Birthday Mouse.
Birthday Mouse.
Production number FY-2 Revision H
A Production of Ironsides Wordsmithing, a Division of Sylderon Machine Works.
Characters and descriptions are properties of Field.
Additional poetry from "Thomas Campion's Third Book of Airs, circa 1617". Music by Healy Willan (Stanier & Bell, London; 1911)
Additional turn of phrase by Sir W.S. Gilbert.
Additional amusing remembrance by G.A. Chapman, J.M. Cleese, T.V. Gilliam, E. Idle, T.G.P. Jones, and M.E. Palin, CBE (BBC Television, London; 1969)
Author's Note: Sylderon Machine Works prides itself on technical and factual accuracy (which is partially why it takes so long to get anything done). If you notice something wrong with this or any other story, please bring it to the author's attention, and it will be corrected.
The author has selected and provided several pieces of music, each of which represents a specific character or element within the story. They are provided in the hope that they might increase the enjoyment of the reader.
[Field's Theme:](%5C) Poet and Peasant Overture by Franz von Suppé, performed by the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, Paul Paray cond.
[Adelaide's Theme:](%5C) "Mercury, the Winged Messenger" from The Planets by Gustav Holst, performed by the London Symphony Orchestra, Geoffrey Simon cond.
[Field and Adelaide's Theme:](%5C) Overture to Lohengrin by Richard Wagner, performed by der Wiener Philharmoniker, Sir Georg Solti cond.
Author's Dedication: To Field, for giving me inspiration, opportunity, encouragement and friendship.
It was Sunday evening. The end of the Day of Rest.
For the young, light-brown mouse, it might as well be called the Day of Restaurants. Not that he often went out to eat these evenings. Instead, he catered to those that did, a cook in one of the diners in town, for those families who went together to nourish the soul in the mornings, and their bodies in the evenings. Both at places of conversation, where the surroundings were not overly fancy (but well kept just the same), where the sustenance, both spiritual and material, was simple, well-made, and satisfying. The mouse took some pride in not only feeding others, but providing a nice meal around which they could grow together. True, it tired him out at the end of the day, what with being surrounded by heat and steam, scurrying about to flip, chop, mix, stack whatever in a timely fashion, but it was worth it.
He pulled into the gravel drive, several miles outside of town. Strange, he thought, there are no lights on. She would have told me about going anywhere. He glanced at the clock in the radio: 9:42. The autumn dusk had already come and passed. He stepped out and made his way to the door, fumbling with his keys.
"Hello? Why is it so dark in here?" He moved carefully, a bit uneasy until he felt a presence in his mind: A small ripple of sleepy happiness in the back bedroom. He smiled to himself, thinking of the tiny mouse-bat curled under her blanket, the tendrils of her unfocused mind drifting out around her.
He felt a breeze, then realized it was a physical sensation, rather than a mental one; the back door was open. He crept silently towards it, calling out (quietly, so as not to wake the baby) "Darling, are you out there?"
He reached the door and found his answer: A shadowy figure lying on her back, her arms folded beneath her head, propping it up as she rested on the large blanket from their bed. She spoke.
"How was the diner, my dear Field?" She rolled over onto her belly, bending her knees and raising her feet.
Field (named after the landscapes he had known since birth) sat next to her, realizing only then that she was bare, the curves of her back and bottom exposed to the stars. He felt slightly confused. "What are you doing out here, and...um...naked?"
Adelaide (named after the city of her birth) just grinned at him. "It's a warm night, no rain anywhere; it's just so nice to look up and reflect on...well, everything."
"But that still doesn't explain the..." his voice trailed off, feeling that he was interrupting something. Had she been flying? For bats, flight was a solemn exercise, not something done on a whim. It was a highly personal, performed only with a parent, child, or mate. It was a way of connecting with their more natural aspects, and was often done in the nude; clothing was restrictive, disrupted airflow patterns, and diminished the glorious sensation of the breeze passing through the fur, under the filmy membranes.
