In the Meanwhile
"So, uh ... uh ... what did she want?"
Jinx gave a little nibble on the squirrel's shoulder. A little, sensual nibble. And breathed back, in response, "Uh, just ... " A swallow. " ... just wanted to let me know, uh ... " A kiss to Ezri's neck. And stealing another, and just one more. "Uh, that she's going to 'divvy up' her command responsibilities ... for now ... "
A quiet nod, the squirrel's brown paws roving in the skunk's black and white fur. Sliding through silky, soft fur, through warmth. Claws raking across the skin beneath it all. Another nod. And, "Yeah ... " An exhale. "Well, I worry about her ... "
"Everybody does," Jinx responded, mouthing beneath the squirrel's chin.
Ezri raised her head, now, eyes fluttering. Eyes closing. They were in the dark of their quarters, in their bedroom, in bed. Glad they still had a bedroom. The kitchen was in ruins, but the rest of the rooms were fine.
Jinx kept mouthing under her chin, his muzzle sliding, lips sucking on her fur, wetting it. Reaching her cheeks.
Ezri lowered her head, sighing out. Oh, sighing out. "Jinx," she breathed.
"Mm?" Sucking heavily on her cheek.
"Jinx ... "
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, baby ... " He pulled his muzzle back, leaving his nose, instead, on her face. Breathing with erratic softness.
"This is ... " A breath, her naked, furry body, warm and wanting, pressing closer against his own. "This is the first time all day," she managed, "that I haven't felt scared ... that ... " She trailed, moving her head, her nose, now, against his neck. She breathed desperately of his scent. His familiar, strong scent, the one imprinted, by now, in her head. The one she couldn't forget. The one that spoke volumes to her.
At her words, the skunk, his arms wrapped around her, hugged her. Tighter than before, even, with a great, tender security.
The squirrel whimper-chittered, eyes tightly shut, holding back. Clutching his fur, now, tightly.
"It's okay," Jinx breathed. "It's okay ... we're gonna be okay ... "
The squirrel seemed to quiver in his hold.
"Alright?" he whispered, nuzzling her neck. "Ezri ... "
A weak, little nod.
His paws smoothed over her soft, bare back. Smoothing, roving, traveling up and down, up and down, and feeling along the outline of her spine, and all the way down to her tail-base. And then gently batting, brushing at that luxurious, flagging squirrel-tail. As luxurious as his own, banner-like skunk-tail, and maybe even more so. For, in his mind, everything about her was more luxurious. More beautiful.
Your love was always more beautiful than you were. You always believed that. And, surely, it was always true.
The skunk leaned, leaned, and took the squirrel with him. To a full lie-down, now, in the sheets. Where they both, with rising passion, breathed, breathed, breathed.
"Uh ... I, uh," Ezri continued, speaking in soft, hushed tones. "I heard chatter on the comm channels today ... none of it made sense." A breath. "I ... I'm worried. We shouldn't be traveling alone."
"We have to catch up to the next squadron," Jinx said, leaving it at that. Not re-emphasizing the fact that, not too long ago, the squadron they'd been with had been obliterated. Arctic had been the only ship from the group to survive. And only because Solstice and Luminous had swept in to scatter the wasps before they could finish the job. "We'll reach allied ships in another day," he assured. Thirty-six hours, to be exact. But he didn't want to feed her anxiety with an extra twelve hours. "We'll be safe." His paws going all over her sides, and his belly pressing to hers.
Safety in her husband's touch.
Safety in his wife's scent. In her warmth, and her purity of heart.
Safety in their age-old faith.
The Lord was their Deliverer. And He heard their cries.
Contrary to any modern aberrations in thought, God's mercy and love, vast as it was, was not to be set over his sense of righteousness and justice. He was as righteous as He was merciful, and as much for justice as for love.
The Lord is, yes, a warrior, mighty in battle. The Lord of hosts is He. A fortress, a Sun and a Shield to those who put their trust in Him.
This conflict would, eventually, in some way, come to an end.
The battles would be won.
Wrapping into that knowledge, burrowing into that belief, the squirrel and skunk let their fears and postulations slip away, to the backs of their minds. Come again later, anxieties. Come another time, temporal concerns.
