Race Day, Part Two
AUTHOR'S NOTE -- This is the 'series finale' of "Furry Racing League."
After the invocation, the anthem ...
... and the command to start engines ...
... came the start!
Green flag unfurling from the starter's stand above the front-stretch, the cars went at full-speed, full-rich on fuel. Flying into the first turn. Tightly bunched. Some staying side-by-side. And some falling back. Glistening brightly. The paint gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. The summer sun that had warmed the asphalt all day. The track temperature was about twenty degrees higher than the ambient air temperature.
But the track would cool as the light faded.
But for now: a hot, slick track. A fast, glistening track.
The first lap of two hundred now complete. The track being one and a half miles around (which put it in the middle of the chart, size-wise, in terms of tracks the series raced on). But that made it a three hundred mile race.
Normally, a race like this took two full hours to do, when cautions and everything took effect. Not like Indy or Michigan, which could run three hours. And which, length-wise, were bigger.
Already on the back-stretch. Lap two.
Adelaide was trying to pass Kokomo on the outside.
"Inside, inside," her spotter repeated over the radio. "Inside ... " The squirrel's car to the inside of the bat's. Warning her not to steer toward the bottom of the track. Stay in her line. She'd taken the outside groove, and now she was gonna have to make do with it. Even though the inside was easier. Even though, normally, the inside ... gave the edge.
Kokomo edged his nose ahead of her. Just enough. Got into some clear air, and managed to get far enough ahead to scoot over. The tail of his car in front of the nose of hers. And the bat took this opportunity to dive down low. HER turn to take the inside.
But Kokomo anticipated the action. And went low, too. First. Before she did. Forcing her to back off a bit. Causing her to lose some momentum. Letting Daly, the fox, zip around her on the outside. Right behind Kokomo.
"Clear," the radio went. "Clear ... "
But not for long.
Another car was making a run on Adelaide. Nose pointed right at her behind.
Zoom!
Zip, zip, zip ...
... zoom!
Rapid, purring, roaring sounds ... the high-powered machines tearing round and round. Like living things, in a way. Though they all had the same brand of engine (Honda), a driver's skill came more into play, necessarily, than the technology. Even the best driver could do something with an under-achieving car.
Dusky was proving that.
He was in fourth now. He, now, was the car behind Adelaide.
Bell-Bell was sitting next to Field. Beneath the umbrella on the media cart behind the pit wall. Behind Adelaide's pits.
"Who are you rooting for?" Field wondered.
The doe smiled a bit. Trying to be coy. "Whoever's closest to the front when the white flag falls."
The mouse smiled. "Mm ... Dusky's a bit aggressive, don't you think? On the track?"
The monitor showed the creamy-white and cool-black of Dusky's car (with the side-pods painted gold) ... his car zipped round Adelaide. And turned in front of her. Keeping her behind in the line. The cars, by now, having filtered into SOMEWHAT of a line. Passing was constant. And quick.
Zip, zip ... ZIP!
Zoom ...
All those cars running together! The true loudness of it, the true VIBRATION it sent through your body, being so close (as a spectator) ... simply could not be appreciated unless you were there.
"Furs say," Field remarked to the doe, "that this is boring. I bet the ones that say that ... " He looked to the deer. " ... have never ACTUALLY been to a race. Like, in-the-fur, you know ... and not just watching a passing race on the TV ... you know?"
"Yeah," she agreed. Cause, after all, more than ANY other sport, auto racing was a total SENSORY experience. Sight, SOUND. Smell. It was truly a feast. You knew you were alive when you were at an auto race. Especially with the Indy cars.
The mouse's whiskers twitched. Adelaide was now 5th. And being gunned down by Cobalt, of all furs.
"She'll be fine," Bell-Bell told Field. Having to raise her voice ... so the mouse could hear him. And, even then, he only heard half of what she said. The track was small enough that the noise could be heard all around. It wasn't like at Indy ... where the track was 2.5 miles, and you had a gap of quiet (for a while, anyway ... until all the cars started to filter out and get lapped, and then you had no gaps in the field).
