Twin Kiss
So, I'm in the bedroom (which is upstairs, right). The bedroom's small. Cause it used to be the attic. AN attic, I should say. It seems like this house has two or three. And maybe it should. It (the house) is a hundred years old. An old farm house. Appropriate, then, for me, a farm mouse. House. Mouse. Yeah ... that rhymes ...
So ...
Okay, so I'm in the bedroom.
I'm at my desk. At the computer. I'm trying to write. Well, I'm not TRYING. Rather, I AM writing, and going at a good pace. Okay, okay. Going at a GREAT pace. Sort of. Okay, I'm not. I have writer's block. Yeah, I know ... how lame is that? It sounds like an excuse, doesn't it? I don't know ...
Anyway, I'm hung up on something.
You see, it's the music. Like, I have to be listening to music when I'm writing. Well, I don't HAVE to, but ... you know, it's better IF I do.
Yeah.
So, the problem is ... yeah, I can't decide. No, no, I CAN decide what the problem is. What I CAN'T decide on is: what music to be listening to (and THAT's the problem). I don't know. I just don't know what kind of mood I'm in. I rarely do (know, that is). It's always up and down. A furry, mousey roller coaster of emotional ... stuffs. Stuffs. Mm. Doesn't sound right, that word. Stuffs. Anyway, if you say ANY word enough times, it becomes nonsense. You ever notice that?
So, I'm flipping through my CD case, with all the CD's arranged by group (and within groups, by the color of the CD). All impeccably organized. All there. What, what ... to listen to ... mm ...
This really shouldn't be a problem.
This really isn't hard.
I mean, of ALL the problems ... this is the least problematic, you know? I've had worse problems today than, you know, trying to figure out what music to listen to while I write. But ... you know, I'm in one of those moods, okay?
Okay, I admit it, alright?
I'm emotional. I admit it.
I can be ... emotional. I'm ... no, I'm NOT flaky. No. I'll admit to being wispy, but that's TOTALLY not the same thing. I'm just a touchy-feely ... feely. Is feely a word? You know what I mean. I'm a tender mouse. It doesn't take much to fluster me.
I have, like, what ... ninety-eight CD's in this thing?
I flip through the pages.
I HAD been listening to Wilco. And they're good, okay? They're fine. They might even be ... just a TAD bit better than fine, but that would be REALLY pushing it. I mean, after all, isn't The Autumn Defense, like, TEN times better than Wilco? I mean, seriously ...
... The Autumn Defense. Yeah. But no ... no, I listened to them in the car yesterday. Mm. I had them on cycle in the car for, like, a WHOLE week. I mean, I'm obsessive-compulsive, okay, so ... I can listen to a CD, like, seriously, ONE HUNDRED times in a row and not get the least bit tired of it. For real. But ...
... right now, I think it would be better if I force-fed myself something different.
Hem. Yeah ... New York-based country ensemble. That's good, yeah. So, I put one of their CD's (I choose Rabbit Songs) into the computer (cause I don't have a stereo or a CD player), and ...
... let it play.
And I nod.
Okay. Okay, we GOT the music, and ...
... yeah, so we're fine.
We can start writing again.
So, I'm typing ... type-type-type, and ...
... mind's already straying. Can feel it shifting gears.
Focus!
Type-type ...
... type ... they better not schedule me to work next Saturday. I SWEAR ... if I miss Pole Day cause of them ...
Type ...
... seriously, I asked for that day off, like, two months ago. Now, I'm gonna worry about it. You're gonna worry about it, aren't you? Like, until you get next week's schedule.
Dammit.
Alright. Don't think about it.
You'll make it to the Speedway at least once, alright? It's the month of May. You're a Hoosier. You'll FIND a way, dammit. I mean, it's just ... you will. Don't worry about it.
You were writing, Field. WRITING.
I can't wait for tomorrow's episode of Lost ...
Writing ...
Oh. My. Gosh. I saw this bird, right, like ... on my way back from Sheridan, and I had NEVER seen this bird before. I swear, first thing I thought when I saw it was: magpie. Really. Just those colors. Black and white. What was it? Oh, my gosh ... the hummingbirds will be back in, what, two weeks? Three? I held one in my paw last year. I caught it in the barn. It was trapped, and ... will she be back? The same one? Will she remember me?
