Waves of (Pink) Phosphor
A May evening.
The sun and heat leaving. The serenaded twilight here.
And fur matted with a combination of dew and (light) sweat, the bat padded into the bedroom. Leaving the door open behind her. And pausing in the moonlight that streamed through the half-open window. Stretching her winged arms. Her wings stirring (invisible) things. Waves of (pink) phosphor. Waves of grace.
The mouse looked up at her. From his lie-down. His head on a snowy-white pillow. Blinking in the dimness.
She offered her mate a smile.
And the mouse's blue-grey eyes, wide and innocent, seemed to drink of her. The mouse already bare. The mouse already beneath the cool, navy-blue sheets. The mouse waiting for her.
The bat raised her arms and pulled her white tank-top up, up, and off. And let it fall aside. To the wooden planks of the floor.
The mouse sat up, whiskers twitching.
She fought the urge to giggle as she undid the button on her pants, slid the zipper down, and let them fall. To her ankles. Pale-pink panties (a lighter pink than her fur) following. And then one foot-paw stepping out of them. And then the other.
The mouse's ears swiveled at the soft rumple-rumple sound her clothing made as it was kicked away. Into a small, discarded pile. And the sound her stretching wings made. To their tips. Her armed wingspan. The wings filmy and velvety. Allowing her to fly. Her bones hollow. Marrow-less, and full of air, giving her such a light spring to her step. Giving her such a lightness. Making her a great dancer. Making her very maneuverable.
She padded to the foot of the bed. Paused there, and smiled more. Smiled again. Showing her fangs, which glinted in the pale moonlight. Which offered a promise. Which stirred an anticipation in the male (and in herself). She was betraying her intentions.
And the mouse had no objections. His pupils dilated more. Making him appear all the cuter, all the more innocent. Making him all the more alluring.
She fell for nature's crafty little lure. And drew a baited breath, and crawled onto the bed. Crawling to him.
The mouse swallowed. Gave a breathless little squeak. Squeak.
She, on all fours, paused above him. Giving a playful growl, and then moving to a sit on her knees. So she could fish at his tail. So she could grab it. So she could reel it in. So she could nibble (so gently) on the thin, pink, silky length of it.
So the mouse would close his eyes.
So she could lean in, on all fours again, and kiss him (unawares). On the lips. Soft, loose, sweet. Succulent. A trace of saliva stringing as the kiss was broke. As their muzzles were now inches apart. As they both breathed. And as she initiated another kiss.
A squeak came from the mouse. Squeaker-squeak.
The bat chattered, her tongue (more versatile by far, designed for catching insects and such) working between his lips. Slipping inside the wet cavern of his muzzle. And prodding at his own tongue (which was weaker, and clumsier, but no less a part of this). Lapping at the insides of his cheeks.
The mouse's nostrils flaring, and his whiskers at an incessant, heated twitch-twitch-twitch.
The kiss broken (again). So both could breathe.
So both could (briefly) consider each other's needs.
The bat's telepathic mind filtering, flowing over his, sensing his emotions. Wanting more. More of him. More mouse.
And the rodent's honey-tan chest rising and falling. Rising and falling. Panting lightly. The only sounds in the room being their own breathing (and the night-bugs and creek-frogs sounding through the half-open window).
It was getting warmer in here, wasn't it?
His paws were now on her back, moving up and down. Up and down. Caressing. Her fur was slightly damp (from just having been outside), and his fingers splayed, he ran them over her pink, pink fur. The carnation, salmon colors of her. Strands of soft fur bending as his paw brushed them over. The slightly matted, slightly damp scent of her. The simultaneous coolness and warmth her body gave off.
She sighed and arched, her belly on his. Now lying atop of him. Oh, sigh. Oh, arch.
Mousey paws going to her rump. Gripping her furry rump-cheeks, kneading them slightly, and fingers pressing into the cheeks. Grab, grab. Massage. Rub. And back to her lower back. And then down again. To the backs of her thighs. Just feeling all over. Getting comfortable with her shape and weight.
The bat kept her eyes closed as the mouse felt her up (and down, and all around). And slightly opened them as his paws slowed their roving. And her foot-paws, with their blunted claws, brushed his. Her toes running along the arches of his foot-paws. Playing a lazy foot-paw war. Push, push. Touch.
And the mouse's tail snaking over the side (the edge) of the bed. Like a rope cast aside. Like a fallen wire. (A live wire! For it would twitch now and then.)