And when the mouse gave no response, the deer lifted his headphones off his ears and said, loudly, "She'll be fine!"
"I know!" Field responded. Still twitching. "But ... you're the one who's tapping your hooves on the floor of the platform here. Not me."
She looked down. She was, in fact, doing that. A nervous habit.
The mouse smiled at her.
She shrugged helplessly. "Well ... YOU'RE the one who's tail-snaking."
The mouse turned his head around. His tail was, indeed, jerking about like a live wire. And he smiled. "Well, at least I don't chew on my hoof-nails, or ... yeah," the mouse said.
"Cause you have claws, not hoof-nails." A grin. "At least I don't ... "
"I'm TRYING," said Field, giggle-squeaking, "to pay attention to the race!"
"You're pulling out of the nervous furry motions contest?"
"You win," Field declared. Securing his head-phones. Squinting back at the monitor. Adelaide's white and blue car was coming down the front-stretch again, and he looked out at the track. Saw her blur by. Running a high line. Why was she running such a high line? She must've gotten out of the draft.
"By the way, I saw her 'modifications' to her paint scheme."
"Yeah, I'm a race car now," Field said, grinning. "Mouses have good motors. Didn't you know?"
The doe giggled helplessly. "No ... mm ... I didn't. Anyway, bunnies have motors like you wouldn't believe."
"Well, before you turn THAT into a contest, too, I'm gonna listen in on her radio," the mouse said.
"I'm getting some water," the doe said, and she slipped off the platform of the cart. And wandered a bit back ... to the water. Grabbed a bottle of it. And went up behind the pit wall. Watching the cars from this close. It wouldn't be long, now, before the first pit-stops were made. And she looked down the pit lane.
Pit-box positions were determined by qualifying time. Generally, it was better to have the pit-box nearest the end of the pit. Or as nearest as you could acquire. Adelaide's, for this race, was second to the end ... which made getting out FIRST ... somewhat easier. Dusky's pit-box was actually only a spot or two down. And she could see his crew-furs. She'd met them the other day. All of them. That Dover, though, had given her a bit of an offish look ... but, other than that, they were all friendly. Their team didn't have the financial support that Adelaide's team had. Adelaide was a big draw for sponsorship. Dusky wasn't, really, but ...
... she cared about them both. Adelaide, as a friend. One she'd gone to school with. One who'd GOTTEN her this job. One she'd known for years. Dusky, as a mate. A mate of less than a week, but ... how close they'd gotten in that time. How, already, the bunny was changing. For the better, too. And ...
And Field's question came back to her. Who are you rooting for?
"Can't I root for both?" she asked aloud, to no one in particular. Her voice tiny and swallowed by the loud, loud purrs and roars of the cars.
Sure, she told herself. You can root for both.
But what if ... they're running one-two at the end ...
Well, then, she told herself. I win either way!
But she did have a good feeling about all this. About this race. About tonight. She felt an excitement in her blood. And beaming, she grabbed a pair of headphones for herself (cause, though her ears weren't as sensitive as a rodent's or a predator's, the sound WAS overwhelming) ... and headed back underneath the umbrella, taking the seat next to Field again.
"Ten laps," Field indicated, "'til they pit." He held up both paws. All ten digits. Headphones slipping off his ears a bit (but, then, mouse ears were big, with very thin lobes). He adjusted them.
Bell-Bell nodded. The shadows on the track were growing taller.
The sun was sinking now.
Welly paced back and forth, back and forth. Headphones on. He wanted, actually, to be able to CHIME in on the in-car radio. To stay in contact with her. But the crew-furs had emphatically said no. A bad idea. It would only distract Lumba. And the skunk, though a bit hurt at first being told this, began to realize it was true. She was out there, weaving, dodging, filled with sound of fury. She didn't need her mate badgering her.
He would have plenty of time to badger her AFTER the race. A thought that brought a glazed-over smile to his muzzle.
"Alright, move, move," said a crew-fur, shooing the skunk back a bit. As the pit-crew jumped over the wall. Where they lingered. Their tails flickering, arching ... doing whatever it was the tails of their particular species did.