It was also a highly spiritual affair: The solitude, the literal isolation from the rest of the world, the preoccupation of the body, all made it easier for the mind to ponder great mysteries and to communicate to the Omnipotent. When Adelaide first explained this practice to Field, he jokingly asked if 'she got better reception up there'.
"Oh, I have something special in mind. It is your birthday, after all."
"Yes, but..." his mind suddenly latched on to the mental signals radiating from his mate. "Oh..." He blushed.
She sensed his embarrassment. "It's not like anybody will see us."
"Well, there is, but we can't really hide from Him," he said, glancing skyward.
"That hasn't stopped you before," she teased, starting to unbutton his white shirt, with the diner's emblem and his name embroidered on the chest. True, but then again, why should it? Their union was not merely one of horizontal recreation (although that was an aspect of it). They certainly indulged in the felicity of their unbounded domesticity, but their union had been parsonified and conjugally matrimonified by a doctor of divinity who resided in their vicinity. It perplexed Field how some otherwise right-thinking minds considered it indecent, lewd, or sinful how couples like his expressed their love in such ways. It was not the base desire for the flesh that drove them to it, despite the thoughts and actions of other couples to the contrary. It was the desire for happiness, and in deriving one's own happiness from bringing pleasure to others. Besides, if God was indeed responsible for the form and structure of all things, why would He have included the means by which such pleasures could be achieved if He didn't want them to be used? To love another fully, mind, soul, and body, was indeed a holy thing.
Field's mind turned to more mundane concerns. "But what if Akira needs us?" referring to the wee mouse-bat inside.
"Sweetie, remember that you and I both have the ultimate in baby monitors." They were telepathically linked to their child, as they were to each-other. "Just relax." He started to lay back, but she nudged him onto his belly. She kneeled over him, gently running her little claws through the golden-brown fur of his back. She could feel the tension beneath, built up during hours of standing, bending over counters and stoves. "Had a busy day?"
"Doesn't seem too bad now," Field sighed as Adelaide leaned forward, pressing the heels of her paws into the muscles just below his shoulderblades. He tried just to lay still, not to twitch or fidget, as was the mousey tendency. His breathing became deep and slow as Adelaide leaned more of her weight onto him, straightening out the knotted cords of his back. Despite the appearance of wispiness and frailty, most mice--Field included--had dense cables of muscle and sinew tucked against their slender frames, and were heavier than one might think. The restless energy naturally built a lean strength to them.
Her paws slowly made their way downwards, loosening his lower back, when one of them lifted. Field was about to ask why, when he felt a pinch on his bottom. He squeaked with surprise.
"You have such a cute butt!" The only part of him, in his relaxed state, where any musculature was clearly evident. Adelaide couldn't help from smiling, as she rubbed it lightly through his jeans. Field responded by tickling her nose with the end of his tail, but Adelaide caught it in her teeth and nibbled.
Squeak!
"I see you're no longer tired." She sat back and released his tail. "Or do you want to play now?"
It was not so much a question as a suggestion. Field rolled over, sat up, and hugged her tightly, pressing her bosom into his chest. They both turned their heads, gave little kisses. Field had an idea.
"Oh, now you want to let go?" Adelaide teased as she was released. Field said nothing, just sat on his foot-paws and hunched his back slightly. He brought his head down, staring longingly at the soft fuzzy pinkness of her chest. At least, it would be pink in the daytime; now it was silver with moonglow, so that she resembled a shining statue, white marble, in the Greek tradition of celebrating the beauty of the unobscured natural form; only with her chest rising and falling with soft breaths.
He leaned in, his twitchy nose nosing into her fur, breathing deeply of her distinct scent. Oh, the troubled sweet of her! Songs could be written of such things! In fact, somewhere in the back of Field's mind, such a song played.
Come, oh come, my life's delight!
Let me not in languor pine!
