Driver Introductions
The rising roar of the engine as it purred ... made his ears shiver and shake. Even with his earplugs in. Field ALWAYS had to wear earplugs at the track. A mouse's ears were just too sensitive. But, even with the plugs in, he could pick up on the vibrations and the rumble as the car, like a rocket, went blurring by. Into the first turn. Into the (very) short chute. Toward turn two. And then heading down the backstretch. And losing sight of the car. Eventually turning his attention to one of the nearby monitors. To follow its progress.
"Hey ... mouse ... "
Field blinked. The words a bit muffled (cause of his ear-plugs), but he heard them well enough. He blinked again and turned. It was one of the yellow shirts. And Field sighed. This always happened ...
"You supposed to be back here?" the yellow-shirt asked.
Field was in the pit area. Not on pit road, but ... behind the wall. In the general pit area. The yellow-shirts, as they were called ... they were track security. Given their name cause they wore yellow shirts. So that they could be easily spotted should anyone need them.
"Credentials?"
"I'm here with my mate," Field said, speaking very softly ... because, with the earplugs in, the sound of his own voice seemed louder to him than it actually was. In reality, he was speaking very softly. But, then, he often did. He was a very soft-spoken, shy kind of fur. A rural fur. And not good with crowds (or confrontations).
"That may be, but ... credentials? Pit pass?" The yellow-shirt was a fox. An older fox. Maybe in his 50's. Predators never really trusted prey. And vice versa. But why any sane fur would think a mouse (as curious as that mouse may look ... but, then, ALL mice wore a constant look of curiosity) ... why any fur would suspect a mouse of being up to something, Field didn't know.
"I'm here with my mate," Field repeated. "She's around here somewhere. She can vouch for me."
"She has your passes?"
"Something like that," Field whispered, eyes straining. Trying to watch the action on the track. Today was Pole Day. That meant qualifying. The weather was cooperating, for once. Last few weeks had been very damp (here in Michigan). Very rainy. And the open-wheel cars couldn't run in the rain. Not on ovals. The speeds were simply to great. They'd never be able to hold any sort of traction. Ideal conditions were dry and slightly warm. Maybe slightly cool, at that.
Such were the conditions today. The overcast sky was starting to part (just a tiny bit). And the high today was forecasted for seventy-eight degrees.
And Michigan was a fast track as it was. Much faster than the last race the series had run. A road course down in Florida. One of the few road races they ran. Most of the races were ovals.
"Mouse!" yipped the fox.
Field blinked. Having zoned out. The car he'd been watching a lap earlier ... zoomed by. It made a full circle of the track every forty seconds, basically. Over two miles. Nearly two and a half miles in forty seconds. Traveling the length of a football field every second. Speeds up to two hundred and thirty miles per hour.
"Get back behind the pit area ... spectators aren't allowed up here."
"I'm not ... "
"Not gonna go?" The fox grabbed the mouse's arm. As if the mouse (at twenty-two years of age) was simply some young whippersnapper out to make trouble.
Field sighed, squinting with frustration. Following the fox. Not really having a choice. The fox, though older, was a predator. And, as such, was able to physically overpower the mouse. And started to lead him away.
Meanwhile, the car on the track had slowed, slowed, and had veered into the pits, leaving no cars currently on the track. The next qualifying run would be in two minutes, cause the next car in line wasn't quite ready. The tech inspection was taking longer than usual.
Field, flushing beneath his fur, was towed by the fox to the exit of the pit area. And was about to be shoved back into the infield ...
... when a voice called, "Field!"
The mouse turned. As did the fox.
"Field," the voice said again, panting.
The mouse smiled, biting his lip. "You okay?"
"219. Of course I'm okay. Row two."
"Thought you were gonna contend for the pole."
"I was," she said, sticking out her tongue a bit.
The yellow-shirt fox squinted, looking from one to the other. To the mouse. To the bat in the racing uniform. To the mouse. To the bat.
"He's with me," said Adelaide, the pink-furred bat (and one of only two femme racing drivers in the series).