She began a slow, teasing grinding of her hips to his. Grinding down on him. Rub, rub, bump! Bump!
Sigh!
Chitter, from her.
Squeak, from him. His sheath-less (since birth) mouse-hood tingling. As it filtered with blood. As it got hotter. Stiffer. As it rose, shyly, from its limp, nestled spot.
The bat swallowed. Sniffing his arousal. Feeling it, too. As well as her own. Her wetness. Her want.
Their mutual need. Born of a love (this love!) so tender and true. Oh, how to express it? Whatever to do?
They needed no time to figure it out.
The bat moved her paws to his slender, strong chest. How shy a fur (for being so fit). She sat at a straddle of his waist, paw-pads on his nipples. Rub, rub, press!
Getting his little nipples hard. Erect. Rubbing them still, huffing as she did so. Sitting over him, at a lean. Staring down into his eyes.
The bright pinks of her eyes seemed to glow in the nighttime of the room. And the mouse's eyes locked, darted, and locked again.
She nodded slightly. Nodded again, and rose up her rump. Her stubby, foot-long tail (like an air-meant rudder) weakly moving a few inches this way, a few inches that. As she hovered above him.
As the mouse's own tail snaked to his own mouse-hood. Wrapping around the base. Holding it in place.
So that, when she lowered down, the tip met her pussy-lips. So that, when she sank the weight of her body on him, the pink, perfect piece of flesh slid, slid, slid. Into her moistened vaginal canal.
Where it belonged. Where it was fit for. Where it was designed to be.
The bat closed her eyes and breathed a deep, shivering breath. Just feeling him there. Such presence. Such connection. And, already, her fangs began to drip of a milky fluid. Drip, drip. Down her lips and chin. Her mating milk. The primal urge to bite (activated by the onset of intercourse). Nature's way of ensuring they bred to completion. Nature's way of drawing them emotionally closer (and assuring their loyalty, strengthening their mate-ship).
The mouse's paws reaching up to cup and fondle her breasts. To hold one in each paw, and to grip at them. Softly, softly, thumbs wagging over the nipples.
Drawing (from her) huffs. Puffs. As she rose and fell on his organ.
As the mouse's arms weakened and fell from her slightly flopping breasts to her belly. To her sides. To her hips. Where his paws settled. Holding. Holding on.
As she rode him. Up, down, up. Down. Sending little telepathic signals to the mouse's mind.
The mouse nodded, receiving. And moved a paw from her hip. To her sensitive clitoris. Where he tapped, tapped, tapped a finger on the little nub. Gently, sparing. Tap, tap.
And shivering gasps. As she wetly (with a squelching sound) rose and fell on him. And as his paw followed her motions, fingering her other parts. And the bat rose and fell with a greater speed (and urgency).
And the mouse, the pleasure filtering from his maleness into his body, to his mind, shiver-squeaked. Started to writhe. His paw falling away from her clitoris. To the sheets of the bed. Slightly damp from her juices. Tail twitching like an electrical wire. Tail getting a bit more rigid. Ears flushed hot, blushing, and erogenous now.
The bat eyed the mouse hungrily. Her mate was, now, ripe for the biting. And she leaned over him. Horizontal. Still keeping himself in her. And with her lying atop him now, giving him control of the friction.
The mouse humped his hips. Hump, hump. Weakly. Drawing his slick, swollen mouse-hood out and in. Slick, slick. Slide. Hump. The bat relinquishing control of the motion. Giving it to him. So she could lick the side of his neck. Her saliva producing a numbing agent on instinctual command. Licking the side of his neck. Matting his fur. Prepping him for her bite. So that it wouldn't hurt.
The mouse huffed, huffed. Moaned.
And she hurriedly licked. Growling from the throat, mating milk dripping onto his fur. The pillow. The sheets.
The natural details (and everything else) faded away. Seemingly, it was just them. They were all that existed.
Them.
And this.
And she, sucking air, bit! Bit! Sank her fangs into his neck.
The mouse writhed like prey in a snake's grasp. Squeaking. Twitching, writhing, as he always did as her fangs sank in.
And she pinned him down, keeping his arms pinned to the sheets.
Until the mouse moaned, whimper-squeaked. Until he went still. Until he seemed to melt. Until he made a gurgling sound from the throat. Her mating milk sufficiently in his blood, circulating, and linking them.
Their minds were merging.
Their minds were one.
Thoughts.