It was an old song, written in a style far out of fashion, with its five vocal parts, its chromatics and chord shifts, not that he cared about its popularity. What songs of the current fashion would remain to be sung nearly a century from now?
A gentle rub of the shoulders brought Field back from his mental tangent.
Love loves no delay; thy sight
The more enjoyed, the more divine!
Field twisted his head slightly, little mousey tongue flicking out as he mouthed gently on her fur, his cheek resting against her soft swell as he nuzzled into her, his paws caressing over her feminine firmnesses. She sighed, her breath passing just above his head, creating a breeze against his ears.
Among other things Adelaide cherished about her mousey were his ears: Big, round, swiveling ears, two of the chief contributors to his essential cuteness. She breathed gently into them, the bare pink interiors contrasting with the fuzzy brown of their dished curves. She softly mouthed the rim of one, her pointed fangs nipping the thicker fleshy bit where it joined his skull. Field tensed at this, not expecting his mate to use her insect-catching equipment on him (at least, not yet!), but he continued with his nosing, making his way from the valley of her bosom towards the peak, noting the stubby protrusion emerging from her fuzzy softness, marking his goal. His tongue flicked against it, seemingly hesitant, before it curled over the nub and its surroundings, moistening the fur.
"Found something you like, my little titmouse?" she breathed gently.
Field stopped. "That's a bird," he squeaked out at his mate's misuse of avian nomenclature.
Adelaide was undeterred. "Who ever came up with that? Silly name for a bird. Silly name for anything, except maybe you. Titmouse!" she repeated, before they both fell into a fit of giggles.
"Actually, I don't mind," said Field after recovering. It was now his turn at a little surprise. Returning to her chest, he parted his lips before closing them around her nipple. His chisel-like front teeth held it in place as his tongue lashed over and around it. Adelaide gritted her teeth (no longer chewing his ear) and gasped, scratching his head in encouragement.
Field now did something he had not done in many, many years: With his lips still pressed firmly against his love, he drew in a breath, sucking his cheeks in, moaning softly as he felt a few drops of wetness fall upon his tongue.
Adelaide gasped again, clutching him forcefully to her chest, breath growing heavier. Field could (between her breaths) hear her heart thumping louder. He gave a series of tiny squeaks between the soft sucking and swallowing noises, as he savored the taste of her warm creaminess upon his tongue, feeling it run down into his tummy.
Adelaide began to moan, stopping only when Field released the kiss upon her teat. She remained her usual teasing self. "Thirsty, are we?" she panted.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Shouldn't you save some for the baby?"
"There will be more. And I thought I was your baby first."
The bat scratched the mouse at the base of his ears. "You'll always be my sweet baby mouse, Field." She sighed, cradling his head as he moved to her other breast.
Field continued his soft sucking as he turned his body sideways, curling his legs up to his chest and leaning against her. He wrapped his arms around his love, his misty greyish-blue eyes closing as he drank deeply of her sustaining essence.
Oh come, and take from me
The pain of being deprived of thee!
Adelaide focused on this new sensation; Akira had inherited her mother's pointy teeth and her father's tendency to nibble on things, and was sometimes less than gentle, but didn't know any better. She was therefore disappointed when Field ceased his drinking (there being nothing more to drink).
Field released his kiss, tilted his head up, and smiled at her. "I'm still thirsty." He tenderly pushed her backwards, and she propped herself up on her elbows, having a good idea of what would happen next.
Field trailed his tongue down her front, pausing to dip into her navel, then scooting his body downwards, pushing off the sides of her pelvis with both hands. Resting his head against one of her thighs, he tilted in, and sniffed what lay between, the small swell with a vertical cleft down its center. Here, her pink fuzziness diminished and then ended, giving way to pinkness of a different sort. He breathed of it, musky, slightly acidic with a bit of salt from perspiration, but a scent that practically made him drool. He brought his nose closer, whiskers brushing against her sensitivity, tickling, making her giggle. Field joined her, recalling the next couplet in his mental song. It seemed so appropriate right now, (in a way the author certainly never intended) that he couldn't help repeating it out loud.