Oh, my gosh, I'm a TOTAL twitcher. That's a bird watcher, you know. A twitching twitcher. That's a mouse who's a bird watcher. That's me. That's ...
... Field, SHUT ... UP. Okay! You were writing a story! You were doing fine!
Concentrate, alright?
Please ... darling, focus ...
... focus. Turn the music off. Okay, I'm turning it off. I'm going to focus.
You're right. You're right. I can do this. I can focus.
I'm focusing.
I'm writing again. Okay. This is good.
The window is half-open, and the air conditioner is off, and it's ALMOST dark outside. Mm ... yeah, and, like, you can HEAR the frogs at the creek. And the night-things. The night-bugs. And the mocker! The mockingbird. Oh, I love mockingbirds. They sit in the tree outside the window in the bedroom here, at night, and they change their tune, like, every eight seconds, and they mimic EVERYTHING. Even mechanical sounds. Even ...
"Trying to write?" says a voice, sending my mental mayhem into a maniacal, screeching stop.
I blink. "What?" I turn my head.
"Trying to write?" Adelaide asks again. My mate. She's my mate. For seven months. She's twenty-two, and I'm twenty-one. Oh, and she's a bat. A PINK-furred bat. And she has these fangs, and this ... AWESOME toothy smile. The BEST smile, and, like, winged arms. Her wings are like velvet, and ... she has telepathic abilities. When she BITES with those fangs, we're, like, TOTALLY joined. Like, linked. You don't even know ... anyway ... anyway, she's in the doorway now. She had been in the other room ...
Adelaide. Mm ... so kind and nurturing. So strong-willed. So confident.
Oh, I love her. I tell her that every day ... I love her ...
"Well, yeah, I'm ... trying," I admit lamely.
"What are you writing about?" she asks, padding into the room. In her bare foot-paws (colored pink, like the rest of her, and ... with those blunt claws). "Mm?" She comes up behind me. Puts her paws on my shoulders.
I sigh a bit. JUST at that. Just at her touching me like that. JUST at paws on my shoulders. Isn't that nice? Paws on shoulders?
Everyone should have someone who'll just barge into a room when you're in the middle of trying to be creative ... and give you a good shoulder-grip. Mm ... anyway, that's what she's doing.
In response to her last query, I respond, "I don't really know. I'm just ... writing."
"Just letting it flow, huh?"
"Something like that."
She kneads my shoulders. Kneads. That reminds me of a funny bit in Are You Being Served where ... they do a whole scene with "kneads" and "needs," and ... confusing the two. Mm ... yeah ...
A sigh from her. "Field ... "
My eyes are now closing. "Mm ... what," I whisper.
"You said you'd take me to the Twin Kiss ... " The Twin Kiss is the ice cream place in Sheridan, the nearest town. A full seven miles to the north-east. The nearest town, yeah. And it doesn't even have a single stoplight, so ... I went to school there. She didn't. She's from Indiana, but ... not from these parts ...
My eyes open to glance at the clock on the bottom-right corner of the computer screen. "Darling, it's ... like, 8:57 ... "
"They don't close 'til 10."
"Mm ... " She's massaging my shoulders, like, fully ... and I KNOW she's using her mental abilities to loosen me further. Oh ... I could just melt in my chair! I could just slip out of the chair and onto the floor and melt and ...
"We still have time," she said.
"We can go," I whisper weakly, wispily, "tomorrow night."
"Ice cream is a mood thing, Field. A mood thing. I'm in the mood for ice cream," she whispered, "right now. Besides," she reasons. "It's going to rain tomorrow, and the day after that, and ... it's a beautiful May evening now, so ... better now than tomorrow. Yeah?"
A whimper-squeak as she's letting her paws slide down my arms. As she's pulling me out of the chair and playfully pushing me to the bed.
"I think," she says with a toothy grin, "you have writer's block, anyway. You need a break."
"I do not have writer's block. I'm just ... tired." But I DO have writer's block, so ... I'm lame! I admit it! I haven't writer's block, okay?
