Peas and Carrots
"This is ridiculous. I don't NEED flying lessons."
"You were caught ... "
"I'm a BORN flyer. I know what I'm ... "
" ... speeding in an area of space with a strict speed limit."
" ... doing. I know what I'm doing," Wilco argued. And he slumped into the pilot's seat of the 'flyer's ed' shuttle. "This is stupid," he muttered again.
The otter marked something down on her computer pad.
"What? What'd you put down?" Wilco asked, stretching to see.
She reflexively turned her pad away from his vision. "Will you look ahead? Both paws on the controls ... "
"I know how to fly," he whispered again. "I'm a FLYING squirrel!"
"If you raise your voice again, Mr. Wilco, I SHALL deduct further points from your score. And, if I do that, you'll most likely wind up taking this test again, so I suggest ... that you," the otter whispered, "cooperate." She sat up straight. All tough and brisk-like, with that slightly-lazy air that otters had.
Wilco just made chitter-sounds from his throat.
Arctic was re-supplying and visiting an ocean world along their perimeter path ... cetaceans had underwater cities. And otters had land-based ones. And to make a long story short, the flying squirrel, upon piloting the first away team's shuttle down to one of the otter's landing ports ... got stopped by a 'patrol pod' ... convicted of speeding. They'd asked for his license ...
" ... I don't HAVE a license," Wilco had said. "I don't even live here."
"Honey, calm down," said Arabella, coming up behind him. Paws on his shoulders. "Sir," she said, speaking to the viewer. "This is just a misunderstanding. We were cleared for landing. We're from the ... "
" ... star-ship Arctic. I am aware of that. However, your ignorance of local law ... does not make you IMMUNE to that said law. It applies to every-fur."
"Whoever heard of this? I'm going the right speed ... "
"Atmospheric speeds on our world are lower than those elsewhere."
"Why?"
"Because they are."
"Wow, that's a really ... "
"Maybe you should talk to our Captain about this?" Arabella suggested.
"Power down. And prepare to be boarded."
"Hey, hold on," said Jinx, who was in the passenger seat. Jumping into the conversation. "You're not BOARDING our shuttle. You can meet us at the landing port if you MUST, but ... I'm pretty sure democratic laws don't include anything about unwarranted searches and seizures."
The otter on the viewer squinted. "We are not fond of 'outsiders' traipsing to our planet, using our beaches, frolicking in our sands."
"Maybe your security force isn't, but your government sure is ... isn't tourism your biggest money-maker? We were invited to visit you."
"Land. We will be waiting for you." The channel was cut.
"What do I do?" Wilco said. "Should I turn around?"
"No, that'll just cause a diplomatic incident ... the last thing we need. Keep going. We'll just have to deal with them on the surface."
"What if they arrest me?" the squirrel squeaked.
"I won't let them," the skunk assured ...
... instead, the first officer had reached an agreement with the otter patrol chief ... that, as penalty for breaking the 'law,' Wilco would be required to pass a basic flying test. Using an otter-supplied shuttle.
The flying squirrel sighed.
"Now, first, we shall practice activating and DE-activating our engines."
"I know how to do that."
"This is a foreign shuttle to you ... "
"At school, they primed me for this. I poured over schematics of DOZENS of off-world vehicles ... "
"Then you will KNOW," she said, with a bit of a smirk, "how to turn it off and on."
He just stared, blinked, and ... took a breath. Let it out. Take a breath. Let it out ... and he shut off the ship's engines. A whoosh of ceasing energy. The humming sound gone.
"Very good." A checkmark.
And, then, he did the opposite. Powering the engines back up, and the accompanying 'whir-whir-WHIR' sound ...
Another checkmark.
Wilco brought his paws to his face, rubbing his eyes. Making a little moan-sound. "How long is this gonna take?"
"As long as it needs to."
"Well, I can last another NINETY minutes," he said, giving her a glare, "before my breeding instinct has to be relieved ... just so you know."
"I have seen it all before," was the femme otter's reply. "If you must paw in ... "
"Well, you haven't seen mine," he interrupted. "And you're not going to, no way. I'm gonna be with my mate in ninety minutes, so you're gonna give me this test FAIRLY and QUICKLY."