The fox squinted. "Mm," he grumbled, and he let go of Field's arm.
The mouse, whiskers twitching and nose sniffing, padded to his mate. And wrapped his arms around her. "I, uh, forgot my passes ... I left them in the trailer," he offered feebly.
"Not like you," she whispered, nosing his cheek, "to be so forgetful. Silly mouse."
Field flushed, ears turning rosy-pink ... as they swivelled and warmed.
The fox grumbled again and stalked off.
And Adelaide giggled. Grabbing her mate's paw. "Come on." She tugged him.
"Where are we going?"
"The trailer," she said. "I'm done for the afternoon. Gonna change out of this fire-suit."
"Into?"
"Maybe into nothing," was her cheeky, toothy response. Showing her fangs.
Field giggled, flushing, scanning around them ... to make sure they weren't being eavesdropped on. The press followed the two of them. Being that his mate was not only a bat (the only bat in open-wheel racing), but a femme, too.
A tug!
A squeak! His paw being pulled. And he scurried after her. Toward their trailer behind the garages.
"Dusky."
The rabbit turned. "Mm?" he went, in his nonchalant way.
"Why are there rubber marks on your side-pod?"
"I wonder ... "
"This is the ONLY car we have this weekend. You wrecked your back-up car in Florida."
"Yeah, yeah ... I'll be careful, okay?" the rabbit said, offering a disarming grin. He was very charismatic, was Dusky. The buttery-furred rabbit. A young buck, as it were. The kind who never though about growing old. He was brash, reckless, and maybe wasn't the best decision-maker in the world, but ... he was an excellent driver. And was currently fourth in the points. On a team with inferior equipment and with a strained budget. Without Dusky and his prowess on the track, the team would probably fold. In a way, they needed him more than he needed them.
But ... the rabbit's reputation, even at his young age, traveled fast. He said things before thinking about them. They got printed in the paper. He did things ... that, maybe, weren't very discreet. Truth was: he was MORE than a paw-ful. And none of the more-established teams were willing to risk their reputations or sponsorships on taking him.
So, he was solidly committed, as a result, to Rabbit Racing. A generic name, he'd told them. Not enough "pizzazz." But he got a paycheck. And he got the femmes.
What did he care?
"It's only practice," the team owner said. A grey-furred rabbit. A few decades older than the young buck. "I don't want you rubbing wheels with other cars during practice. It's just not worth it."
"I'm not gonna crash."
"That's what you said the last time."
"Alright, alright," Dusky grumbled, frowning. Sighing. He didn't like being scolded. He resented that everyone was always trying to contain him. Even though, when un-contained, he'd probably end up hurting himself. "Can I go now?"
"Where?"
"I qualified, didn't I?" He was on the outside of row one. Had just missed the pole by a few slivers of a second. "I did my job."
The team owner sighed. "Alright. Got get some rest, or ... whatever," he said.
"I think I'll take the 'whatever'," was Dusky's smiling response. His thin, long ears standing up straight. Waggling atop his head. His white bob-tail bobbing a bit.
"Thought you would," was the slightly-amused (but also tired) response. "Just be careful. We're gonna do some race-day set-ups later this afternoon. So, stay in the infield."
"Will do," the rabbit promised, hopping off.
Lumba was an otter from Brazil. The other femme driver in the series (aside from Adelaide). She watched the scoring pylon.
"Surprised you can see ... what with those sunglasses on."
The otter looked to her right. "They are for the sun."
"There's no sun out," said the skunk. Slender, silky.
"No," agreed the otter. "But the sunglasses ... they are for more than sun."
"What else are they for?" the skunk pressed.
"To keep you from looking into my eyes," was the response. And a slight smile.
The skunk smiled back.
"You are a reporter?" Lumba guessed.
"Something like that. Yeah. A beat-writer. I'm the open-wheel reporter for one of the Indiana papers."
"I see." A small nod.