The skunk took a step back. She would be coming in soon.
During the last race, she'd stalled the car. Not something she'd been happy about. But she hadn't, at least, gotten her fuel hose stuck. Hadn't run over anybody. But those were small consolations to an athlete. ANY imperfection was a major one. Every little mistake ... was a detriment. Especially in auto racing, where mere tenths and hundredths of seconds could separate victors from runners-up.
Time mattered.
This pit stop had to be fast, quick. Had to be flawless. The otter's starting position had gotten her mired in the middle of the field, and when the lead cars had started to maneuver through the slower, lapped cars (the traffic), she'd got a bit stuck. Lumba wasn't a lap down yet, though, but ... down the line, she was gonna definitely be in danger of doing so. And when you went a lap down at a track like this (or any track, really), it was VERY hard to get that lap back. This wasn't like stock-car racing, where the first car a lap down ... got a "lucky dog" pass during each yellow. No, there were no passes to lapped cars in open-wheel.
So, bottom line: don't get off the lead lap.
A good pit stop would assure the otter remained up there. Remained competitive. Eight seconds. Just under eight seconds. They could do it ...
But, as a green stop it would be ...
... yellow!
Yellow!
The yellow flag unfurled and flew above the front-stretch, and all the yellow caution lights spaced around the track went on. Locking the cars into the positions they'd been it at the moment of the accident (the computers helped determine the exact order). And the cars slowed, slowed, to a steady hum. Going at one hundred miles her pour, maybe. Ninety. Slower. Faster than any speed limit, but ... not even HALF as fast as they'd just been running.
But the question: who'd crashed? Who? Where?
Welly stretched, going to the in-pit monitor ... squinting. Looking to the video screens spaced around the track. Trying to see. A green car. Green! But ... a deeper, forest-green. One of the squirrels, he thought. Didn't one of them have a green/brown car?
"Accident in Turn Three," said the announcer over the loud-speakers. The sound echoing a bit around the track. "Looks like Wren wiggled his tail going in ... hit the wall nose-first." The replay started to show on all the monitors.
Welly stared.
The car, indeed, in slow motion, was seen to wiggle its tail end. And then swung round. Hitting the wall rear-first. Sending a flash of orange flames ... parts dissolving, falling all over. Smoke kicking up.
An audible "ooh" was heard from the crowd of 100,000 furs ...
The replay continued. Showing Wren sliding down into the middle of the track. Cars swerving and going on both sides of him. Slamming on their breaks. One of the cars, one of the predators, seemed to run over some debris.
This was confirmed by the announcer, who said, "Fennec's front-right tire is reported as being flat ... "
The replay finished. Amazing that it was only a one (well, two, if you counted the shredded tire on the fox's car) ... accident. But the accident had happened back in the field. Not up near the leaders. Not where a lot of the passing/lapping was going on. Luckily.
The safety trucks were already there. Generally, they were at the spot of an accident within twenty-five to thirty seconds of the crashed car having come to a stop.
The pits were closed. The pits were never opened during the first lap of a caution. Entering the pits during the first lap ... would get you penalized. Most penalties amounted to stop-and-go's or drive-through penalties. Where the car in question would be forced to drive THROUGH the pit lane at 60 miles per hour. Under green. While the rest of the field tore round at 220. If the penalty was severe enough, the car would have to STOP in the pits. Come to a full stop. And then jet on back out.
Or, if a car was generally beetle-bombing (under-performing), getting in the way, causing constant near-accidents, blocking too much, it would simply be black-flagged and sent to the garages.
But no penalties thus far in the race.
And, thus far, only one caution.
Which happened to fall at the proper time in the pit window.
Welly stood, standing on tips of foot-paws. Squinting in the heat of the setting sun. The shadows were very bold now. Colored orange and red and pink, seemingly. The track-side lights, stationed all around the circuit, weren't turned on yet. Not yet ...
Wren, meanwhile, had emerged from his totaled car. Unharmed. Probably with a bruised ego, and probably ... feeling disappointed. And a bit scared at his dangerous brush with mortality. But ... he waved to the crowd, and they all cheered (as the crowd always did when a driver safely walked away from a wreck). And the squirrel got in a truck and was taken to the med center as a precaution.