"Thou all sweetness dost enclose,
Like a little world of bliss;"
Adelaide tweaked his ear (gently, of course). "I know you have to sniff everything before you eat it. Now you have to sing to it?" More giggling, Field watching as with each burst of breath her belly and lower form wiggled slightly. He tilted in further, bringing his rounded nose against her folds, rubbing slowly. His tongue slipped out and traced along the edge of the seam, gathering up little beads of moisture as it searched for more. She sighed yet again.
Field dropped his jaw, causing his chin to fall back and rest against the bottom of her slit, leaving its entirety to the exploration of his tongue. While not truly meant for this sort of work (canines and felines being better-equipped to lick things of any description), Field made up for any superficial shortcomings with nervous energy, diligence, and pure enthusiasm. His nose rubbed against her nub, persuading it to leave its sheltering hood. Adelaide began to moan, squirming slightly, shifting her thighs apart, pelvis forward, pressing into his muzzle, trying to expose even more of herself to his caresses.
Slurp-slurp lick. Squishle. Chitter-squeak! Adelaide arched her lower back, shouting her pleasure into the night sky at ultrasonic frequencies. Field cleaned up more of her sweetness as it freely leaked from her cleft. He looked up over her body, her bosom heaving with each breath, slowly coming down. Field had manipulated her treasure with his usual excellence, and with the usual result. This was not, of course, to say that this was becoming routine. Indeed, how could such a thing? She remembered reading in the city newspaper some time ago that researchers somewhere (Sweden?) had determined that parts of the female brain actually switch off during climax. How exactly they had determined this, she didn't know (or really care to know). All that mattered was that the modest, unassuming mouse currently smoothing out her fur was responsible for literally blowing her mind. And that it would only be fair for her to demonstrate her appreciation.
"Alright Field...on your back" she huffed. Still catching her breath, which made her voice sound deep, airy, sensual. "Time for the rest of your present."
The mouse happily obliged, wriggling a bit to get his tail out from under him. Adelaide crept over him, stopping above his mousehood. She gazed longingly at it; smooth pinkness, stiff, fully exposed (his sheath having been removed at birth, for both cleanliness and custom), leaning against his thigh. She lifted it with one paw, slapped it lightly with the other, batting it between them, humming to herself.
Field half-moaned, half-giggled, sat up. "What are you doing down there?"
Adelaide stopped, letting the shaft fall to the side. "Just playing the Mouse Organ."
"But you need two big wooden hammers to play the Mouse Organ."
Adelaide stopped and looked at him, turning serious. "Do you really want me to use a big hammer?"
"No," Field mumbled, a bit afraid.
"Then why would you even bring it up?"
"I saw it on TV." Field remembered something he had seen on PBS. It was a stout Welsh rabbit, dressed in a white suit, his ears slicked back, banging on a row of white rubber non-anthro mice, thinking he was playing "The Bells of St. Mary's", until he was dragged off-screen.
"Well, I would never hit it with a big hammer," she said, referring to his mousehood, "even if you asked me to. It's so cute, just like the rest of you."
Field lay back, sighing, but not out of pleasure. Adelaide caught on this.
"I know what your thinking." (That was an understatement!) Field occasionally suffered from that most common of maladies, the perception of masculine inadequacy, and Adelaide (being that "cute" and "little" so often went together) had just inadvertently triggered it. She continued: "If I were really concerned only with size, I'd go get myself mounted and stuffed by a stallion or a dragon. But I don't want to be walking funny tomorrow morning. Besides," she grasped his shaft again, running her paw over it, turning it different directions, sniffing lightly, "it fits you perfectly: Resilient, sturdy, gentle, eager to please. And if you were any bigger, I couldn't do this." She extended her tongue, a long, prehensile ribbon of flesh. Its pointed tip flicked against his lower head, circling the rounded knob, delving into the tiny slit and hole at the very top.