"I've seen you before, but you always look so ... well, so enigmatic," the skunk said. A chuckle. "Almost too intimidated to approach you."
"And what has made the difference today?" she asked, her accent evident. The Portuguese accent of her native country.
"I guess I just found my nerve," was the quiet response. "Anyway, wanted to interview you."
"Do you not wish to interview Adelaide ... "
"The other femme driver? No ... much rather interview you."
The otter flushed, looking away from him. Back to the scoring pylon.
"Where did you qualify?" The skunk squinted. He, too, was wearing glasses. But regular ones. Not sunglasses.
"Seventh."
"Ah ... well, I'm sure you'll do well."
"I am still learning," was Lumba's response. This was her first year in the series. For Adelaide, it was year two. But both of them had stirred up the racing world. There was something very ... alluring, as it were, about a femme driving a super-fast race car. A certain confidence and appeal.
"Well, I'm still learning, too. This is my first year following the series."
"I see."
The skunk extended his paw. "Welly."
"Lumba," she said, extending her own paw. Squeezing his. Shaking it.
The skunk, almost shy now, nodded quietly ... before letting her paw go. "So, uh ... what are you doing?"
"I am watching the scoring pylon," was the otter's response. Her fur was a rich, mahogany brown. She looked built for the beaches. The water. She looked very ... mm ...
"But there's no one on the track."
"I am memorizing the line-up. I want to know who is in front of me ... and who is behind."
"Ah." The skunk nodded quietly.
The otter sat still.
"Why do you race? If I may ask ... I mean, what makes you do it?"
"A rather simple question."
"Yeah, but ... "
"Do I not seem the type?"
"I don't know. You could be a model, you know, or ... " The skunk bit his lip. "Heh ... um ... I mean. Well, you seem the type. It's just ... "
"I like the speed. The grace. The competition. I like the rush," she said, "of adrenaline."
"Ah," said the skunk (again). Nodding slightly.
"I just like it. Why are you," she pressed, "a reporter?"
"Um ... well, I like to write."
"Why not write a book, instead? Why report?"
"Cause I need food and a place to sleep ... I need a tangible job," was the answer. A smile. "I like sports. Writing about sports is fine by me."
"But you would rather be writing stories?"
"Didn't say that."
Lumba nodded quietly.
"Do you wear those all the time? Sunny or not, you wear those all the time?" A slight nod. "The sunglasses."
"Why?"
"Just wondered what color your eyes are."
A head-tilt.
"I would guess they were brown. A rich brown. Like your fur."
"You would be correct," was her returned whisper.
There was a moment of silence. Broken by an engine being fired. Being started up. Another car was set to go out and do a qualifying run.
"Well," said Welly, after a moment. "Um ... I'll leave you to your pylon-watching, then."
"As I will leave you to your reporting," she said.
A slight flush. He wanted to tell her that her accent was pretty, but that would be lame, wouldn't it? Maybe she would even take it as an insult ... or ... whatever. Who knew. Anyway, he'd spoken to her. That's what he'd wanted to garner up the courage to do, and he'd done it. So ... " ... see you around," he said amiably.
A nod. "Around," she agreed.
And the skunk walked away, almost bumping into one of the otter's crew-furs.
Lumba smiled at this, looking back at the track. Watching one of the cars roll out.
"D-darling ... earplugs. Ear," she whispered, "plugs." She fumbled at his large, dishy ears. Those sensitive, hot ears. And she pulled the plugs out. And haphazardly set them down on the little bedside stand.
"Oh ... sorry."
"It's okay," was her sigh. An intake of air. "You're just being really forgetful today," she accused playfully.
"I just worry about you, is all," was his response. He shifted up to his knees. And sighed, paws resting on her soft, furry breasts. The pink fur there. A thumb wagged softly back and forth over her right nipple. He swallowed. Eyes shy. "Too much in my head. Hard to slow down."
"My mousey is like a race car," the bat purred. "Mm ... I like your mind, Field. I like mice. I like energy."
A shy giggle.
"And you have plenty of that."
