Troubadours
ADMIRATION BY THE BRIDEGROOM
" ... how beautiful and how delightful
you are,
My love, with all your charms!
Your stature is like a palm tree,
And your breasts like its
clusters.
I said, 'I will climb the palm tree,
I will take hold of its fruit stalks.'
Oh, may your breasts be like clusters
of the vine,
And the fragrance of your breath
like apples,
And your mouth like the best
wine!
It goes down smoothly for my
beloved,
Flowing gently through the lips of
Those who fall asleep."
THE UNION OF LOVE
"I am my beloved's,
And his desire is for me.
Come, my beloved, let us go out
into the country,
Let us spend the night in the
villages.
Let us rise early and go to the
vineyards;
Let us see whether the vine has
budded
And its blossoms have opened,
And whether the pomegranates
have bloomed.
There I will give you my love.
The mandrakes have given forth
fragrance;
And over our doors are all choice
fruits,
Both new and old,
Which I have saved up for you,
my beloved."
(from The Song of Solomon, Chapter 7, Verses 6 through 13)
It began with a look. A flickering, furtive glance, a familiar eye-dance, a committed 'I've stared into those pupils before' ... kind of feeling. Windows, the eyes, to the soul. Staring through them, then, to feel another kind of 'whole.' Oh, to get lost in the gazes and the stares. The infinite affection harbored there, in the build of a single look ...
... which she returned. In this quiet, reverent farm-house air.
And he held the returned gaze. Held. The mouse looking to her in that slow, steady, submissive way (the way he had). Always the same underdog (or under-mouse, more properly) stance, it was, with him, under the same blue-grey sky (oh, the same color as his eyes), eternally wondering, "Am I still shy? After all this time?"
"You are," was the audible whisper. Reading his mind (in perfect rhythm, perfect time).
The bedroom was dim, but not dark. The soothing nightlight, neon-like, in the wall. Plugged into a corner outlet, making the cornflower-colored wall-paint to seem darker. Outside, the night was chilly, was predictably cool. Full of shadowy, empty husks of corn, and oaks and sycamores finally shedding the dresses they'd worn. Full of post-harvest.
But, in here, inside, with husband and wife (in the depth of night), the harvest had yet to pass. The fruit had yet to be picked.
"And I think," Adelaide continued, in her out-loud whisper, "that it's cute. Your shyness." The bat had always thought that. And always would.
And yet he always feared his 'deficiencies' would wear on her.
And she (always) told him otherwise.
Assured him otherwise.
Promised him.
"Cute?"
"Yeah," she breathed, with Hoosier simplicity. "Yeah."
"In, like ... how? In a 'trilling tribble' sort of way? In an 'angel food cake with strawberry slices on top' kind of way?"
"In a 'this is my mouse, and he pleases me so' kind of way," was her answer. Taking a breath, shifting a bit, causing the cool, navy-blue sheets to rustle. Rustle-rustle. She met his eyes (as she'd been doing). "Your shyness is disarming. Humble. You're tender, darling, and soft, and there's something about your big ears when they go all rosy-pink ... that makes me wanna just up," she whispered, "and melt." She trailed. Swallowed. Grinned (with those sharp, white fangs of hers). "Just wanna eat you up," she continued.
"Eat me up?" he whispered back, with an airy squeak in his voice.
"Mm-hmm." Almost sounded like a purr.
"I know," he said slowly, playing along (with his innocence), "that you eat bugs. But ... but mouses?"
"Worried, are you?" Her eyes glinting. Carnation-pink irises. Like flowers. She was like a forested flower.
"Just watching your diet. I ... want you to eat well," he assured.
"Well, how 'bout ... I could always, you know, treat you like a salt lick, then. One doesn't eat a salt lick."
"A salt lick ... "
"Lick you, kiss you, slurp you up. But, darling, you know I gotta bite ... eventually."
His pupils so wide. So cute. So ... so like a mouse. So silently, genetically, instinctually wooing her. Oh, she felt the compulsive desire to cuddle him, scoop him up ... oh, the beautiful, snuggling havoc he wreaked on her mind! Diabolical!
"You know," she mouthed, fangs visible, "I gotta bite." You. You. Only bite you.
