice back home don't look like you do," Maurice noted.

“I'm a harvest mouse," she explained.

“Harvesting males' hearts, no doubt. Including mine."

Meadow blushed, trying to hide her smile but failing.

What a charmer!

What's more, he could surely be going after any girl in the room. But he had his sights set on her.

Me?

Is this really happening?

The insecurities that had plagued her this morning seemed to be evaporating.

The moose, clearly loving her shyness (as well as their prospective size differences), sipped from a bottle of tea, glancing at a TV monitor. Another harvest mouse (with similar colorations to Meadow, though a shade or two lighter) was addressing the crowd in the main hall. “Ah, so he does exist. That's him. Right?"

“Yeah, it is."

“Mm."

Meadow looked around, wondering who was seeing this. Fib wasn't, obviously. But what if he were to see it?

Again.

Calm the fuck down.

Fib has a ton of fangirls (and boys)! He's practically a local celebrity. Maybe not A-list. But B-list?

I'm allowed to have at least one admirer …

The moose said, “I'm not making you nervous, am I?"

“Nervous? Me?" She waved a paw, her heart hammering. “Heh, no."

Is he buying it?

“Cause your whiskers are twitching," the moose pointed out.

“That's … that's just what they do."

“Ah. Well. It's adorable." He took a swig of tea. Smacked his lips. And lowered his already low voice. “Some girls get flustered by me, doncha know?"

“R-really?"

“Mm-hmm."

“I'm s-sure you're … you're imagining it. You seem like a gentleman to me." Gentleman? Gentle-moose?

“Oh, I am. I try to be. But the fact remains: I'm a big boy."

“I, uh … one of my exes was an okapi, so … "

Why did I just volunteer that?

“Okapi?" The moose raised his brow. “Hmm. I mean, to be fair, they're more like … stripey horses. No, not even that. Psh. Ponies!" Maurice insisted with a chuckle. “Nah. Moose are much more impressive."

“Impressive, um … how?"

“Oh, lots of ways," the moose said, shifting his tree trunk legs. “In lots of places."

You walked right into that one.

Meadow exhaled.

Alright.

Maybe I should do something to more directly discourage him? The more you take his flirting with a smile, the more he'll begin to think you want more than that.

And I don't!

Do I?

Her whiskers twitched again.

No!

I love Fib. I want Fib. Only Fib.

She would never cheat on him in a million years.

Her eyes drank in the moose. _ _

Even if Maurie probably has a dick as thick are my forearm and a libido to match.

Before she could properly dissuade her suitor, however, a second male encroached.

A slick-looking, high-energy hyena.

Sidling by the refreshment table, he said, “Heyoo! Domingo. WINK-TV. Fort Meyers, Florida. Weekend weather." He extended his paw all around.

“Maurice," the moose said, shaking it with his hand. “KAUU. Juneau, Alaska. Weekday afternoons."

“Alaska? Really? Huh." Domingo looked down at Meadow. “Mmm! And who's this delicious little morse—I mean, mouse. Ha, ha, ha!"

“I'm Meadow. And I'm not on TV."

“Girl, you joking?" He framed her with his fingers. “The camera loves a blonde."

“I'm, uh … I'm just a mousewife."

“Mousewife?" the hyena gasped, green eyes gleaming. He put a paw over his heart. “I think I'm gonna die, cause that's the cutest damn thing I ever heard." His Southern twang came to the fore as he said this.

Meadow rubbed her neck, shyly.

“How serious is it?" Domingo pressed. “Your deal-io?"

“We've, uh, been together—me and my mate—for seven years."

Wow, seven years? Really?

She double-checked in her head.

Three years dating. Plus four years married? Yup. Seven.

It sounds so long when you say it out loud …

“Damn! About time for the 'seven-year itch,' then. Ha, ha, ha!" the hyena laughed. He seemed to find everything hysterical.

“If Mr. Domingo is bothering you, lass, we can go," Maurice offered, reminding the hyena he was there.

Meadow, grateful for the lifeline, began to say, “Actually, maybe we should—"

“Oh, is he your mate?" Domingo asked, of the moose. His eyes widened into a look of panic, wondering if he'd gotten in over his head.

“No, no! We just … no."

“Oh. Heh!" The hyena sighed in relief. “Whew! Cause he was acting a little possessive. Moose get like that, I hear," he said, adding in a stage whisper, “Very stubborn. Very bull-headed."

Maurice ground his teeth together, eyes narrowing. “We're also territorial," he added, as a 'friendly' warning. “And I was here first."

“Surely, this lovely treat—sorry, what was your name again?"

“Meadow."

“Surely, Miss Meadow doesn't want to be split in two by a goofy ol' lumberjack's … well. Gnarly tree trunk. For sure, I can take much better care of her."

“Um, like I said, I'm very much in love with my ma—"

“She'd much rather be eaten … out," Domingo added huskily, “by a hungry predator." He paused and murmured, “I'm famous for leaving a very clean plate."

Oh, heck.