"I guess ... "
She put her paw on his chin, guiding his gaze to hers. His grey-blue eyes to her deep pinks. "I'll be fine. Don't worry. I'm not gonna crash. And if I do," she assured, "I'll be okay. The cars are the safest cars in the world."
A quiet nod. "Sometimes, I just feel helpless," was the mouse's whispered response. "I don't know. Like I'm just baggage."
"You're not," the bat assured, rubbing the side of his neck. Leaning in closer. Whispering into his ear, "You're not." A breath. And she blew that breath right into his ear. "I couldn't do any of this without your support. Without your being here," she whispered. "You mean the world to me ... you know that," she continued, paws now on his sides. Her telepathic abilities starting to stir. Starting to reach her emotional feelers out to him. Starting to latch on.
The mouse began to nibble on her shoulder.
"Field ... "
"Mm ... "
"I should take a shower. I ... I smell all like ... sweat and auto parts. My fur's all matted ... "
Mouthing her shoulder now, the mouse sighed, "I don't mind ... mm ... " His nose twitched and sniffed, burying up into her neck. As his paws ran up her bare sides. They were in their bed. The trailer had a bed, a small kitchen. It was a portable home, basically. Very compact, but ... mice and bats were instinctually suited for small spaces, so neither of them had any claustrophobic problems. During the off-season, they lived in a small, rural house down in Indiana. During the racing season, however, it was constant travel. Every week, or every other week ... off to a different state. A different place.
Sometimes, it was very tiring.
But, other times, it was exhilarating.
Right now, it wasn't a concern. They were too focused on each other. They were young, and they WERE in love. They were mates.
"Oh ... oh ... um ... you locked the door, right?"
"Mm-hmm," the mouse replied.
"Put the blinds on the ... the windows."
"Yeah," he breathed. "We've got privacy," he assured, heart going hammer-hammer. As he wriggled his slender, trim form, his mousey form ... atop of her. On the bed. On the sheets (soft, soft sheets). The air was a bit stuffy in here, and she DID smell of matted fur and of auto parts, but ... for some reason, that was just made this all the more erotic.
A sudden knock on the door.
The bat's paw went over the mouse's muzzle, muffling his anxious, surprised squeaks. And Adelaide, paw still over her mate's muzzle, called a breathless, annoyed, "What?"
"It's me," said the voice. Her publicist.
"What?" Adelaide demanded again, trying to steady her breath.
The din of the voice through the locked door said, "Your meet-and-greet at your sponsor's tent has been moved up to three. That's in a little over an hour. You gotta be there."
"I will be," Adelaide said. Swallowing.
"Alright." Pause. "You okay in there?"
"Yes," was the bat's restrained response.
A chuckle. "I'm sure you are."
"Don't worry," confided the doe. "I won't tell any-fur what you're doin' in there."
"You better not," was the bat's response.
"I'll be back in an hour. Be washed up and presentable, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah ... " Adelaide sighed ... as the doe went off. And she removed her paw from Field's muzzle. Meeting his eyes with the most loving sort of lust. "Now," she whispered. "Where were we?"
It had been too much to resist ...
"Dusky," a voice had called.
The rabbit had turned ... to see another rabbit. White-furred. Wide-eyed. On the other side of the fence that kept non-authorized furs out of the trailer area.
"Dusky ... will you sign my program? An autograph ... "
A shrug. "Sorry, kid. Don't do autographs ... " He'd started to move off.
"But I'm your biggest fan," had been the calculated response. He'd ground his hips a bit ... against the fence. Sighing. "Honest."
Dusky's heart had pounded. He paused, scanning around.
"No reporters around ... "
"How old are you?" Dusky accused, squinting. He, himself, was twenty.
"Eighteen."
Dusky made a face. No WAY this other bunny was over sixteen. He was lying. But ...
... the white-furred rabbit was licking his lips.
Dusky's heart pounded. He stepped away, shaking his head. Throat dry. "Kid ... "
"Please?"