"You are in no position to be making demands, squirrel."
"Flying," he corrected, "squirrel. And, you know, I'm normally not testy. I'm a bright and bouncy fur, but ... flying is my life," he whispered passionately. "And I greatly resent," he said, "being told that I'm a bad flyer. Because I KNOW I'm not."
The otter said nothing to that. Just paused. And nodded at the windows. "Turn us toward the second moon."
A sigh. A nod. And a swallow. "Second moon," Wilco whispered.
Arctic was in orbit of the planet, and crew-furs were coming and going in the shuttle-pods.
Ross, though, was still aboard, and so was ...
" ... are these supposed to be peas and carrots?"
The vole looked up. "Aria," he said pleasantly, starting to beam. He came to the counter of the window that looked from the kitchen to the mess hall dining area (and vice versa).
"Are they?" she asked.
He looked down at her plate. "Uh ... yeah. Peas," he said, "and carrots. Why?" he looked back up at her, blinking.
"The ratio of peas to carrots is staggered," she said, "greatly in favor of the peas."
"Oh."
"I was wanting," she whispered, "more carrots."
A barely-concealed giggle-squeak. Something about the way she said it. "Is that, uh ... an innuendo?"
"It is a request."
"Uh ... so, uh ... wait, wait ... is this about food, or, uh ... Aria?" The meadow mouse turned around, seeing that she was coming through the door, back into the kitchen. And, meeting his eyes, she nodded her head toward the back, around the corner ... out of sight.
He swallowed, and padded after her, looking behind him. "Aria ... "
"I am sorry," she huffed, "but I cannot ... cannot ... wait."
"We can, uh, make it to our quarters ... "
A flushed shake of the head. "I can't," she said weakly, the sheepishness evident in her voice. "I should've anticipated ... I lost track of time. I thought I ... I had," she huffed, "another forty minutes before I'd need ... mm ... "
"Uh, um ... uh, it's, uh ... oh ... " Paw-grabs and lip-nibbles, kisses, and ...
" ... Ross?"
The meadow mouse huffed. Some-fur at the window. "I, uh ... I'll be RIGHT back," he promised his mate, trying to disengage from her, but ... oh, boy ...
"Ross?"
"Yeah, yeah ... " He finally slipped away from the snow rabbit, going back around the corner, to the window. "Yeah? Ollie ... what?"
"These peas and carrots. There are more peas than carrots."
Ross blinked.
"The mixture should be half and half."
"Well, uh, the carrots are bigger than the peas, so if it WERE half-and-half, the proportion of the, uh, recipe ... would be all wrong, and, uh ... is that all you wanted?" He cast a glance backward. His own breeding instinct starting to flare ...
"Why do you keep looking back there?" Ollie asked, sniffing the air. Sniff-twitch. "You, uh ... " The snow mouse lowered his voice. "You yiffin' back there?"
"No! No, I'm not ... not yiffin' back there. I'm WANTING to. But, uh ... "
"Well, I came to say we ran out of rolls. On the counter here," Ollie said, gesturing to the set-out food. In pots, pans, baskets. "The honey-wheat rolls. You got another pan?"
A huff. "Uh ... yeah. Two more." Whisker-twitching, Ross turned away, and came back with the two said pans. "Can you put them in the basket? Please?"
A bit of a chuckle. "Sure," the snow mouse said.
"Is that all?" Ross asked again.
A nod. A smile. "Mm-hmm ... and Ross?"
"Yes?" He was twitching all over.
"Enjoy your dessert." A wink.
And a rosy-pink flush from him, and no response as ... he scurried around the corner (once more), to the back of the kitchen.
Hungry for his mate.
"Now, have you maneuvered an asteroid field before?"
"I did that in basic training," Wilco assured.
"Then you will have no problem with this one ... now, are you in position?"
"Between," the flying squirrel said, sighing, "the, uh ... third and fourth moons." A nod. And a question of, "How many moons do you have, anyway?"
"Five."
"Wow ... we only have two. Back where I'm from. My world."
"Mm," was the otter's response. And she glanced at her computer pad, and then at the windows. "Now, take us through ... completely through. And put the shields up, will you?"
"Afraid I'm gonna run into something?" he asked, smiling.