I'm not aroused by that? I'm not aroused by that. I'm not—

“I'll have you know my tongue is bigger than yours," Maurice said.

The moose wasn't lying about being territorial. But since hyenas were experts at trolling others in their territory?

They're gonna come to blows if I don't stop this.

The hyena rolled his eyes. “Again with the size! It's about skill, sir." Domingo adjusted his tie. “Skill." He cleared his throat. “And a mouse would know that." Domingo gave Meadow a lascivious look. “Wouldn't you, blondie?"

The petite mouse grabbed at Maurice's side, looking upward and telling the moose in an exaggeratedly loud tone, “I'm, uh … I'm ready to go when you are?"

“Right, lass." The moose put his arm around Meadow.

“Mm." Domingo scrunched his muzzle and nodded, spreading his arms. “Alright. Gotcha. Fair enough! I know when I've been beat." He winked at Meadow. “No hard feelings?"

“No. Of course not. It was, um, nice meeting you," she said.

Was it, though?

“Go easy on her," the hyena warned, pointing at the moose before bounding off, no doubt to try again with someone else. With that much gusto, Meadow was certain he'd eventually have success. Whatever girl he ended up 'eating' wouldn't be left wanting.

The mouse exhaled and let go of Maurice, blushing and taking a deep breath as she said, “Thanks for, um, protecting me."

“No problem."

“Um … but I, uh, can't actually go with you. I'm sorry. You know that, right? I was just saying that to—"

“I know, lass."

Looking at the in-house TV feed, she saw Fib taking applause and waving to the crowd before leaving the podium.

He'll be back in a minute.

“I love my mate very much," Meadow told Maurice.

“He's a very lucky guy," the moose said, having no hard feelings.

Meadow rubbed her blushing cheeks. “Thanks … "

Sometimes, Meadow pined for her younger single days. Hooking up with hot guys, mostly bigger and stronger. How they'd give her great times. How she'd feel in their arms. Each one unique, different.

But they hadn't really needed her.

Just wanted her.

Fib?

Fib needs me. _ _

The way he looks at me. Doting, adoring.

What he does to me.

My mind, my heart.

My body.

Ultimately, that emotion turned her on more than all the 'bells and whistles' anyone else could offer.

Maurice, before ambling off to try his luck elsewhere, leaned down and murmured, “If you're ever in Juneau, though … look me up."

Meadow blushed.

Hours later.

After sunset, after dinner.

Fib's idea of Valentine's was very traditional. He'd gotten her chocolates, flowers. The usual. He'd given those to her at the restaurant.

But the final gift?

That had to be given in private.

In the hotel room.

The curtains had been left open, showing off the wintry, glittering skyline.

Meadow, with a huffy squeak, was nudged back onto the bed. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed. Tail whipping to the side. The back of her red, lacey dress had been fully unzipped (by Fib), causing the shoulder-less top to fall well below her shoulders, exposing her creamy-white breasts.

Her pink nipples glistened with his saliva. They were hard. He'd been sucking on them.

Fib, pants and underwear on the floor, his thick, five-and-a-half-inch mousey dick at full, throbbing attention, stood at the foot of the bed while he casually unbuttoned his shirt.

Top to bottom.

Slowly.

Eying his mate with devoted lust.

“Take off the dress, Butterscotch," he murmured as he undid the last button, shrugging his shirt away and getting into bed with her.

It wasn't a suggestion.

Fib was so 'aw, shucks!' good-natured and sweet, it masked how dominant he really was in their relationship. It always came out in full, unfiltered force during sex.

Meadow, submissive by nature, accepted her role. It's part of what had drawn her to him in the first place. He was so confident, self-assured. The opposite of her.

She obeyed him, wriggling out of her pretty, new garment, pushing it off the bed and to the carpet. She scooted back into the center of the bed, naked, all warm and sweet, gold and cream. A candy confection.

“Who's a good girl?" Fib cooed huskily, grabbing her hips.

Meadow mumbled.

“What was that, Butterscotch?" he asked as he leaned down to kiss her belly.

“I … I am," she panted. “Me."

“That's right. My perfect, little 'mousewife'." While he kissed and mouthed at her body, he dipped a finger into her vagina. Pushed it in and out, teasingly, then withdrew it, caressing her labia before teasing her clit. “Spread your legs."

Meadow, wet and wanting, did so.

Fib's head disappeared between them, only his big, dishy ears and his blonde head-fur visible, the specifics of what he was doing left to her visual imagination.

But other senses filled in the gaps.

She could hear it.

Feel it.

His tongue diving into her sex, swirling, lapping and licking. His jaw scooping as he pressed his face ever closer to her, eating her out with slurps and smacks. Nose wildly sniffing and twitching.

Meadow's eyes fluttered shut. Her maw gaping, head twisting. “Ah … ah, ahh … "

He kept going, driven by instinct, by animal hunger, ultimately zeroing in on her clit.