The teen bunny, naked on the bed, on his back, legs parted and raised ... he huffed, puffed ... two bunny boys swept away. They'd gently kissed and nibbled on each other for, like, ten minutes ... and then the clothes had come off, and now ...
... Dusky rutted him. "Oh ... ohhh ... oh, yeah ... "
"Oh, Dusky," the white-furred bunny moaned. "Oh ... D-duskeeeee!" he squealed, cum spurting to his own chest. He writhed, gaping in pleasure. "Oh ... mm ... "
Dusky, ears drooping from heat (one of the ears with a piercing in it), on his knees ... rabbit-hood squelching in and out of the very tight, very lubricated tail-hole. A tattoo of a heart was on Dusky's left hip. Hump, hump ... slump. "Ohh ... uhhh, kiiiid. Uhn, kid ... huh ... oh, wow ... " Dusky, chest heaving, put his paws on the younger rabbit's chest. Penis at a hilt in his rump, still being milked ... " ... ooh ... " Dusky shivered from the heat of it all. Semen dripping from the other rabbit. The orgasm had been GOOD.
"Oh, Dusky." The younger rabbit was glowing. He'd just been bred by his favorite athlete! "I love you."
But Dusky, pulling out of the bunny's rump ... felt unsure. He never felt unsure, but now he did. "Uh ... you better go."
The kid just nodded, smile fading a bit. "Was I good enough for you ... "
Dusky forced a smile, sweaty and smelling of sex. "Yeah, kid. You were awesome."
The teen bunny promised to tell no one. And even if he did, who would believe him? But he hopped off, and Dusky sighed heavily.
That had been a mistake. Very risky, to boot. Sure, he'd been LOOKING for tail, but ... not MALE tail. And certainly not a fellow bunny of sixteen ... if anyone found out, he'd ...
Bell-Bell. The deer. Adelaide's publicist ... was watching him from afar. She huffed when the rabbit saw her. And started to move off, out of sight among the other trailers.
"Dammit," Dusky cursed fearfully. Hopping off after her, searching about, and finally catching her. He took hold of her arm.
"Let me go!" Bell-Bell hissed.
"Look, it's not what you think," the rabbit stammered. Letting go of her arm. Eyes frantic.
"No?" the deer whispered.
The rabbit weakly shook his head. Ears dangling. The gold hoop earring in his left ear glimmering in the emerging sun.
"Cause it looked like ... "
"I made a mistake, okay?" Dusky whispered, cheeks burning beneath his buttery-colored fur. He swallowed. "Alright?"
"If you say so." The deer started to move off.
"Bell-Bell," the rabbit called.
The deer sighed. Stopped. Turned around and raised her eyes. "What?" she demanded.
"You're not gonna tell anyone, are you?"
"That you yiffed with an under-aged fur? A male, no less? For what? For pure, animal lust? Am I going to tell anyone?"
Dusky's cheeks and ears burned.
The doe opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. "No," she whispered. "I won't tell anyone. You'll just have to live with it ... yourself."
"Bell-Bell, it was a mistake. I'm sorry."
"Why are you apologizing to me? Are we friends?" she asked.
"I don't know," the rabbit whispered.
"You're gonna get yourself hurt one day. If you haven't already," the doe told him, shaking her head.
"You don't understand. I'm a rabbit. You don't understand what it's like to be a rabbit." As a rabbit, his yiff drive was twice as strong as most other furs.
"So, you're saying that ... BECAUSE you're a rabbit, you can't yiff for love? Only for lust? You're not capable of loving? You're not capable of maturity? Can't handle a REAL relationship?"
"Rabbits are capable of loving," Dusky whispered. "But I'm not."
"And why's that?" the deer pressed earnestly.
Dusky just shrugged sadly, eyes watering. And bit his lip.
"You put on an act, Dusky. Slow down. Be ... genuine. As much as that hurts."
"Maybe I am being genuine," he defended.
"So, your genuine self is a rabbit who yiffs around, despite the risk of ... disease, of broken hearts, of ... who just craves swapping fur ... even with teenage boys? Mm? I think you're better than that."