Field reached for her head, for her shoulders, her angular ears, something to hold on to, but his paws instead met her own. Their fingers interlaced, pressing into the soft grass (the two of them having rolled off the blanket in their passions). Adelaide grinned, her tongue slithering out, encircling his flesh, giving it a squeeze like some thin pink serpent, bringing it back into her muzzle. Her tongue writhed and recoiled around it, drawing it all the way in. She nuzzled her nose into Field's crotch as she pressed his shafthead against her soft palate, her lips closing around the base, completely engulfing it.
She gave a swallowing motion, now pressing his head against the entrance to her throat. Field's body went rigid, paws grasping tighter, as he realized what his mate wanted to do, and was both thrilled and frightened of what would come next.
Field had always been very sensitive, physically as well as emotionally. A slight defect of that sensitivity was the inability to orgasm from oral stimulation. In a way, Field and Adelaide both envied each-other over that: Field, in that Adelaide could receive the full range of pleasures from his tongue, while he couldn't; Adelaide, in that she never had the chance to drink of his essence like he could hers.
Of course, that did not eliminate the desire to try.
She swallowed him again, mentally feeling the buildup of tension in her mate's mind, the desire to release exceeding all other rationality. They had both pondered this problem and had come to a conclusion that made sense--as much as these things could. Adelaide, like all bats, had studied the structure of the mind so that she could better understand how to use her unique abilities. Buried within the mouse's head was the trigger for his release; perhaps a firing circuit would be a better analogy. His mind, so bombarded with physical sensation, was simply overwhelmed, unable to complete even this most basic of instructions.
Adelaide swallowed again, wondering if she could possibly enter into his mind, search for the trigger, and pull it herself. However, she wouldn't do so without discussing it with Field first--and, given his natural shy reluctance to openly discuss things yiffy, that might take a while. Still, she didn't think he would want anyfur, even his mate, rewiring his mind without a full discussion first. Adelaide wondered if she would do such a thing, even if he did agree. She loved what he was; faulty circuits just added to those little quirks that made him so delightful.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a very slight mental wince from her mate; he was about to cross the point at which pleasure exceeded his mind's ability to handle it, and curiously transformed into pain. He squeaked out, hyperventilating, quivering, trying not to buck his hips up into her face.
She pulled her mouth off of him, releasing his shaft so it flopped back to the side, throbbing, glistening with a mixture of saliva and pre. Field calmed down and shivered; his shaft, once so firmly embraced in warmth, now felt chilled by the night air.
Adelaide crawled forward upon him, pressing his shaft between his belly and her chest. "I'm sorry if I went too far, love," she said in a quiet, sultry voice.
Field huffed back to her, still trying to catch his breath. "No problem...I just didn't...didn't want to lose it and...bump you in...your nose." He looked over her features, noticing the change in her demeanor. She was breathing through her open mouth, tongue flicking against her fangs, which glinted in the starlight. As soon as eve a drop of their mate's essence entered their own bodies, bats have an overpowering urge to complete their mating, and...to bite. This was the basis of all nasty rumors of bats being manipulative, hedonistic, sex-crazed fiends who desired to drain the vital fluids of anyfur they could hypnotize and bring under their sway. In a way, it was understandable why, in less-enlightened times, bats were seen as agents of the Unholy. Their ability to fly, read the thoughts of others, and their mating habits (which no other species could come close to imitating) made them almost impossible to understand at first, which made them feared.
Field, of course, was not afraid--not on the surface, anyways. But the fact that he was about to mate with a creature of such mysterious power still gave him the subtle thrill of possible danger, even though his rational mind dismissed such danger outright. That, and rodents were always subconsciously frightened of pointy teeth.
She moved--not quite crawled, more like slid--along his body to eye level, and kissed him fiercely, their tongues meeting somewhere in the middle, his sweeping over her needle-shaped fangs that would bring him no pain, just pleasure. He doubted even if his love would be capable of hurting him, so perfect did she seem.