Meadow grabbed at his head, fingers curling. “F-fi … fib … oh. Oh!" Her breath hitched. “Oh!" It was coming. It was! She was—

Having an orgasm!

She squeaked!

The buck lapped up his doe's nectar as she came.

Meadow shook, trembling, whimpering with pleasure.

“Mmm," Fib went, head lifting. He sucked air, then licked his lips (making a slow, obvious show of it) before sliding back up her body. His chest-fur rubbing against her breasts. “That … that feel good, Butterscotch?"

“Y … y-yes," she whimpered, still recovering.

“Yeah?" he cooed.

“Mm. Mm-hmm."

“Want another?" Fib asked, not waiting for the obvious answer. She was his! Of course she did.

He slipped his needy dick into his mate's wet, ready pussy, so wet and slick and hot and, oh, so, so wonderful! A groan as he buffered at a balls-deep hilt. “Ha … ahh … " Smiling and nodding hazily, he hugged her and told her, “Fuck, you feel good. Ah. Hold on, 'kay? Mm. I'm gonna get rough."

She clung to him tightly. Arms. Legs. Hugged him with all her body, pushing her nose against his neck.

“You ready, Butterscotch?" he breathed, coiling, vining his tail around hers, forming a double-helix of mouse tails. Just another reminder of how bare and intimate this was.

“Y-yes … "

“Good girl." Fib pulled back, wriggling … wiggling …

Hump!

He slammed forward as hard as he could. “Mmf."

Meadow's body, pinned beneath his, sank down into the mattress.

Squeak!

Hump! Hump!

Eek!

She was rocked, jolted with each firm, frantic thrust.

Fib, having gone from zero to sixty, maintained his speed and bred her, rutted her, had his way with her. The euphemisms were many.

But the feeling was singular: a unifying, tingling pleasure that both their bodies felt. Growing, spreading in scale and scope the more they fused.

Meadow gaped and gasped, her paws rubbing all over her mate's trim and undulating, golden back, ending up on his ropy-tailed ass. She grabbed his cheeks. Pulled at him.

Fib's big balls audibly battered her body as he lost control of himself, thrusts wild, erratic. His limbs tensing.

Meadow knew when he was close. He had such obvious tells. “Oh, Fib … yes … please … "

Fib, unable to hold out, buried in her pussy and grunted in orgasm. “Uh, uhh … ah! Uhnn … "

Meadow felt his body twitch and pulse.

Knowing he was filling her, claiming her.

Knowing she'd worked him into this frenzied, feral state?

Her and no one else? It was the final straw to topple her, as well.

The doe had a second orgasm.

Somehow, it was better than the first.

Oh, god, oh, yes.

“Ah! Ahhhhh!" she cried, buckteeth jutting.

She closed her eyes but still saw lights.

Be them stars or the windows of the skyline outside, or maybe something else entirely. Something from another universe, something parallel and transcendent! Whatever. She saw them. She'd asked, earlier, to be more uninhibited?

Sign me up for more.

Fib slumped atop her body, panting, slurring happily, “Ah … ah, yeahhh … "

Meadow squeaked, playing with Fib's head-fur, eyes peeking back open.

“Mm. Happy Valentine's Day, Butterscotch," Fib eventually cooed, nose touching hers. He tilted his muzzle to deliver a full-on kiss. “That was fucking great."

She tacitly agreed by taking his kiss.

And he gave her another and another.

They made out for a lazy minute.

Their tails untangling from each other, snaking in different directions.

Finally, he nuzzled her neck before pulling out of her, his shrinking cock dripping gooey white. He caressed one of her breasts (the one above her heartbeat) and got out of bed. “I'll start the shower. Lay here and catch your breath."

“Fib … "

“Yes, Butterscotch?" He paused and turned, coming back to her. His loins were a matted mess.

Her eyes watered. “I … I love you." She wanted to say more, but the words got caught. Just as well. Because it would've spilled out as emotional gibberish. She reached out for a vulnerable hug.

“Hey," he cooed, rejoining her on the bed. He gave her that hug and then combed his fingers through her head-fur and cupped her cheek. “I love you, too." He leaned in to kiss her forehead. “You're my everything. You're my soul mate."

“Really?"

“Mm-hmm."

He had never called her that before.

Had he?

No, I don't think so …

She whispered back with absolute certainty, “You're my soul mate, too."

Fib beamed.

Meadow smiled.

“Follow me when you're ready." The buck scurried off to start the shower. _ _

Twenty seconds later, Meadow sat up, grabbing her head as a wave dizziness hit her.

“Whoa … gah … "

She needed a few seconds to get her blood back, and once it was, she got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. She could hear the shower going.

She felt incredibly silly for beginning the day doubting her self-worth. How many people had wanted her today? At some point it stopped being a fluke.

Insecurities, though, were like weeds. Hardy, virulent. Tending to crowd out the flowers of reason.

She knew they'd be back.

But they had no place in her mind right now as she got squeaky clean with her mate.

In each other's arms, tails once more entwined.

Hearts beating as one.