Another flush. "Meaning?" the rabbit whispered, feeling a bit angry. Maybe at her. Maybe at himself. He didn't know.
"You're very charismatic, you know that? You're very charming. You're also ... " The deer took a soft breath. The sound of a helicopter was overhead. Ferrying some racing fur into the infield. "You're very handsome. There are hundreds of femme furs who would ... love to commit to you. Love to help you ... cause, admit it or not, you're also very much in pain."
The rabbit looked to the ground. The asphalt where all the trailers were parked. "Are you one of them?" he whispered.
"What?"
"You said ... there are those who would love to commit to me. To help me ... are you one of them?"
The deer didn't answer. Only said, "I gotta go wash up. I got a sponsor meet-and-greet in less than an hour."
The rabbit swallowed and nodded. Eyes watering. He shook his head and turned away.
"Dusky," Bell-Bell called.
"What?" he asked, clearing his throat. His back facing her.
"I'll see you later? Around?"
The rabbit nodded, feeling a small spark of hope. Was she offering friendship? Or something else? Whatever the case, he would take it. He'd often prided himself on being too wild to tame or pin down. But, as a result, he had no roots. No core. As a result, he was lonely. And unfulfilled. And the deer ... her and her faith. Her and her assurance ...
Bell-Bell's hooves scuffed on the asphalt as she moved off to one of the sponsor tents ... in the grass in the infield.
Dusky sighed and watched her go, and then frowned ... going back to his trailer. Badly needing a shower.
"Uh ... uhh ... "
Field, ears burning, gorged with blood, picked up every sound. For mice, during yiff, sounds became magnified. His ears could heart her breath. Her beating heart. Her curling toes against the sheets. The soft squishy sound of his pink, sheath-less penis being swallowed by her vagina. Again and again.
But, most of all, the fangs.
Her fangs.
Embedded in the muscle of his neck. Drawing no blood. Simply releasing a white "mating milk" into the mouse's blood. Which linked their thoughts, memories ... and physical sensations.
Adelaide gurgled, saliva drooling from her lips and down the mouse's honey-tan neck. She was flat on her matted back. Legs parted. Paws and arms around his neck and back. She held to his shoulder blades, being rocked gently back. Head tilted, fangs in his neck, but her head sinking into the pillow.
Bats, upon onset of intercourse ... a biting instinct was triggered inside them. A wild NEED to bite. Should the bite not take place and not be seen to completion, the bat would be left with a splitting headache for a twenty-four hour period (sometimes longer). And the mating milk that leaked from the bite allowed a merging of minds. Plus, it allowed the partners to feel each other's orgasms ... on top of their own.
It was nature's way, the whole complicated thing ... was nature's way of ASSURING the female got fully sowed by the male. And it assured emotional and physical allegiance between partners, strengthening the resulting mate-ship. Assuring they stuck together. So, when any offspring came ... they would be well cared-for and protected.
But, oh, what a lovely science!
Every furry species had a yiffy "advantage" ... a unique hook that aided them. The bats had their fangs and telepathy. Skunks had pheromones. Rabbits had a doubled yiff drive. Squirrels had a very acrobatic physical agility (making for positions that ... simply couldn't be achieved with other species). Predators had a dominant, protective aura ... and so on.
Mice had their vulnerability and cuteness. Their motions. Always wide-eyed and whisker-twitching. Ear-swiveling. Those motions subconsciously gave off signals of gentility. Trust. As a result, most furs (though never consciously KNOWING it) were instinctually drawn to mice. They trusted mice. They felt this deep urge to scoop them up and care for them and keep them safe. And, being prey, this was to every mouse's advantage.
By God's design, the whole marvelous thing. All the pushes and pulls. For, after all, God created science. And what God created ... was art.
Which made the laws of attraction ... artful.
Making love was an act of art. Of beauty. Full expression.
Was love.