"I've had students do it before."
"I'm not a student."
"Until I give you a passing grade, you are," the otter said, sitting up straighter, her rudder-tail loosely relaxing through the tail-hole in the seat she was sitting on ... and it extended to the floor behind her. Very limber.
Wilco, smiling to himself, paws flying over the controls, the winged membranes of his fur-covered wings hanging loosely at his sides (some parts clothed and some not) ... and his bushy tail flickering behind him ... he jammed up the speed. Full thrusters!
The otter gave a bit of a surprised bark.
The shuttle lurched, speeding toward the first asteroid, and ...
... swerve! Another asteroid coming from the side, and ...
... rise!
Dart-dart-dart!
"Slow down!" the otter demanded.
And Wilco did so, still smiling. "What a rush, huh?" he asked, as he (more carefully) got them through the rest of the field. It only took a minute or two to get through ... " ... pretty small field. I've been through bigger."
"I'm not surprised." A mark on the pad.
"Did I get an A?"
"You get points for each segment of the test. Points are accumulated at the end."
"Where to?" Wilco asked, turning the nose of the shuttle around. Pointing it back toward the third moon. Behind it, the sparkling blues and greens of the planet. Ninety percent ocean. With some island clusters (mostly near the equator).
"To the planet. We are going to fly over the magnetic poles ... "
"That'll blind the computer. I'll have to fly completely manually ... no sensors, no anything."
"And here I thought you were a professional." The otter tilted her head, smiling.
"I've done it before."
"Have you?"
"Watch me," the flying squirrel stated, nodding, nodding, and ... taking the shuttle to the next spot.
"Uh ... uh," were his quiet, breathy huffs. His squeaky sounds.
She stood on one bare foot-paw, the other lifted a bit, her leg sort of wrapped around him, behind him, and her back to the wall, and legs far enough apart ...
... to give him a vertical path into her pink, pink sex, which welcomed him in. A soft, searing, succulent kind of slickness, and a passionate kind of heat ... squishing on his penis head, the sensitive glans, and ... all ... all the rest. As he moved his hips to angle himself up and in. And ... and ... retract it a bit. Huff, huff ... push back in. Oh, sure, breeding while upright wasn't the most elegant of things ...
... both of them, knees a bit bent, bodies pressed, writhing to the wall, half-naked. Having sex on your foot-paws was a strong indication of uncontrollable horniness. But they were head-over-foot-paws in love (and she was the Captain, to boot), so ...
... surely, they could be allowed this rare lapse of elegance.
Surely.
Her paws were behind him, hugging his back. He still had a shirt on ... as did she. They were both bare from the waist-down. Which, in itself, was kind of erotic ... breeding while half-covered. He really wanted to pull her shirt off, undo that bra, and ... and, but ... but ...
... hugging him with one paw, eyes closed, head leaned back, she used her other paw to massage her clitoris. Making little mew-sounds as she began to do so ... making sure to keep quiet enough.
"G-gosh," Ross stuttered heatedly, in whispered tone. "Oh ... oh ... " His testicles swelled, his soft, furry sac drawing tighter to his body ... while he did his thing. The in-and-out. The push-and-pull. Really, the only thing he could make himself do ... right now, or even remember ... how to do. Oh, he could remember kissing. He could remember that. And he was sucking (wetly) on her cheek, and his blood-gorged swivel-ears picked up her little mews from so close, so close ... so close ... oh, but ... what? What ...
Her white, furry fingers manipulated with her swollen, little nub ... more and more. Needing to be filled. And being filled.
And him needing to fill.
A whole diabolical scheme being played out ... to be making them do this. But, how good it felt, and how close it kept them, and how expressive ... the feeling, the touch, the whispers. Oh, the love flung forth!
Her fur was matting with sweat now. Always, during this, the fur did mat. And hers always matted first ... the damp, matted fur of her thighs and hips ... pushing, flowing through his own fur, mingling their scents. Strands of fur becoming dislodged and falling to the floor (and, oh, it would be a bigger mess during shedding season ... which, luckily, wasn't for another few months).
Her bobtail flickered between her pert rump and the kitchen wall ... like a flickering, flapping flame of snowy-white. While his tail, pink and bare, silky, covered with little, invisible hairs, snaked about in the air ... snake-snake. This way. That way. Can't stay still ...