"You have, what, half a page on that screen," she says, nodding back at the computer. "You normally do, like, ten pages a night, so ... and you've been in here for an hour."
"Just keep getting," I tell her, biting my lip, and eyes darting over her, "distracted."
"Tell you what. I ease your distraction. You take me to Twin Kiss."
"What's that mean ... "
Her pink eyes squint with mirth. "You're smart enough to figure that one out ... " She crawls over me, and ... stops. Above me on all fours. Still dressed. In her tank-top and shorts. "Besides, there's something I've wanted to do ... " She gets back up, slightly, so that's she's on her knees. Her paws fumbling at my jean shorts. Undoing the button, the zipper ... " ... all," she whispers, "day." A sigh. "I mean it, Field. After two in the afternoon, it was all I could ... think about ... "
I squeak (for a lot of reasons).
She giggled. Pulling my pants, and my briefs ... down. To my knees. And, satisfied enough with that, she puts a paw on my sheath-less, pink mouse-hood.
My ears flush a rosy-pink.
"I think that's the cutest thing," she whispers to me, of my blushing ears. Whispering her words with a tenderness. She's yiffy, but ... her eyes aren't lustful. They're loving. They're wanting.
I flush more. "Well ... " And I trail. Not knowing what else to say.
"You don't have to say anything," she whispers, reading my mind. (Sometimes, I forget she can do that. Even though she's doing it ALL the time.) "Just close your eyes."
I do. Halfway.
"All," she giggles, "the way."
"I wanna ... see ... "
A giggle. And her paws on my belly. And on my hips. Scritching. "Just FEEL, Field, for a change ... and just relax, okay?"
I nod, taking a deep breath. Swallowing. "Mm ... okay ... "
"Now, it takes you longer to, uh, recharge," she says, flushing herself. She's antsy. She's licking her fangs (I can hear it, even with my eyes closed ... I can hear it with my swiveling, warming ears). "It takes you longer to recharge," she repeated, "than it takes me, so ... I'll work on you now," she offered, "and when we get back from the Twin Kiss, you can work on me. And ... then, when we've each gotten a go, we can have a wild, fur-clutching, sweaty free-for-all."
I giggle. And giggle again. "Yeah?" I ask, opening one of my eyes.
"Yeah," she says, nodding. Showing her fangs. And putting a paw on my face.
I close the open eye.
She removes the paw. "Yeah," she whispers again.
"Like, outside? In the dewy grass?" I ask. The moon is full tonight. Like a spotlight. To make love under moonlight ... in dewy grass. To frogs and cricket-sounds. Oh, wow ...
"Uh-huh," she says, pawing my mouse-hood.
I swallow and give a squeaky huff.
She continues with her paw. Getting me sufficiently erect. As much as she likes. Before putting her paws on my honey-tan, furry thighs, and ...
"Oh," I breathe, arching my belly upward.
She puts a paw on my belly. "Down, boy," she whispers, her lips poised right above my tip. Her tongue having just taken a lazy, lazy lick. The slow, wraparound kind. The kind where she takes her time.
I just nod weakly.
She breathes deeply through the nose, inhaling my earthy, mousey scent. And my own nose twitch-sniffing, smelling her pink fur. Her own scent. I swear she smells like some kind of fruit ...
And I squeak ...
... as her lips, in a wet, loosened ring, slide down the shaft of me.
"Oh ... "
She goes down. Pauses. And slides back up. And pauses again. And slides down. A slow, steady up and down motion. A slow, steady bobbing. She bobs, bobs a bit ...
... and I huff and swallow and squeak. Oh ... and I brace myself for what I KNOW she's about to do.
And she does. She does it. Upon pulling her muzzle back, her tongue lashes into swift, sudden action. Poking and prodding around the head of my mouse-hood. Around the ridge at the back. At the slit.
I squeak out, foot-paws stretching, tail snaking a bit. My whiskers twitch. I squeak.
She ravages my head and tip, and ... flows back into a bobbing motion. Just long enough to let me pant and huff and recover. And, then, she goes (again) for the head. And suckles JUST on that. Just suckles on it.
"Huh, huh ... uhh ... "
Her swept-back, angular ears like what they hear. And she keeps doing it.