We are busy.
We are in love.
We are staving off danger by fueling our heart-fires.
The squirrel and skunk writhing, hotly, humidly, paws grasping, limbs tangling, and muzzles panting for air and for the moisture of meeting lips, bodies ...
... spooned together, softly and easily. Ross letting out a shaky, simmering breath, right onto the back of the snow rabbit's neck.
Aria kept mostly still. Her white, flame-like bobtail would give a flicker-flick or two, every now and then, against the lower part of the meadow mouse's belly. And her ears would waggle, of course, but she kept the bulk of her body still.
Ross gently slid his hips forward, just a tiny bit. And sighed heavily. And gently pulled his hips back.
Her nose flared a bit as he did this.
And the mouse's arm was around her, holding. Their bodies lying side-by-side, entwined, in a close, intimate love-making. Very easy on her pregnant body. It was a position they'd come to rely on during the past few months, especially, as her belly had swollen. Her back to his chest. His chest to her back. Penetrating her from behind, on their sides, her air-exposed leg lifted very slightly, or moved forward just a bit. Giving him enough of a 'look' to get in and stay in.
Aria felt secure. Felt a bit lazy. One of Ross's arms was under her, between her hip and her ribs. The other was wrapped around her top. And, Aria, as the mouse pushed his hips gently forward again, gave a prolonged inhale. Held it. And released it. And drew her knees forward, a little bit more, a little bit closer to her chest.
Ross, with even more room to enter and maneuver, mouthed the back of her neck. Sucking on the white fur, making it damp with his tongue, and making it hot with his breath. And his hips, quietly rustling on the fabric of the sheets, made steadier movements. Still going slow, but with a clearer, more confident regularity.
Aria gave a tiny mew from the throat. Snugged so tightly, so closely to her love, and feeling like she could just melt. But she often felt that way with him. The mouse had a way of doing that to her. Of making her want to melt. It must've been that inherent cuteness, that diabolical weapon of cuteness. Oh, yes. Must've been. Wield your cuteness, mouse, and pin me down with it. I do not seem to mind.
His whiskers twitched, twitched, as they always, incessantly did. Twitching against the back of her neck.
She eye-smiled, eyes half-open, at the feeling. It kind of tickled.
And his nose, sniffing constantly, sniffing her scent. Sniffing her fur, her form, the sheets, everything. His nose furthering his mental scurry, giving him more sensory input, and more and more. And more. Sniff-twitch. Hips drawing back, and hips grinding, slowly, forward. And stopping. And gyrating a bit, in place. He squeaked airily, effeminately, from the throat. Squeak.
A sigh from her, her own whiskers giving a singular twitch. Less active, but twitching, too. And her ears, slender, antennae like, the white-furred ears with the pink, fleshy interiors, and the charcoal-furred fringes. They waggled, and they stood tall on the pillowcase, barely missing the headboard of the bed.
One of the mouse's wraparound paws, the one on top, the one with more freedom of movement, began to knead at her hanging, supple breasts, which, with her pregnancy, were more supple than before, even. His fingers pressing into them, raking through the short, soft fur there, and moving the mounds around. Thumb wagging a bit, hitting a hardened nipple with every other wag.
The snow rabbit sighed, swallowing. And shifted a bit, on her side. Just to get a bit more comfortable. Already so, so comfortable. Already sinking into the sheets. Already feeling that flush of rising, rising heat.
This was slow, languorous lovemaking, an intercourse without rapid movements, without any sort of straining. Ross's hips were barely moving, seemingly. They only moved an inch or two with each miniature thrust, with each motion. But the pleasure was a slow-burning wonder, and Aria held her breath as he kept going, going. As he paused. And as he went again. And as he paused again.
"You ... huh, uh," he panted, unable to help himself. He squeaked a few times. He swallowed, trying again. Saying, more coherently this time, "You, uh, need the ... the water? Yet?" A heavy swallow, his own throat dry. "Darling?"
And a little, little nod. "I ... I could use some," she admitted.
Ross nodded.
She felt the nod against the back of her neck.
And, without withdrawing from her body, the mouse twisted a tiny bit. And grabbed the water bottle from its easy-to-reach location. And brought it forward, to the front of her.