And, by now, the field, under yellow, had made one rotation around the track. And the cars, purring softly, softly, veered into the pits. Making 60 mile per hour dashes to their pit-boxes. Trying not to run into each other or stop short on each other. Trying not to kick up too much smoke in the process. There was nothing more meaningless than crashing under caution. It was NOT a good feeling.
And Lumba's car (her back-up car, actually ... notified by the letter 'T' after her car number), veered in. Engine revving. She stopped, and ...
... her car was put up on the jack.
Whir, whir, whir! Whir!
Bolts coming off the Firestone tires. Tires tossed aside. New sticker-tires grabbed. Put on. Air-guns bolting them in place. Whir, whir, whir ...
... whir!
Fuel-hose in the spine of the car, behind Adelaide's head. Her helmet was pink. The pink of her fur. With a tiny American flag on one side, and the Indiana state flag on the other ... with wings painted on the sides, too ... a very decorative helmet.
The fuel was in.
The team owner shouted, "Go, go, go, go!"
Hose withdrawn, car off jack, Adelaide gassed it. Rear tires kicking up smoke. She veered right, fish-tailing a bit, and turned quickly left, getting into a straight line on pit-road, and ...
" ... heh! Yeah! She gained three spots!" Field squeaked. That put her in third.
And Bell-Bell, heart fluttering with nervousness, watched as Dusky tore out a split second later. His stop had taken more time. Only one second longer, but ... in racing, that was, indeed, an eternity. Enough to drop him back a few spots.
And the deer waved at him as he went by. Knowing he probably didn't see, but ...
"Now you know what it feels like, don't you?"
Bell-Bell blinked. Turned around. "What?"
"Now you know," Field repeated, "what it feels like." The mouse had his headphones in his paws. Was grooming his whiskers. Licking his paws and smoothing at his whiskers. He often groomed himself like this. It was a mouse habit. He tried not to do it in public, cause ... furs made fun of him. But he felt sweaty and all. And he licked his paws and fore-arms. Stopping to finish, "Now you know what it feels like to be a driver's mate."
The deer took that in. And thought about it. The worry. The anticipation. The helplessness. Knowing your mate was out there. Knowing how dangerous this sport was. You didn't REALLY know what kind of finesse and skill and strength it took to do this ... until you were THIS close to it. And, as a driver's mate, you felt everything the driver felt. Except: you were helpless. You had to sit and watch. While your mate ran the risks.
It was very ... nerve-wracking.
And the doe nodded. Saying, "Yeah ... I guess I do." She fidgeted a bit. Stepping over to Field. Hooves scuffing on the asphalt. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up. But I'm ... SO excited, too. But I'm so nervous. I just ... like I can't sit down. Like my world's on pins and needles. And until he pulls in and gets out of that car and I can hold him ... until he stops moving round here at speeds I can't even THINK at ... you know?"
Field nodded. "I know," he whispered. "You learn to deal with it. I mean, with me, I'm a mouse, and I got natural anxiety problems ... anyway," he said quietly. "So, you learn to deal with it. You just don't THINK," he said, "about what can go wrong. Just don't think about it," he told her.
Bell-Bell nodded. Sitting down on the platform again, beneath the umbrella. Sighing. "I guess I never thought about how it affected you ... or the other driver-mates. Heh ... I feel funny. I never expected to BE one!"
"Welcome to the club," said Field, extending a paw.
Bell-Bell smiled shyly. And put her hoof-like hand in his paw. And shook. "So," she said, letting go of his paw. "How good is this club, anyway?"
The mouse giggle-squeaked and winked, putting his headphones back on. "Good," was all he said. "Just ... breathe. You're gonna have to do this week after week. Maybe for years. So ... just think of it like this: in this environment, and mated to racing furs ... you never feel anything LESS," he confided, "than alive."
The doe nodded. Seeing the sign for one lap to go ... until green. And she smiled.
Over an hour passed. Night had fallen. And the lights around the track twinkled, glistened, lighting up the remaining cars. As they all raced toward the finish.