The meadow mouse bent his knees as he pulled back. And stood up straighter as he slid back in. Nice, smooth, velvety movements, his sheath-less penis glistening in her juice, as if her femininity was slowly marinating him ... pull-back. Push in.
He was whimper-squeaking in her ears now, such a fine, rutting male, such rhythm, such form ... being weakened by his own pleasure. And, oh, the cuteness of it! That final minute on the road to his orgasm ... the heat he gave off, and his twitching muscles, and his motion slowing, becoming unsteady, almost jerky ... and he tried to keep up the pace he'd been churning out before, but the sensitivity became so blinding that he was reduced to erratic, grunting bucks ... uneven in execution, but beautiful exclamation marks of what had been (and always was) a wonderfully-worded build-up ...
... but, despite all that, she gave way first. Snow rabbit femmes had no trouble reaching orgasm. A fact for which, before shuddering with that familiar, bodily bliss, she thanked God ... oh, thank you, thank you ... oh ... oh ... her body arched, her muzzle sucking in air, clothed breasts to his shirt-covered chest. But naked, furry genitals locked together in age-old communion, the rigid extension of male essence embedded a full five inches inside her body, seeping, seeping ... and her vagina fluttered. "Uh! Huh ... " Flutter! The pink, sopping muscles clamping down, in milking fashion, on her mate's member ... and the sizzling friction of that shaft inside her, against her walls, against her sensitive muscles, and her finger giving a final tap to her gorged clitoris, and ... " ... uhnnn, nn ... mmm ... " She normally rabbit-barked during orgasm ... mewed, too, heavily, but ... she had to keep her muzzle mostly-shut. Had to endure the tremors (flung to all corners of her body) ... had to endure the pleasure with a modicum of civility.
Her femme ejaculate dripped in clear drops down the pink base of his shaft, the heated, rippling orgasm that gripped her feminine parts ... getting him to peak. Already so dangerously close, and now blinded by the force ... f-force of the ... jerk-jerk-jerk! Jerks! Jerk ... penis flailing within the confines of its form-fitting home, white, sticky semen spurting, spurting ... sowing ... oh, sowing her. And holding her so dearly, and so tight. So special ...
... as she held him, too, allowing him to plant ... such simple, natural action. Such pleasure for them both.
And Ross breathing raggedly, licking her neck, eyes closed, whispering of wonder, of pleasure, of her. Of ... of everything. Oh, everything that mattered.
Their breeding instincts sated (for the afternoon), they began to settle down ... and the meadow mouse, flushing, bent a bit, penis (with a bit of a slurp) flopping out, and bobbing. Still mostly-erect, and giving an occasional jerk. Dull aftershocks of orgasm. But his organ glistened, and was so pink, so ...
" ... beautiful," Aria whispered reverently, reaching out to touch it. She cradled the organ in her paws. Gave a light, light squeeze, and then let it go ... her paw left a bit sticky.
Ross blushed profusely, fur tingling. It was possible, yes, to be shy around someone you'd been intimate with so many times ... shyness never got old. "Thank you," he whispered. "But I would argue ... you've the more beauty on you. Physically, and ... every other way, too."
She eye-smiled. "We shall it call it a draw. We shall declare ourselves ... to be even," she decided.
Ross's whiskers twitched. "Mm ... I ... I gotta groom," he said, the pounding urge to lick at fur ... welling, welling in him.
"Sit. And groom yourself," she said gently. "I will clean up our mess."
A grateful nod. "Thanks," he whispered. "Uh, you, uh ... you got a bit of something on your lips there," he whispered, swallowing, pupils still dilated.
She wiped her paw daintily across her muzzle.
"No, uh ... " His ears pulsed with heat. "Other lips." His excess vole semen was streaming, in dripping, stretching globs ... out of her vagina, clinging to her pussy-lips, and running to her thigh-fur. Or to the floor.
Her ears flushed. And she eye-smiled playfully, all the same.
Ross was already licking himself. Forearms, paws, fingers ... " ... w-what?" he asked, between broad, grooming licks.
"You need to lick," she said simply.