"I know of your bites," he said, with containment. Trying not to breathe too fast. Trying not to get too excited. Trying not to let his mousey motions run away with him ... 'oh, look, there goes Field down the road ... oh, wait, that's not Field, it's his scurries, twitches, snakes, and swivels ... they ran away from him!' ... breathing, breathing, eyes darting over the body of his love. And mind reaching out to hers.
The craving of bonded souls.
"I know," he repeated, "of your bites ... "
"Mm ... well, mouses," she whispered, "makes up some very vital nutrients."
"I'm a vital nutrient?"
"Mm-hmm." Her paws reaching for his fur. Fingers splaying, running through soft, honey-tan fur. Through the warmth of him.
And him sighing, lightly, at the mere touch of her.
"Mm-hmm. The bioavailability of 'mouses' is, uh, well ... you take it when you can get it. No supplement will do. I gotta have," she said, her muzzle close to his, breathing out (and breathing in), "the real thing."
"So, I'm a need?" Field asked her.
"A need." Both paws clutching at his fur. Hearing his tail move about behind him, in its waver-wave, in its not-quite-silent snaking. Sometimes, it would side-wind on the sheets, and other times ... it would dangle in the air like the line off a fishing pole.
"Well, what kind of ... "
"A vital, burning need. The touch of you, darling, is a soft caress, the very best of closeness. Your tiny, wispy squeaks in the air, and picked up by my ears ... assuage any fears I ever had of potential loneliness or inadequacy. You dissolve them."
"As you dissolve mine," Field replied, inching toward her, leaning so close, oh, so close. "Adelaide ... " Her name. The soft, beginning vowel, and the picturesque syllables. Somehow exotic, and somehow homey, too, all at the same time. What was in a name? Plenty, it seemed. Oh, to say, to say ... oh, to breathe her name. Which he did again ... " ... Adelaide ... "
"Yes?"
"My wife ... "
"Yes?" Her replies hazy, out of focus. Her breathing coming faster, a bit more ragged, and blood coursing through the membranes of her wings. Her winged arms poised to latch to the mouse.
"I love you." A swallow. A pause. A breath. "I love you in the most dangerous of ways. In those lazy, prairie, alfalfa-into-hay kind of days ... where the sun is as hot as God can allow, and you're sweating even in the shade ... "
Her heart pounded. Her angular, swept-back ears listening, listening.
"The most," he repeated, whiskers sniffing, nose twitching, and pulse scurrying. "The most dangerous of ways. Faithfully dangerous. With a throbbing, pulsing ... appetite. One that makes me think of such things. One that makes my heart to sing. One that's changed me, shaped me, and helped me grow." A breath. And nose, now, close to hers. Hovering above her soft, feminine fur.
What was it about a femme?
That made her smell of softness, and of spring?
Of daffodils and berries, and all sorts of sweet, sweet things?
What made her body curve like it did?
What made her so supple?
Surely, God's greatest work of art was the female body. A perfect contrast (and puzzle-piecing lock) to his own male form. Brought together, mated, warmed. Oh, such glorious design (to make them male and female), tempered not by time.
Un-ruined.
Still, after all these millennia, the glove-perfect fit.
The perfect attraction.
Her paws slipped round his hips, and round to his lower back. Where she gripped the upper portion of his pert, mousey rump. Squeezed the fur, and the flesh beneath. Squeezed his rump-cheeks, and held on. And closed her eyes. And sighed. Before playing, absently, with the base of his tail.
He let out a very mouse-like sound. One of those squeak/chitter things. One of those things that, she was sure, had some kind of instinctual meaning. Oh, to chart the language of his incoherent vocals! She was coming along ... with that. She could decipher him. She had been. She was.
She would.
It was not a job of labor.
But one of relish.
Figure me out, the mouse's submissive posture seemed to say. Give me confidence. Give me strength. Give me what only you can give.
And, to him, she was simply perfect. Angelic.
Flaws?
Maybe. Yes. We all have flaws.
But his love for her was like a band-aid over every scratch. Was like a blinder. Love, yes, was driving with blinders on. Was crazy and unconditional. With sacrifice. A vulnerable heart given.
And a vulnerable heart gotten.
Twice the heart.
Made for consistently better meals.