"Ohhh ... uhn," I pant, unable to help it. Okay, okay, so I'm a SQUEAKER during yiff, okay? I can't help it. So what? I bet you are, too ... so, keep that smirk to yourself.
Anyway ...
Oh, yeah, she's ...
... suckling, and ... back to bobbing. And one paw is on my furry sac. She's using her fingers to move the balls around. And she's tug-tugging on the sac, and ...
"Oh ... ohhh," I breathe, squirming, arching. Oh, gosh ... she knows what to do. She knows EVERY spot. Every move. She's had so much practice, so ... I mean, why SHOULDN'T she know? She can read my mind like a book. She ...
... bobs faster. Tugs. And moves a paw to my tail-base. Just pressing two fingers at my tail-base. Massaging.
"Huhh ... " Squeaker-squeak ... squeak ...
She chitters from the throat. And does the thing that, EVERY time, just ... VAULTS me into that final ecstasy. That mind-blowing, body-reeling, whisker-twitching release. She's been waiting to do it. I've been waiting for it.
She, with muzzle closed around my mouse-hood, echo-bursts from the throat.
I squeak at a high, chittering pitch, wriggling and gasping as the vibrations just FLOOR me. Just PIN me to the bed. As her paws move to my hips. She has to keep me in place. Else, in my pleasure throes, I'll buck involuntarily up at her muzzle. So, she has her paws firmly on my hips, keeping me down.
"Ohhh ... uhnnn," I squeak. My cock twitches, twitches, and BAM! There. There! The jerks. The spurts. And with EACH spurt of wet, warm, white mouse seed ... with each spurt, a pulse of pleasure jolting through my nerves. To all my extremities. And I can only gasp and keep my watered eyes shut. I can only endure it. Only let it happen.
She, in a total yiffy state, is milking me dry. Is suckling. Is collecting the semen in her mouth. Letting it pool on her tongue. And ... not swallowing until, finally, she pulls off. Sits up. And I open my eyes, and she ... swallows. Dribbling a bit from the lips.
My eyes locked on hers. Hotly. Oh, wow ... I pant, pant, my furry chest rising and falling in a hard, heavy way. My cock still twitching from the after-effects.
And Adelaide, her breathing labored, her pupils dilated, she swallows again, clutching at my belly-fur, whispering, "That, uh ... that, uh ... that was nice, yeah?"
"Uh-huh," I respond. With a glazed-over whisper.
She grins at me, and sighs, saying, "Well ... let's go get that ice cream, huh?"
"Ice cream?" I whisper. Blinking.
She giggles. "Ice cream," she repeats. "Twin Kiss. Remember?"
"I wanna yiff you," I blurt out. "I wanna lick your ... "
"And you will, darling," she interrupts, giggling, "WHEN ... we get back from ice cream. Besides, your mouse-hood needs a bit of time to ... recharge, yeah?" she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. Looking playfully at me. Standing up. Waiting for me.
"Yeah," I agree. She's right. Yeah, I'm not one of those male furs who can have, like, three orgasms in an hour ... I wouldn't say I'm a one-and-done kind of male, but ... I DO need time to recharge. She's right. She's right ...
So, I shimmy off the bed, pulling up my briefs and pants.
"Wait, wait," she whispers.
"Mm?" I ask.
She reaches a paw behind me and ... gropes!
I squeak!
She gropes and feels up my rump-cheeks. Gives my tail a little tug. Giving my rump a little slap. And grinning, says, "Alright, put them on."
I nod, just staring at her. Nose sniff-twitching. "You're wet," I whisper. I can smell it through her clothing.
"Am I?" is her coy response.
"Yeah," I say, smiling.
"Well, I WOULD be, wouldn't I?"
I put my muzzle to hers. "Mm ... yeah," I say, tilting my head. Kissing her lips. Once, twice. Little smack-smack sounds.
Oh, I love to kiss!
And she kisses me back.
And we stand there for a full minute. Just kissing.
Until we force ourselves to leave the bedroom. Until we're leaving the house, getting into the car, and going down the gravel road. On our way to Sheridan. On our way to the Twin Kiss.
A night of having ice cream and yiff with your mate.
What a cure for writer's block, huh? I mean, SERIOUSLY ...