Fifteen laps to go, and seventeen cars were still running. But only eight of them on the lead lap. Five cars, thus far, had gone out in accidents (with no one seriously hurt). Three had left with mechanical failures.
And Adelaide, Lumba, and Dusky were all on the lead lap.
As were Daly and Cobalt, both foxes, and Chester (the tomcat). And Azure, a squirrel. As well as Terry, a wolf.
The track-lights were green. Green, green.
Fast, fast!
Zoom ... tearing down the front-stretch. Fourteen to go. Adelaide in fourth, and Lumba behind her (in fifth). Dusky up in third.
Field was out of his chair, whiskers twitching, nose sniffing ... tail snaking (and ears swiveling). All those nervous, mousey motions. Eyes glued to the monitor, and then leaving it every time Adelaide's car came to the front-stretch and through turn one. And as he lost sight of her car, he would resume to following it on the monitor. His earphones kept slipping off. He kept adjusting them. Grey-blue eyes wide. Pupils dilated.
The air above them was dark. Black and deep-blue. A blimp up there (providing some spotting, as well as giving a camera angle for the network feed). The blimp's little lights blinked, blinked, blinked ...
... and, on the track, the cars went weave, weave, weave!
Such daring passes!
Three-wide into Turn One! Maintaining it ... Turn Two!
The crowd of furs on their feet. The three-wide formation, all at 200 plus miles per hour ... breaking. Down to two-wide. It was Adelaide and Dusky. And Adelaide had the inside line. And kept it.
But Dusky wouldn't back down. He stayed there, on the outside, refusing to lay off the throttle. Refusing to surrender the spot. And while the two of them hung side by side for another lap, Lumba tried to go low (yet again). Made it three-wide (again). And she inched ahead. Inch, inch, inch ... until Cobalt, for no apparent reason, started to back off. From, actually, a botched attempt at passing Daly, his teammate. And Lumba, to avoid running into him, had to back off the gas.
Sending Adelaide and Dusky, side-by-side, tearing past Cobalt. Into second and third, respectively. Adelaide's nose ahead by inches. And the both of them tacking into the breeze. Gaining on Daly (who had won the last race, and was currently leading the points).
Lumba, too, got around Cobalt, who stabilized his car in the fifth slot. And started to get back up to speed.
Less than ten laps to go.
In the dark, the cars went by like flash-bulbs. Burst! Burst! And they were gone.
Heads went from left to right, left to right. Following the cars on their runs. Keeping them in view.
Eight laps.
And Lumba came up behind Adelaide. Almost looking like she was going to PASS the bat, but ... instead, settling RIGHT behind her. Driving in her wake. Taking part in a draft, and ...
... Adelaide got ahead of Dusky. And Lumba was towed right along with her. Leaving the two femmes in second and third. And leaving Dusky, right on their tails, to attempt ANOTHER outside pass.
Which failed when Lumba moved over slightly, forcing Dusky, this time to back off. And Cobalt, then, caught up to him, but Dusky pulled a move down low. Keeping the fox behind him. With Terry trying to make a move on the fox. And Chester and Azure lying in wait, priming to make moves of their own.
Lapped traffic was ahead. The slower cars trying their best to stay out of the way of the rockets that were flaring behind them. Around them. And, now, ahead of them!
The crowd not sitting at all ...
One lap less, another lap less ...
... and five laps to go. And Adelaide had her nose RIGHT on Daly's tail. Instinctually, inside the car, the bat was so, so focused ... as to be thinking of nothing. The car was simply an extension, by now, of her body. And she saw a fox caricature on the back wing of his car. Every driver had a caricature of their species on their back wing.
She was not going to be beaten by a predator.
Not when she was THIS close.
Maybe she wasn't out to prove something. Maybe ... or maybe, yes, she wanted this SO bad. THIS close to it. Mere minutes away ...
... it was undeniable. How much she wanted this. How much it would mean to her. How much she had to prove.
I'm going to do this.