But two, yes, beating hearts, in tandem, in a patter-patter-pat. In a thump-a-thump, mere inches apart. As breasts pressed to chest.
"I love you," Field repeated, his muzzle on her neck. His whiskers twitching, nose sniffing, breathing of her scent. So familiar. So comforting. The scent of nighttime, and the scent of their bed. The scent of physicality. Of sensual love, and of stepping into the shower, and of all sorts of things. Her scent reminded him of everything.
The memories the whiff of her did bring!
And her breathy, soft response of, "I love you, too. My husband. My mouse." An exhale, tilting her muzzle. To kiss his cheek.
He took the kiss. And he did squeak.
And she gave him another. Lips on fur. The contact of her, and her searching, telepathic mind, with its strong, roving feelers. Emotional feelers. So solidly here, anchoring them to the middle of the mattress, seemingly. So that they wouldn't, in their rising passion, float away.
"A-adelaide," was the mouse's whisper. His paws moving, searching, and on the sides of her arms. Her bare arms, where he softly rubbed at her. Softly ran his padded palms up and down, up and down, creating a warm, furry friction.
"Mm?"
"I ... I don't know. I, uh ... "
"It's hard to speak continuous poetry," she said for him, reading his thoughts, "when you're so fixated on wanting to act," she offered, "the poetry out."
A swallow. "Act it ... out," he breathed, nodding in quiet affirmation.
"Let us act it out," she said for him. "Yes?"
"Yes ... "
"Yes, my mouse ... I think maybe, just maybe," she told him, smiling, with her nose now bumping his. Her nose quiet. Mostly still.
But his nose full of sniffing, full of twitching. Full of never-stop.
"Maybe," she continued, kissing his nose. Delicately. In the most delicate of ways.
A soft, soft squeak, comforted and pleasure-weak. Oh, his heating, rising heart. What feelings did she impart in him? Mother to his child, lover of his soul. Companion on this journey.
His God-given mate.
Brought together by age-old fate.
This was meant to be.
Oh, angel-like entity! Oh, pink, winged wonder! Oh, his love did have wings, and that was no cliché ...
"Maybe we can put on a show," the bat finally finished. "Maybe we can ... spark," she whispered, "together. And solve everything in our kisses and our thrusts. I think we can." She kissed his cheek. Eyes closed. She breathed of his mousey scent. His timidity. "I think we must."
"I, uh ... mm ... "
Lips locking, slightly wet, and certainly warm. A held kiss, with intermingling, nose-exhaling breaths, and the touch. Just the touch of flesh on flesh, born of commitment, of love. Could anything taste so deep as this?
There was no doubt, now, that God was the greatest romantic.
For allowing this.
For making this.
For the kiss.
Lips wet, tongue-tips touching, the wetness of loving, and ...
... break to breathe.
Break to get a better, fuller breath.
Breathe.
And whisper a string of sweet nothings (that, better put, were somethings) into her echo-sharp ears. Tell her of need, want, desire. Of purity of intention. Of hazy, fuzzy feeling. Of every single thing that she does to you. Of the reasons and the rhymes.
How you admire her strength and her playfulness, her sharpness. Her durability. Her confidence. How you admire her ... her wit, and her ability to ... to be the mother that she is, and the wife. How grateful you are. How she does so much. How you cannot thank her enough ...
And the bat, in turn, whispering back at him. Of how his innocence enlightens her. His softness, his grace, his humility ... and his scurrying pace. How he keeps her on her toes, keeps her alive. How to hold him is to hold life, and how his artistry allows her to see things, things of beauty, that she never would've otherwise seen ... how he's everything one would want in a lifelong love. A father to her daughter, and a steadfast mate.
And her telepathy, growing stronger (as it did during this act), allowed her to plant her thoughts into his mind.
And allowed, in turn, for him to do the same.
And he did tell her things! He did!
Did confess that: oh, darling, you're my water. You're my wine. You're my whiskey ... from time to time.
"Field ... oh, Field ... " Her arms in the dark, wrapping all the way around, now, his slender, trim form. His mousey form. His tail snaking like a live-wire behind him. His ears like fleshy dishes. Latch to him. Snug to him. Wrap around him like a blanket. Bare, hanging breasts, nipples hardening, sensitive, pressed to his slender chest.