"Thank you," she breathed, almost breathless. And she drank. With the same greediness she would've been drinking with had their activity been more vigorous, even. She drank, and the water dribbling from her lips, wetting the bed-sheets a bit. She swallowed, gulped, and sighed heavily, and then set the bottle aside, on the open side of the bed. "You ... do you need any?"
"I'm fine," Ross whispered assuredly, his cheeks burning beneath the fur, and his ears searing with blood. Engorged, erogenous, so that the capillaries showed. That was another thing they had done a lot, since her pregnancy: ear-sex. Not many furry species were capable of climaxing through ear-stimulation alone. Mouses and rabbits happened to be two of them. Often, now, they would sprawl out, and just fiddle with each other's ears. Careful to use finesse. If you worked the ears too hard, they would hurt. Pain would set in. It took a lot of practice. But it was worth it. Ross thought about this as, swiveling atop his head, his ears pulsed and burned, spreading heat to the rest of his body. But the distraction of his blood-sensitive ears was forgotten, momentarily, by the distraction of his mouse-hood, stiff, slick, unbelievably sensitive, marinating in her wet, warm tunnel, which wrapped around him, wetting him, drawing him in. The most amazing kind of pleasure.
"You can ... you can keep going," Aria pleaded, in a quiet, needy voice.
Ross blinked, realizing he'd been so lost in the thoughts and feelings of sex that he'd stopped moving his hips. That he was still just lying there, spooned behind her. "Oh ... sorry," he went, swallowing. And he kept his hug of her, and closed his eyes, and put his muzzle on the back of her neck, and again, he moved his hips, in soft, gyrating ways, shivering with each motion.
She shivered, too, fingering her little nub with a paw.
And he played, more, with her breasts, simply because he loved to. He wished he could suckle on them, but from this position, that wasn't possible. Another time. Afterwards, maybe. Or in the morning. Besides, you don't want too much on your plate at the same time. You'll do yourself a mischief.
The pregnant snow rabbit, Captain of the ship, felt so delicate, now, so vulnerable. Not having to put on an air in front of him. Around the rest of the crew, Aria had to be strong. Had to be a leader. With Ross, she could let that go. She could relax around him like she couldn't relax around others, and it felt so sweet. This kind of trust, and this kind of closeness, and this kind of love and intimacy.
This spiritual union.
Oh, dear God, thank you for this. This pleasure. This feel-good thing. This love and connection, and this sharing, and this. This.
This.
Thank you for designing such a thing as this, allowing such a thing as this!
For this! Oh ... thank you ... oh, bless this act, as you've blessed us.
Oh, purity.
A mew from her.
And a squeak from him. And ...
... Wilco huffed, grabbing at sheets. And then, ultimately, grabbing at her hips. Holding to her hips. The flying squirrel on his back. It had been a rough week for him. As the helm officer, serving on the bridge, you had a full view of what went on out there. Out in space. You were seated right in front of the view-screen. And you saw the ships coming. And you saw them firing. And you heard the restrained orders of Aria behind you. And you heard Ezri panicking at the comm, trying to make sense of all the comm traffic. And you heard Jinx tapping, slamming his paws on his console, firing weapons.
You heard everything.
You were a witness to everything.
And he had seen every other ship in their squadron, one by one, burst into flaming, spinning shards. The flames quickly extinguished by the cold, cruel vacuum of space. How many lives extinguished with them?
He'd nearly thrown up. He'd prayed, fervently. Feverishly.
Prayed.
And Solstice and Luminous, like old friends, had come. Had driven the remaining wasp ships away before Arctic, herself, could be finished off.
Wilco closed his eyes. Shoving all that aside. You're alive.
You're here. We're both here.
Move on.
The kangaroo rat at a comfortable, controlling straddle of him. Her weight atop of him. Her heat. Her scent.
Her.
She occupied his thoughts, now. Memories shoved aside, quelled. Fears, too. All of it. It was only him. And only her.
And there was only this.