Adelaide started to veer low, and Daly went lower (to block her entrance into the lower groove). But Adelaide only veered low. Didn't GO low. Faking the fox out, she actually went high, and edged around him on the outside coming out of three. Into four. And down the front-stretch, half a car length ahead!
Four laps!
Lumba, from third, saw this. And went up behind the bat. Again, following her awake. And again, being towed with her ...
... until they were BOTH clear of Daly (who, though dethroned, was not out of it yet, and was not about to give up).
Adelaide was in first!
Lumba in second!
The flashbulbs from the hundreds of cameras in the stands were constantly going off, creating a glitter affect in the night.
Field was jumping up and down, almost falling off the team's media cart. He gripped at the umbrella pole, trying to keep himself still. Swallowing. Throat dry.
Bell-Bell's hoof-like hands clasped in front of her. Almost in prayer-like formation. As Dusky picked off one car. And then another. And was side-by-side with Daly for third.
And as Adelaide led.
Three laps.
Lumba, still in the bat's draft, wedged out. Swerved out. And started to shoot past. But Adelaide, gassing it as much as she could ... kept pace.
But Lumba was inches ahead!
To the finish line again. Two laps to go! Lumba scored as leading the lap, and Welly raising his arms from behind the pit wall. Heart feeling liable to explode.
The sound of the crowd, by now, could be heard in TANDEM with the sound of the engines.
Adelaide held her line. Held it.
"Outside, outside, outside," went her spotter on the radio. "Outside ... " Lumba still there. Still there. Her body aching. Her body sore, but ... her mind too fevered by now to possibly care. She'd never lead a lap in this series before. And, now, here she was, battling the only other femme. Leading.
But the bat hadn't gained her popularity and prestige for nothing. More than just a pretty fur, the bat was TOOTHY. Was valiant. She had more experience in these cars than the otter did, and she put that to IMMEDIATE use. Managing to inch ahead, ahead, and more and more ... back into the lead. Away from Lumba. Enough, enough ...
"Clear! Clear!" said the spotter on the in-car radio.
One lap to go. The white flag! The bat had cleared the otter, and ...
... behind them, almost forgotten, Dusky and Daly split Lumba, still reeling from Adelaide's burst of speed ... they split Lumba right down the middle. Going on either side of her. Making a three-wide formation which quickly became two, as the rabbit and fox cleared the otter and raced at Adelaide's tail.
Dusky was on the outside. Wished he'd been able to get on the inside, but that was held by Daly, who dove for it. Immediately, heading into the final two turns. He dove for it. Got a foot-paw hold in there, and ... inch, inch ...
And Dusky, unable to get past EITHER car now, but going at a fast enough speed to help one or the other ... chose to put his nose RIGHT behind Adelaide's tail. Trying to create a train with their two cars, and ...
... the checkered flag flew, and ...
... minutes later. Victory Lane.
And Field bounded onto the side-pod of her car, fumbling at her safety belts. The bat's teammates tried to pull the mouse off, but he wouldn't go.
Adelaide tore off her helmet. Tossed it aside. Eyes wet with tears. Smile wide and toothy, and ... crying. Quietly crying. Her pink head-fur totally matted with sweat. Panting, she fumbled out of her car and clung at the mouse. Who held tightly back. Eyes closed, he whispered something into her ear.
The camera on them both.
The bat squeezed her eyes shut at the whisper, which was unheard by anyone else, and the tears dripped down her cheeks. And she mouthed something into his ear, in return. This one visible as "I love you" ... which the mouse returned, and ...
... the two of them, tender, exhausted, caught in lights and flash-bulbs. And confetti.
The traditional post-race fireworks sparking and pin-wheeling in the sky above them. And the cheers of the crowd very evident.
Bell-Bell, holding Dusky's paw, was on the perimeter of the celebration, and she flashed the pink-furred bat a big thumbs-up ... when Adelaide happened to look her way.
The bat smiled widely and nodded her thanks. And to Dusky, too (the rabbit having seemed to come to her aid more than once during the course of the race). She would talk to the both of them later. No doubt. This was going to be a crazy, wild night.
In the middle of the pit area, Welly hugged Lumba, telling her how proud he was.