Beauty guards thy looks, the rose
In them pure and eternal is:
She broke the kiss; her natural impulses were simply too strong. While it was difficult for any species to interrupt their act of mating, they had various biological incentives to continue toward completion. Skunks could release pheromones (quite apart from their defensive spray); rabbits had increased virility and decreased recharge times; male canines had knots that locked them to their mates during and after climax; male felines had little bumps that brought increased pleasure; mice were so irresistibly cute, soft, and submissive, that one could not help but to cuddle and stroke them.
Bats had a very unique ability, directly related to the urge to bite. They could, when aroused, inject a fluid (commonly called "mating milk") through their fangs that greatly increased the natural telepathic conductance shared with their mate, such that it allowed unrestricted bi-directional contact. Thoughts, memories, physical sensations of both partners merged.
Adelaide sucked on the side of Field's neck, dampening the fur with her saliva, preparing him for the bite. She squirmed further up his body, his shaft now nestled firmly between her thighs, no longer cold, but still throbbing with need.
She seemed to sense this longing--indeed, she shared it. Just a few more moments...Her saliva matted a patch of fur on his neck, the slightly-loose flap of skin where it meets the top of the shoulder. She sank her teeth in, easily piercing his flesh with their sharpness, just the tips, penetrating so finely there was no blood. There never should be any, if you've done it correctly, and your partner holds still. A bit of a problem for Field, but Adelaide reached out to him with relaxing empathies. As there was no blood, neither was there pain: The same change that produces the mating milk also makes the saliva act like a powerful topical anesthetic, but even better. There was no numbness; Field could feel her sucking, nibbling, clamping muzzle upon his neck.
Field's eyes dilated to a size that, in any other context, would be comical, as he felt the mating milk injected into him, a soothing warmness originating in his neck, moving its way all through his body. His physical feelings of need expanded from just his crotch to much of his lower belly, a not-quite-unpleasant sort of ache, but one that feels much better when it passes. The sharing of sensation had already begun, Field experiencing an emptiness that needed filling, Adelaide an exposure that needed to be enclosed. It was like a billet being left at the forge for too long, growing a cold, dull cherry-red, needing to be thrust back into the furnace to return to its lively orange glow.
Adelaide shifted her body lower, fangs still embedded in Field's neck. They had to remain there, for climaxing while not linked would result in severe headaches, a kind of sexual hangover. It was all part of the biological incentive, the designed-in mechanisms that kept a couple together. Field's shaft was guided by the crevasse between her thighs, like a log in a flume, until the head contacted a soft, spongy mound, radiating great heat and moisture. Field held his breath.
The sensations of initially sliding into her (or her onto him) produced such wonderful feelings that Field was astonished he didn't peak at that very moment. He could feel himself gently nudging apart her outer folds, his head slipping in, passing the inner set...he felt what she felt, engulfing a stiff, pulsing, throbbing member into her most delicate of areas, softness yielding to hardness, but then containing the hardness with tightness...he felt what she felt that he felt, the softness, the wetness, the tightness, the hardness, the warmness refracting, reflecting, harmonic frequencies amplifying each-other in ways that defied all rational and scientific understanding. But that would ruin the fun of it, would understanding. When everything is understood, then magic will cease to be. Was this not the Magick of Nature? Or perhaps the Province of the Divine? Either way, it was certainly true.
They lay still, too overwhelmed to even think about moving. Field's shaft sintered within his mate's dripping furnace. He twisted his head, turning so he could mouth on her neck as she was to him, sucking, licking, nibbling a bit, but not breaking the skin; such would be inconceivable! They both had their eyes closed; there was not much too see from their current position. Field sometimes wanted to stare into his mate's eyes as they gave and recieved pleasure, not into her shoulder or between her legs (not that he disliked those places, of course). Could she bite him somewhere else, the wrist perhaps? No. Too much danger of being injured while in the spasming grip of passion.