Field marveled at it all. Briefly. Before his mind was lost in the haze of pink that was before him. The softness. The warmth. The breath and scent of her. Her filmy, velvety wings wrapped around his slender, moving back. The stubby claws of her foot-paws digging into his ankles. The echo-bursts that slipped through her lips (even with her fangs embedded in his neck).
The mouse squeaked, temperature rising. Rising. Oh, rising!
"Uh," the bat huffed, eyes fluttering. Half-open. "Uhh ... "
The mouse squeaked softly, softly, bucking softly, too. Everything softly. Treating her so gently. With such care. Slipping his mouse-hood, stiff and sensitive and soaked with her fluid ... slipping it in and out of her pink, heated muscle. The wetness. The warmth. The perfect tunnel. Slipping it in. Deep. To a hilt. Pulling back. Slipping back in. Faster, faster. Steady. In and out, with his furry sac tightened. Slapping her gently. Balls swollen.
So close ...
He fumbled a paw between their rubbing, huffing bellies ... and found a way to finger at her clitoris. To tap at it ... every time he pulled back.
"Oh ... mmm ... " She gurgled into his neck, straining, writhing.
He pressed and massaged it, and let it go when her whines became chitters. Not wanting to over-do her sensitivity.
As he moved, with a loving confidence, in and out of her, his light chest-fur rubbed over her hardened nipples.
Her foot-paws dug into the backs of his legs now. She held on for the final ride. As they both raced toward the finish line.
The mouse squeaked sharply, caught off-guard. Feeling a pleasure that wasn't emanating from his own body ... but from hers. But he felt it JUST as if ... he WERE her.
The spasms of her pussy walls. The spasms, and the quivers, and the heated, leaking pleasure that wracked her lower half. Causing her to grunt and chitter.
The mouse gasped. Caught his breath. Losing it himself. Mouse-hood reaching its limit, and twitching, twitching, firing!
Adelaide grunted, feeling the male release on top of her own.
Field whimper-squeaked, falling limp atop of her. Paralyzed by this. Huffing, gaping, sweating ... " ... uh, uh ... " His tail whipped about, thin and silky, before starting to dangle limply.
"Oh ... oh," was the bat's pant, as she withdrew her fangs. As she licked them carefully with her tongue (as she always did upon withdrawing them). "Oh," was her sound. And her smile. As she laid back, wings still around him. And legs relaxing. Muscles still in tiny spasms. But not so tense anymore.
Oh, release!
Field flushed, nosing her with twitching nose. Sniffy, twitching nose. Ears terribly sensitive to the air. To all the sounds.
"Well," Adelaide breathed.
"A ride well worth it," Field breathed back, into his cheek. Mouthing it.
"I'll say," was her breathless response. And her head turned to glance at the clock. "But I've only got twenty minutes to shower and get over to the sponsors tent."
"Okay," the mouse said weakly. REALLY wanting to snuggle and nuzzle and hug. Really wanting to burrow with her. Mouses, after climax, felt the need to burrow. To bury into covers, sheets, fur. Just to burrow and curl away.
She, with her mind so closely linked with his, felt the same thing, but smiled apologetically. "I'll be back in a few hours, okay?" She gently kissed his forehead. And sighed. "You were wonderful," she told him. "I really love you."
The mouse flushed with happiness. "I love you, too," he said back to her. And he watched her with desire and adoration as she rolled away from him, getting to her foot-paws. Getting her balance. Spreading her wings and stretching. As she gave him a wink. And as she went for the shower.
And the mouse sighed and clutched at a pillow. Glowing. His life revolved, in so many ways, entirely around her. He followed her all over ... for her career. Put up with the publicity, the crowds. It was all worth it. To see her so happy.
It was a good thing he liked auto racing, too.
He thought about the rest of the day. He'd better get something to eat once Adelaide went off to the sponsors tent. He hadn't eaten lunch today. His stomach growled a bit.
The sound of the streaming water in the shower met his ears.
The mouse giggle-squeaked, wriggling off the bed, and padding to the source.