"I almost had it," the otter said, a glint in her eyes. One of both disappointment, but one of ... promise. Anticipation. She knew, now, that she had arrived. Even all achy, she'd stayed in the fight. Had come THIS close. She was here for good.
The skunk smiled and kissed her.
As Dusky kissed Bell-Bell.
And as Field kissed Adelaide, caught on all the cameras on all the sports channels and news-casts, seemingly, in the world. Staying with her until his tail was tugged by Kyo, who reeled him back ...
... letting Adelaide be presented the winner's trophy. And be interviewed by the network and such.
As the mouse's ears, free of headphones, took in the whole symphony of victory.
Sometimes, life could be THAT sweet.
It was an hour after midnight. Because next week's race was on a regular Sunday (instead of a Saturday night), the teams weren't gonna hit the road until morning.
The mouse and bat were in their trailer.
Adelaide, for hours now, had been all teeth. All smiles. Her fangs showing as she just BEAMED. As her watery eyes let forth a few more tears. As she buoyantly bounced through every post-race interview ... before midnight had come and Bell-Bell had stepped in and directed the press to contact her tomorrow. The deer and bat would both be dealing with a media frenzy on Sunday.
But, for now, it was just Adelaide and Field.
Together. Alone.
Celebrating.
They were both FAR too hyped up to be tired. Even though both of them had a bit of alcohol in them, as well. But ...
... oh, what dizzy, colorful heights!
The mouse's lips locked to hers. His eyes were closed, and his head tilted a bit. Making the kiss fuller. More complete.
Her wet, loosened lips suckling on his lower lip. Tugging at it.
And the mouse panted out. Panting his breath into her muzzle.
And her paws, wrapped round his back, ran up and down. Through his fur. Over his bare, honey-tan back. Oh, fur. Gripping at his rump cheeks. Pulling, as if urging him to move his body closer to hers. Even closer.
And he did. He needed no bidding. But, oh, how he liked to be prodded ...
... as both of them, bare, in the fur, writhed in the blue sheets of their bed. With the lights very dim. And with the mouse panting onto her cheek. Sucking on her cheek. And the bat's paws and limbs wrapped lazily around the trunk of the mouse's body. And then drifting upward to caress at his ears.
Drawing a squeak from him. A squeak!
Were they in any sort of calm, collected state, they would've been slower about this. Would've made it last longer. But, they were both so hot, on fire, so swept away ...
... that they just melted and writhed into a swerving, squirming, sensual rhythm of caresses. Tug! Of pull and bump and grind. Wordless. Simply knowing how the other felt. Simply expressing the welling love in their hearts ... with physical abandon.
The mouse, hazy, sniffed. Sniff-twitched. And wriggled sensuously down her body.
She, huffing, let him, and spread her pink, furry legs. She knew what he wanted. The mouse was a connoisseur of pussy. Bat pussy. HER pussy. He had a SERIOUS love of giving her oral.
And she had a serious liking of getting it from him.
He was there. Sniffing. Burying his nose. Panting, and then tilting his head ... whiskers quivering as he kissed her lips. And then skipping to the fur. The pink, soft fur of her ... it got thicker and more matted around her pussy, and JUST between the thicker fur and the flesh of her vulva ... was a little perimeter of pink peach-fuzz fur. So soft. So velvet. Oh, he licked it wet. Licked all of it wet. Matted all the fur his tongue could find. Most of it was already matted with sweat, however.
The bat shivered, sprawling her winged arms to their full wingspan on the sheets. Moaning airily as the mouse ate her out. "Huh ... mmm ... "
The mouse licked up the line of her pussy-lips. Down the line, and then parted the folds. Lap, lap, lap ... pink, glowing flesh. Wet, wet, wet. Oh, her vagina. The greatest treasure of her femininity. With reverence, he carefully wormed the tip of his tongue into her vagina. Huffing. Licking as best he could. Muzzle full of pussy. Slurping, panting, he inched up ... to slide his lips right over her nubby clitoris.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Suck.
"Uhhn ... "
Suck.