This is how it was always done, and for good reason. Field thought back to the old Hollywood cliché of the bloodsucking vampire (often a bat, another example of prejudice), seducing his victims with hypnotic charm, biting them, claiming them for his own. Adelaide, of course, did none of that. They still claimed each-other as their own, but on a basis stronger than seduction. Mutual devotion, love, the joining of two individuals for the rest of their existence, terrestrial and celestial. Who needs fancy clothing, Gothic castles, and goofy accents?
Adelaide rocked herself against her mate, letting her weight press the two of them together. She had fully taken Field's mousehood, squeezing and massaging it with her feminine muscles, rolling her hips slightly, her clitoris pressing and sliding against the hard ridge of his pubic bone. Field obeyed her mental whispers and remained still, doing nothing more than to embrace her, softly stroking her flight membranes.
*After all you have done for me,* she thought to him, *you deserve to do nothing.*
*What I've done for you?* he thought back. *That is nothing compared to what you've given me.* During these links, memories and other mental images flowed back and forth and back again, triggered almost at random. He remembered how he was one night, before she descended into his wretched life. How he had been rejected, by his family, by his so-called lover. How he stood on the brink, looking hopelessly into a chasm of despair. How he had stopped eating, lacking sufficient justification for his existence. How he wanted to give up on life itself, but had been paralyzed by his own fear, too afraid even to end his suffering.
She, on the other paw, remembered her own childhood, growing up the daughter of missionaries, always traveling, through a strange country filled with strange-looking creatures that spoke strangely. How she was taunted at school, the old prejudices born again in ignorant, impressionable little minds who don't always understand how words can pierce the soul as a spear does the body. Coming home crying to her parents, only to be told some nonsense about "turning the other cheek", and becoming enraged at them for failing to help her, saying that all their pious preaching did nothing to solve the real problems of the world. Her guilt at realizing that her parents were trying to help her the best way they knew, realizing that the ancient teachings were still relevant and effective, as long as they are learned, understood, and put into practice. How she had learning the exhilaration of flying, and shortly afterward learned the terror of losing control, the pain of crashing.
They lay like that, bat upon mouse, making only slow sliding movements against each-other. Languid, gentle movements, accompanied with soft sighs, squeaks, chitters. Adelaide rotated her hips back and forth, right to left, a continuous circular motion. It was perhaps only an inch in any direction, but their collective sensitivity meant that all but the slightest touches caused hearts to flutter, chills to run over skin, galvanic pulses racing through nerves.
It was almost as if those pulses were being captured, collected into condensers, building up a charge, held in place by the ever-growing dielectric tension, a charge that would eventually be released as a spark, a miniature thunderbolt to pass through them. Oh, how they struggled to maintain that blissful stress! How they longed for the ecstasy of its release!
These diametric opposites remained in balance for several minutes further, but all things must pass, even the aforementioned world of bliss. It was now Adelaide's turn to regretfully end this escalation. She arched her back upwards, rolling her hips down and her belly up. Changing the angle of approach so that his shafthead rubbed gently upon her greatest interior sensitivity (her greatest exterior sensitivity having had enough attention thus far). Her internal muscles began squeezing and shifting more sporadically now, another ultrasonic squeal rising from the back of her throat. Her paws clamped down on Field's shoulders, to keep their upper point of union rigidly linked, even as the lower one bounced and spasmed.
Adelaide gave a scream that Field could almost hear, her feminine passage clamping down on him, smothering his shaft in more and more wetness, trying to pull it even deeper inward. Field ended his stillness, rolling his hips up, pressing himself against her even further, if possible.