He opened his eyes again, and then closed them once more. His large, dilated eyes, and his whiskers twitching. His flat, air-rudder of a tail, all brushy and fluffy, flickered a few times, trailing off the side of the bed and hanging, listless, in the air. The membranes, his 'wings,' ran from his arms to his legs, on his sides. Filmy, velvety-soft, and very pliable. Bending, with his arms reached up and paws on his wife's hips, into folds of furry flesh. When stretched, they could catch air. But, now, they only loosely hung. As he clutched to her. Hold on, hold on.
Arabella chittered and leaned forward, slightly, at her straddle. Having lowered all the way, taking him inside of her. Filling the aching need (that need to be filled, that need for presence) and setting their expression into motion. There was no stopping now. Her knees were bent, her shins on the warming sheets. Her legs were highly-developed, very strong. Her foot-paws were long, great for kicking, great for hopping. Her lower body strength, indeed, was very, very evident in her gyrations, in her downward grinding. She had her husband pinned. And he hadn't the strength (or willpower) to shift her off.
Wilco panted, panted. Chitter-squeaked. Squirming very slightly.
She kept him pinned. Kept him in place. By leaning forward and extending her arms, keeping her paw-pads flat on his furry, brown-hued chest. Thumbing his nipples now and then, those little nubs that hardened amidst the fur. She hunched forward, propping her upper body up. And slowly wriggling and worming her lower body, so that the friction between them intensified. So that his squirrel-hood brushed her walls in the most subtle of ways. She steered his member with the encompassing grip of her lower lips, and the movements of her hips. Her tail, dark, white on the sides, wavered. Waver-wavered, the furry tuft on the end moving around like a pompom, as if cheering them both on. "Mm ... mm ... "
He opened his mouth to say something. To speak something. To whisper something to her, but the words, they failed him. His breath, it left him. In a deep, hot sigh, in a sly, sinking sound. "Oh ... oh ... "
A sensual chitter-giggle. And a smile melted upon the kangaroo rat's lips. And she nodded lightly. Nodding down at him, her eyes hooded, and she swallowed. And nodded, quietly, once more. As if saying, 'I know ... I know ... I know how it feels. I know how much you love me. I love you just the same.' She said all this with a nod. And with her eyes. And with a reciprocal sigh.
The flying squirrel's head turned this way on the pillow. And that way, too. Turning, as if shaking, as if unable to comprehend the pleasure. As if trying to steel himself to get through it. "Huhn ... uh ... ohh," he sighed.
"Hmm, hmm," she mouse-purred, squeaking when she breathed. Her body grinding, grinding hard, grinding close, and then, suddenly, relenting, and raising by inches. Holding for a second. And sinking back down, swallowing him in. The slick, squishy sound of sex. Pink organ into pink muscle. Male and female, fitting like perfect puzzle pieces, working each other's senses in a way that neither could fully understand or comprehend, no matter how many biology lessons one had.
It was just beyond sense. Beyond reason.
It was feeling. It was furious feeling, and sizzling spirituality. It was more than text. It was more than academic.
It was soulful.
This joining, this rising, this falling, as she picked up her pace, lifting up, sinking down, and hunching over him, now, until her belly-fur was meshing with his. Until her wonderful breasts were sinking, fitting against his chest. Until she was at a horizontal lie-down atop of him. And maybe that didn't allow for the range of movement as a true straddle did. But, oh, she was a kangaroo rat, and her lower body was, indeed, strong. Remember. Remember that. Remember how she can move those muscles, how she can grind backward, impaling you. Remember how she can ride you like no other femme ever could.
Kangaroo rats made good riders.
The thought made Wilco blush. Though it was true. And though she was his wife. All the same, he blushed, flushing with heat beneath the fur of his cheeks, his angular ears swiveling, and his moans coming out. With higher, squeakier pitches. With desperation.
And her squeaks joining his. Tangling with his.
Both of them lost in each other, awash in each other.
Both of them baring it all, both of them ...
... taking turns with one another.
It was the mouse's turn, now, to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was between his wife's lovely, sliding-apart legs.
She knew how to present herself. She knew how to work him up, to tease him. Her hips raised slightly off the bed, into the air for a few seconds, and they set back down. Her bobtail, trapped beneath her, wiggled semi-visibly. And her knees went up, bending, her foot-paws on the sheets.
All the while, Ollie watching. Watching.