"I lick until my brain lets me stop," he said, slurping at the top of his other arm, matting his fur, cleaning it with his tongue (though he doubted his tongue made his fur any cleaner, but ... still, he couldn't help it).
Aria backed up to the wall again, her foot-paws sliding ... a bit farther apart. So sensual, her slinking stance, and till bare from the waist down, and ...
... Ross caught on. Flushing hard. "Oh ... "
"You do not m-mind," she started, but had her answer.
As he quickly crawled over, and ... lapped, eyes closed, at her vulva. Grooming the most intimate part of her, and ... greeted with the interesting mixture of liquid, of wetness ... both from him and her. Scents and tastes mixed, and ...
... she massaged the backs of his ears. Softly stroking the backs of his lobes with her fingers.
Until, ten minutes later, the whole mess was finally cleaned up, and they emerged from the tiny shower in the kitchen bathroom.
Aria left the kitchen, and left the mess hall ... after whispering an 'I love you' in his ears. And a promise to see him later, in their quarters. For a nice, quiet supper.
Ross, soapy fresh and squeaky clean, leaned against the window counter ... looking out into the mess hall. Only two furs were out there. And they were to busy with their meals to notice that the squeaky-sighs we was giving out ... were actually lovely, little swoons.
"Now, take us back to the planet ... "
"So, we're done, then?" Wilco asked, perking hopefully. His angular ears cocked. And his whiskers twitching.
"Almost," the otter instructor replied. "Now, take us back to the planet ... "
"You just told me that."
" ... following the exact same path you took when you got caught speeding."
"It's still open to debate," the flying squirrel injected, "as to whether I was speeding or not. I didn't see any signs. Where are the signs?"
"Adjust your heading." She pointed at the console.
He frowned. Did so. "Seriously, no blinking buoys or ... floating things ... nothing to indicate the speed limit. So, how's an outsider to know?"
"By asking," was the otter's response.
"You know, I pilot a star-ship. A SNOW rabbit ship. State-of-the-art. You can have all your dinky shuttles and pods and your ... hidden rules ... doesn't hurt me."
"And yet you've been complaining this entire time," the otter said, smiling, leaning back in her seat.
"I'm on the right path. Do you want me to land?"
"If you think you CAN land, then, yes, land. However, you will be graded until the very end. Landing procedures must be followed to the letter."
"Don't worry," he told her, eyes on the windows. Eyes on the stars, and now, on the sphere below them, shimmering, shining, looming ever larger.
"Why are you deviating our course?"
"I like to swim in the clouds. Don't you?"
"Puncturing clouds isn't on our checklist."
"Well, hey! Then it's extra credit!" the squirrel chittered, smiling, and ...
... the otter gave a bit of a sound as the shuttle aimed for a cloud, and ...
... POOF! Right into it! And, foggy blindness, and then ...
... whoosh! Right out of it ... but flying, now, upside down. The otter squirmed as the ship looped. As Wilco rolled them once or twice, and then hung them in the air, side-pod thrusters jetting, and turning them toward a huge, huge cloud. "Is that a thunder-head?" he asked eagerly.
"Do not ... do not," the otter stressed, "go into any more clouds."
The squirrel considered, chittering, tilting his head. "Do I get extra credit?" he asked, his paws hovering above the controls.
"This is blackmail."
"Is it?" A cheeky smile.
And the otter, after a moment, couldn't help but smile in return. And she marked a check on her pad, and nodded. "Very well. Extra credit. And, if it'll ease your mind to know, unless you completely botch the landing ... you've passed the test."
"I didn't doubt I would."
"No, but I had my doubts ... "
"Really?" he asked, not hiding his sarcasm. As he pointed the nose of the shuttle toward the ground. And as they made for the landing pad (where one of Arctic's shuttle-pods was parked; he would take that back to ship, and ferry anyone up ... who wished to go up, and then whoever wanted to go down could fly down without him; no, he was staying aboard Arctic for the rest of their stay here ... that way, he couldn't get into further trouble; the bad kind of trouble, anyway).
"I've met a few furs like you," the otter said, taking a breath. "Fly-furs. Cocky, young ... born to fly. So sure of their ability that, often, they take unnecessary risks ... because they think they can pull them off."