Field's entire body shuddered as his own tension released, squeaking and moaning heavily. His fuzzy package twitched as he spurted his seed into his mate, fighting the considerable back-pressure caused by her tightness. Once there, it was churned about and drawn deeper. Even though she was in the infertile point of her cycle, Adelaide still enjoyed the feeling of the warm stickiness deposited within her. The short sharp shock of Field's release, on top of the continuous rumble of Adelaide's, was enough to make sparks dance in their vision, a dull roaring noise in the ears, a shortness of breath, hot flashes as various hormones were dumped into the bloodstream and sent racing through their bodies by furiously beating hearts. Perhaps that was why so many of those Renaissance madrigals use the word "death" when they really mean "yiff". That, or Monteverdi was just a pervert.
Adelaide collapsed on her mate, both of them panting heavily, Field a bit more, due to the weight on his chest. The weight was a comfortable one, a reminder that, despite all indications otherwise, his mate was indeed real, all pink fuzz, translucent membranes, pointy teeth, hollow bones, everything. She left her fangs in his neck, and his shaft in her intimate passage, knowing that there were still a few more sensations to share. In answer to Field's earlier statement, about her having done more for him than vice-versa, she thought *You always were modest.*
*What can I say,* he thought back, *I'm pinned to the ground under an angel. I don't need to brag.*
It was a silly argument, not at all taken seriously. They both supported and served the other. They had each started out alone, neither particularly remarkable. It was similar to taking coal, limestone, and some reddish-orange rocks, heating them up, blowing air through them, throw in some soot, some more dull grey rocks, and you have stainless steel, fireproof, rustproof, acidproof, very strong even at very high or low temperatures, and very shiny. Just as it was with the two of them: Imperfect souls fused together by passion and by love, resulting in a more pure and long-lasting whole greater than the sum of its parts.
Field's mousehood began to soften, slowly retracting as it lost pressure. It tugged against Adelaide's insides, which were reluctant to let it leave. The muscles and stickiness within held it back until losing their grip, and the shaft would retract another fraction of an inch, each time setting off a noticable aftershock in their owners. Eventually, Field was all the way out, and Adelaide removed her fangs, tilting her head sideways and laying it on his chest, listening as his mousey heartbeat and breathing slowed. Field reached out and pulled the blanket over both of them. They were sweaty, even though their mating was far from vigorous, and the night breezes created an unwelcome chill. They would definitely have to shower in the morning; while no longer physically joined, the fur at their point of union was plastered with their combined fluids as they slowly leaked out of Adelaide's contented slit.
Field listened to their heartbeats, moving in and out of synchronization. Off in the distance, he heard another pair of hearts doing the same thing. However these hearts were of cast steel and developed 3000 horsepower at full throttle. The town of Sheridan, like almost every town in this part of the country had (or used to have) a railroad running through it, and were like beads stung along the paired steel ribbons that stitched the continent together. This particular pair was owned by CSX, but it had three other names know to long-time locals (who were old enough to remember) and railroad enthusiasts (who tend to have too much spare time and are obsessed with details). It was originally the Chicago, Indianapolis and Lousiville (named after the cities it connected), then became the Monon (the town where its two main lines crossed, forming an offset "X"). It's unofficial name was, naturally, "The Hoosier Line": It was located almost entirely in that state, except for the bridge into Louisville. It never quite got to Chicago, entering the city over a terminal line.
Behind the two diesels, a mile of empty hoppers rumbled their way north out of Indianapolis, to be dropped at elevators along the line, standing by to receive the green, tan, and gold bounties of the harvest. The two were early 70's products of ElectroMotive's La Grange Works. Field might have appreciated the irony, the self-proclaimed "World's Largest Machine Shop" located in a town named after the French word for "farm".
Unfortunately, Field's mind was elsewhere at the moment. He had occasionally been mocked for having his head in the clouds. Of course, there were worse places for one's head to be, but Field was too polite to mention them. At the moment, Field's head rested on a natural pillow of sod. He gazed at his wife, mentally checked the status of his daughter (still asleep), and closed his eyes, silently thanking the Lord for another year.
Come, then, and make thy flight
As swift to me as heav'nly light!