Him thinking of her fair tail. Her swept-back, angular ears. Her blunted, toothy muzzle. The pinkness of her. The softness of her. Her sense of humor. Her playfulness. Her desire (and need) to nurture. Her care. Her strength. Her social ease. Her confidence. Her ability to fly.
And, oh, her femininity! Wet, warm. Wonderful. The scent and the feel of it. The muscle constricting on his shaft of flesh. The pleasure it gave. The natural fit. The manic things it did to him. The lure of it. Everything.
Her thinking of his large, dish-like ears. His ever-twitching whiskers. The earthy, honey-tan of him. The shyness of him. The doubt. The fear. The need for love. The need for nurturing. The quickness of his mind. The artistry of his soul.
And, oh, his maleness! Stiff, proud. Perfection. The drilling, moving motion of it. How it pierced her. Drove her. Pleasure, pleasure. And how his furry ball-sac tensed and tightened. How it slapped against her. Soft, little sounds.
Oh, the fur and fury of their fucking!
Thoughts, first.
Memories, after. Memories.
Of meeting. Of laughing. Of loving.
Sunrises over the River Eagle. Near the sycamore.
Macaroni cheese suppers at five in the afternoon. And making cookies for dessert. And not getting to bed until 1 AM. Tired in the morning (but, oh, was it worth it).
The mouse crying in the car.
The bat blinking numbly at words hurled at her (by another, nearly-forgotten fur).
Listening to AM radio. Losing the signal after sunset.
Tornado warnings. The mouse freaking. The bat trying, in vein, to calm him down.
The awkwardness of meeting each other's families.
The mouse's allergies leaving him bed-ridden, raw. Coughing, sniffling. The helplessness she felt. In sickness, or in health, though, devoted.
Pains. Joys. Fears.
Life.
Filtering through them. Each other's secrets.
How the mouse lost his virginity to a male lion he didn't love. How it had nearly destroyed him. How he'd rooted in his faith, and had hoped for love. Led to her.
How she'd brought a fur to sobs with heated, cutting words (in a moment of scorn). How she'd come to realize what maturity meant. How she'd been told she could never care for anyone. No one would ever need her. And how the mouse desperately, desperately did.
Secrets. Memories. Thoughts.
They filtered through each other.
And then the physical pleasure.
Punching!
Pervasive!
Permeating!
Paws clutching at fur. On each other's bodies. Feeling. Grabbing for tails and limbs and whatever they could find. Just to hold.
Just to hold. Hold on ...
Just to have something to hold to as they endured this.
This was a pleasure to be endured!
Oh, glory!
The mouse was the first to lose cohesion. Was the first to break down. Frantic, hammered humping from his horizontal lie-down. From beneath her. Member slip-sliding in her, burying, burrowing. As mouses do. Burrow, burrow! Arms wrapped round her back, hugging her down atop of him.
She felt his orgasm. As he did. When he did. Their link letting them feel each other's physical pleasure. On top of their own.
The mouse moaning, squeaking. Giving a rodent-like grunt as he initiated a final, draining hump. Prisoner to the twitch, twitch, twitching of his penis. Wet, warm. Sowing. Spurt after spurt of white mouse-seed. Sowing the bat (but she wasn't in heat, so no fear of the seeds taking root).
Oh, pleasure! Oh, too much! Oh, yes!
The bat shivered, teeth still embedded in his neck. As, she, reeling from his release, felt the rising, the erupting of her own. The spasms. The soft spasms that got more frantic. That became searing. That flung the pleasure to her extremities. That let the clear fluid leak from her vagina. Wetting the mouse's sac. The scent. And her nipples hard, and her wings tingling. She gasped and moaned. Growled.
The mouse's eyes watered shut. Feeling it as a femme did. As she did. Oh, oh, what was this?
Some kind of bliss!
Their physical pleasure, grown and built with both their efforts, reaching its intended result. The harvest reaped. The reward felt.
The love evident as they sighed and sank into the sheets.
As she, minutes later, withdrew her fangs. And he, in turn, withdrew his mouse-hood. And as they lay, side-by-side, panting, sweaty, matted, whispering. Oh, they still felt the waves, the ripples of what they'd done.
Their own passion making the moonlight ripple (like a mirage). Seemingly. Maybe they were just drunk on each other.
On their own love.
And maybe, now, they needed to sleep. Sleep.
Such sleep!
In each other's arms, exhausted (but, oh, so wonderfully so).
Both of them smiling (knowingly, silently). Knowing they had all night to frolic. Knowing they would dream such dreams.