You're the hunger, he continued to think to her, on my bones ... on all the nights I sleep alone.
Oh, to never be alone, she thought back to him. I'll never leave you alone. Oh, Field ... my sweet intoxication! "Mm ... " Another wet kiss, this one fiercer, with an audible sucking sound, and little throat-purrs. The heat was rising, rising. Exponentially. Bodies aching for this. Bodies built for this.
When you wash over me, whether or not your lips move, the mouse sent out to her, you speak to me.
And she did.
Telepathy.
Touch.
Tantalizing.
Trembling.
His paws roved up and down her bare, arching back. Over her shoulder blades, and down the trail of her spine, to where her short, rudder-like tail jutted out. Up and down, with warm, quick strokes. Belly-to-belly.
And her own paws clutching at his back-fur.
And they sank, slowly, slowly to their sides. Slipping, sinking into the sheets (and the mattress). Into the night. Into dreams. Into eternal sight.
That their Savior had saved them.
Made hope possible.
Made love to live again.
Meaning.
Blessed, this, Sanctified.
A truly holy matrimony.
Oh, faith! And, oh, love!
I cannot get enough of you ...
Like an ocean without waves, you're the motion that I crave.
So sang his heart. The poetry she, panting now, gleaned from him. Bare foot-paws bumping, toes touching, the bat huffing onto the mouse's muzzle, sucking on his errant waggling whiskers. And then sucking on his lower lip.
He started to squeak (again, in a different pitch). His paws weak.
"Oh ... "
Hush now, she thought to him, in silent communication. Worming so that she, this time, had her backside to the ceiling. To the air. Putting the mouse on bottom, where he (admittedly) liked it most. Despite his branching out, and his growing, spreading confidence, he did (so much) like to be this way for her.
To submit.
Hush now, my sweet, little squeaky mouse. There is trouble enough in the world. Pick up your foot-paws, little mousey boy, come dance with your batty girl ...
"D-dance?" Field breathed, back on the sheets. Tail half-trapped (and trailing like a discarded rope over the bed-edge).
More kissing, more touching, more bare, furry hip-grinding.
More loving.
"That's, uh, metaphorical for ... dance. Dance, Field ... 'dance' with me." Playfulness sparking, like a warm, November bonfire, in her voice. "Mm?"
"Mm," was his eyes-closing response. And his shy, whispered, "Oh ... "
"Hmm ... mm ... "
Spin me round, she continued (with her mental instruction ... not quite complete ... only completely linked when her fangs were in the sweetest spot of his neck, but all the same ... she was in his head). Spin me round this bedded floor, like a carnival troubadour. I know we're only two-bit furs in a one-ring circus.
But, oh, you make me a little bit dizzy, mouse.
More than a bit dizzy, mouse.
When I'm in your arms, my dreamy mouse, it still makes me weak at the knees. After all these years. These few years. And our child. All we've been through. I still can't get enough of you.
Never enough.
This is a lit, fiery love.
"Oh! Ah, ah ... "
Bodies grinding.
Paws clasping.
Sensitivity.
Beautifully pleasured sensitivity, naked, natural knowing. As she, at a strong, confident straddle, paws on his chest, arms extended ... as she sank down, allowing him entrance. Allowing purchase. Such form and function, this firework of a connection, this act of life and love, of spiritual, Christian union.
Not to be abused.
Not to be done by the heartless or the timid.
Sex was for the pure-at-heart. Wasted in the paws of the casual, or the paws of the hesitant.
This was intimacy.
"A-adelaide ... oh, d-darling ... "
"Uh ... huh!" Her fangs readying, already dripping drops of milky fluid. Readying, she was, for the bite, hunching over, licking, lapping at the fur of his neck.
But not yet.
Come, now, my sweet, little breathing mouse. I'm listening hard to your heart. Oh, your heart.
Field listening, ears gorged with blood. Sensitive. So many parts of him.
Bite, bite ...
... bite.
Squeak!
The bedroom air electric.
Chitter.
And full union, now. Physical, mental, emotional.
Spiritual.
Dear God, thank you, thank you ...
Oh, yes, blessed ...
... yes, yes, yes. Thank you. Lost ...
... in love.
Lovely.