The flying squirrel bit his lip. "I've known furs like that." A pause. "I wouldn't necessarily say that I was one of them, though ... "
"Well, you wouldn't. But you have a mate, yes?"
He looked to the otter. "Yes," he whispered.
"Take her for a flight, then. And see if, by the end, she's not nervous ... at what you can do."
Wilco's whiskers twitched a bit, and he returned his focus to finishing their descent. And going through the landing motions. Wondering, exactly, what the otter was trying to say ... but glad, anyway, that he was done with this. And saying, as he left the pod, smiling and soaking in the tropical light, "I'll never speed again, Officer Otter! I double-paw promise!"
"Scurry off," was all the otter said, grinning. "And, remember, flying too fast ... leads to trouble." She pointed a paw at him.
He just nodded softly. And went for his shuttle-pod.
"Anyone home?" Bic bit her lip. The chipmunk paused in the open sickbay doors, and ... hesitated. And was about to turn away when ...
" ... who is it?" The doctor emerged from his office. The periwinkle bat ... blinking a few times. "Oh. Can I help you, Lieutenant?"
"Uh ... well, I don't know." She stepped inside. The doors swishing shut behind her. A sigh. "Look, I don't wanna drag this out. Can I tell you a secret?"
"Uh ... sure. If ... "
"Those cutesy, dove-like first meetings ... where furs find love at first sight, and they gurgle over each other, and smile their whiskers off ... never happened with me. It happens to other furs. Doesn't happen for me. And if I try to FAKE that it's happening, it'll just come off really bad, so ... I'm gonna skip the pleasantries and just ask if you wanna eat with me in the mess hall."
The bat blinked. "What?"
"Eat. With me. In the mess hall," she repeated, swallowing. "You know, a meal?"
"I know what a meal is," was all Barrow said, a bit removed. Behind him, devices were humming, whirring. Or glowing. There were always soothing, mechanical sounds in the sickbay.
"Well, do you want one?"
"A meal, or a ... "
" ... date. A meal-date. Look, yes or no?"
"You're awfully direct," the bat said, almost shyly, eyes darting over her.
"Cause I half-expect to be hurt. It's what males to do me."
"Abuse you?" He looked concerned.
"No, they ... emotionally, I mean. They string me along, so they can have me, but ... in the end, they won't sacrifice anything to KEEP me. You know, it's ... I'm a pragmatist," the chipmunk explained. "And I've been told you and I are among the few mate-less furs left among the crew."
"Well, if you want me to be brutally honest, I'm ... still trying to figure out what you're doing here. You don't much sound like you want to be."
"I'll be different at supper," she assured. "I'm just awkward at setting things up. But, once I get going ... " She tilted her head and chittered. "You know ... " A sigh. "Look, yes or no?"
Barrow absently licked at his fangs. Well ... he had been thinking about her. And ... she was attractive. After all, chipmunks were solidly built, energetic, with bold-patterned fur. And he did need a mate. And ... " ... well, if we're not compatible, we can always stop it before it happens," Barrow reasoned aloud.
"My thoughts exactly. That's why we're just having supper." A pause. "You can observe a lot of things about a fur's personality ... by watching them eat."
A small smile from him. "Never thought about it."
She bobbed her head. "Well ... I think about odd things. I wish I could be a hopeless romantic like the others. I wish I could have such faith. But I'm ... as I said," she said, "a scientist. A pragmatist."
"I know what you mean," Barrow whispered. He'd had a rough history of ... ideals being crushed. He hadn't left home under his own volition. He'd been chased away ... but that story was for another time ... " ... yeah, supper's fine." He swallowed. This would also save him from sitting alone in his office, with just himself and the temptation to use his telepathy in improper ways. And, if they ended up mating, he could use his mind on her, and ... maybe cheer her up. Because, "Practicality is poisonous in large doses." A pause. "My mother taught me that."
Bic said nothing. Just nodded lightly. "Well ... alright." A pause. A breath. "See you in the mess hall? Tonight?"
"Sure," he whispered.
"Okay. Okay," she repeated, and she lingered, and she turned, and ... through the sliding, grey doors she went.
Leaving Barrow to blink some sense into what just happened.