"Uhh ... unnn ... "
And the mouse stopped. Knowing her limits. Respecting them dearly. And his sheath-less (for all male rodents were circumsized at birth) ... his sheath-less cock, so stiff, so pink ... it dangled between her legs. Angled at her pussy. And dripping a strand or two of pre.
Adelaide briefly catching the sight, breathed, "Your penis is drooling ... oh ... so cute ... " Her pink, soft breasts heaved. She grappled at the mouse's body. She wanted his warmth. She wanted her male in the worst way.
And the want was reciprocated, for the mouse, on loving instinct, easily slid between her legs. His cock was buried inside her in seconds. And he whimper-squeaked. The velvet, moistened purse of her sex. The entrance to her womb. Her garden. Whatever poetic phrase there was to describe her vagina ... it was bliss. Wet, steamy, slick, pink bliss. The mouse's balls swelled. His sac tightened to his body.
Adelaide licked madly at his neck, numbing a spot for her bite.
The mouse caught his breath several times.
She bit.
He moaned, instinctively squirming.
She held him still.
He went limp. Their minds were merging. Their minds were one. And all the tension and all the subsequent relief of the day ... just flooded the mouse's mind. Her joy. Her love.
Whirls, swirls of color, sight, sound.
Their memories zoomed into and past each other.
Leaving the physical wave to pound them.
Field gaped, gaped ... like a fish. And she clung to him, teeth buried deep in his neck. Oh, the purest of love-bites. She was chittering from the throat. She felt, first-paw, his pleasure. Tight, swollen balls. Blood-engorged ears. Soaking stiff penis. "Ohhh ... ohh ... "
Her moans pulsed in his extra-sensitive ears. He felt what it was like to have a pussy. To have it filled. He felt her very, very recent memories ... of him giving oral. And his eyes watered shut as the bat gave him that moment. Allowed him to relive his pussy-eating from HER perspective ... " ... ohh, ahh ... ah, y-y-eah ... ahh ... "
She severed the experience, groping him. "Mm, mm," she moaned needily. "Mm ... " She pawed at him.
He weakly squeaked a response.
Hump.
"Mmf ... "
Hump, hump ... mm ... hump ...
"Oh, ohh ... "
Bodies, limbs, whiskers, ears, tails ... blurred. Bumped. Bellowed.
Fangs solidly in his neck. Still feeling duel sensations.
Fuck, fuck.
Hump.
She rocked, moaning, against the sheets. Her clawed foot-paws dug into the backs of his legs. Her tail tried to wag, but it was pinned, and she gurgled under the heated, squirming body of him, and ...
... high-pitched squeaks. Sweaty, slurpy fucks, and, and ... " ... uhn, uhhn ... ohh, ohhh. Eeeeek ... " In the end, the mouse descended into effeminate squeaks and chitters. He tensed, slumped, in missionary atop of her. Huff, huff! "Ohhh," he managed, his penis a perfectly lubricated canon. Spurt, spurt! Sow!
She came from the force of his orgasm.
They felt each other's orgasms.
Her pussy quavered, quivered, and fluttered. Squirt! Sputter! Waves of pure-pink euphoria. The bat squealed. Chitter!
Pleasure.
Oh ...
And it wasn't until minutes later that the bat withdrew her fangs from his body. And he withdrew his penis from hers. Until they, panting like wildly-spent lovers, sprawled against each other.
"W-what," she asked, swallowing, throat dry. "What time is it ... "
Field, gurgling happily, went, "Dunno ... uh ... oh ... " A breath. "Late. Or early ... mm ... "
"Oh, Field," she sighed, latching to him. "Oh, that felt SO good ... oh ... I love you."
"Oh. Oh, I love you, too ... " Weak, very sweaty, furry kisses. "Oh ... "
They breathed. Breathed.
Her winner's trophy from the race glinting on the table-top not too far away.
And her mate here beside her.
This was more than sweet. It was sugar-coated.
"What's next?" Field wondered. What would tomorrow be like? The next race? How had this changed their lives?
"What's next?" Adelaide echoed. She possessively wrapped her limbs around him. "Sleep," was her answer.
And (happily together) ... they did sleep.