She knew she had him. And she, hot, full of want, felt her own heart beating in her breasts. Her paw slid down, down her belly, through her fur, where her fingers played. Where she prodded at her hooded nub. Where she pried apart her petal-like lower lips.
Ollie, pupils dilated, didn't even blink. His nose flared, and his whiskers twitched, and he swallowed. And then sighed heavily, on his shins between her legs, looking down. Looking close. Closer. His body starting to lean, to squirm.
She slipped a single digit into her femininity, the pink, raw, muscular walls conforming around the shape of the intrusion. Enveloping. She fingered herself for just a minute.
The white-furred mouse was breathing faster, faster. Quite audibly, now. His thin, long, silky-pink tail was waving all about, like a downed electrical wire. Zip-zip-zap. Zip-zip-zap. Flail!
Arianna, on her back, her head comfortably sinking into a pillow, withdrew her finger. And motioned with it. Motioned, 'closer, closer.'
Ollie swallowed and did so, leaning closer, dropping to all fours, lowering himself upon her. His modest, five-inch member (the measurement of most mouses), the sheath removed at birth (from rodents' religious beliefs), it dangled, just dangled, stiff, getting stiffer, between his legs, the head a deep-pink, the sac all tufted with white fur, drawing closer to his body. Pre was beading from the slit, and he was gone. Lost. No rational thought, now. No civilized know-how. He just had to get inside her. He had to. Had to. That's all he knew.
Arianna, eye-smiling, saw that she'd done too good a job in leading him on. She'd distracted him straight to intercourse.
His cock-tip pushed against her wetter, searing folds, gently, parting them, but not meeting her vagina. Just bumping into flesh, smearing pre on her vulva. But making no bodily penetration. He squeaked in utter frustration, pulling back, trying to slip in without paw-guidance. He had to fill her! He needed inside!
She mewed with amusement, whispering something, temperature raising.
Ollie, swallowing, looked to her, ears swiveling, perked.
And that's when she thrust her paw against his nose. In the gentlest of ways, of course. But enough to where he had no choice but to breathe the scent in. For this was the paw she'd been fingering herself with, just a moment earlier.
The white-furred mouse held his breath, heart hammering. Hammer-hammer. He shook his head, slightly, as if in a daze. And the scent. Wet, hot, slightly musky, slightly salty, utterly feminine. Utterly her. Utterly.
Femininity.
He needed the taste. He could get inside it later. In just a bit. He would do that, no doubt. For he needed to and wanted to, badly, but not before. Not before. Not before he got more whiffs of it. Not before he got his tongue on that. Not before he was scooting back, wriggling, squeaking, tail wavering like a rope. Not before he was on his belly, propped up on elbows.
Arianna's head rolled to one side. She sighed, nodding in approval. Yes. Yes, this was more like it. More to the pacing they needed.
Pace yourselves, young furs.
There is much to do. And you have all night.
Ollie threw himself into the original, intended task. Giving her oral.
The snow rabbit huffed, panted. And her head rolled to the other direction, her eyes closed and muzzle open, breathing. Her whiskers giving a twitch or two. "Oh ... oh ... " They were light, sincere moans, born of delicacy.
And he was delicate.
Male mouses were prized for their oral abilities. For their submissiveness. They hadn't the best tongues in the world, no. Their tongues weren't the long, lapping kind, or the big, wriggling kind. They had modest tongues. That was all. But, oh, they knew how to use them, with such ginger care. Such tenderness. So emotional, mouses, as to be naturally empathic to the basic needs of their partners. So eager to please. So insistent. So innocent, throwing themselves into the task, proceeding with such soft, succulent motions. Mouses never got rough with you. They never pushed you to climax too fast.
"Huh. Huh ... "
Ollie was going on instinct, now. Perhaps there was something intellectual in this, too. There was definitely something spiritual. But the spirituality was a guiding force, threading wordlessly, silently, just keeping him going, keeping him there.
Her loins ached. In a good way. Oh, in the best way. In the throbbing, wet, fill-me-now kind of way, but she had perfect emotional control. She was a snow rabbit. Logical and calm, and she could control the need. She could keep this going.
She could prolong the mutual simmer.
But Ollie hadn't her emotional control. Hadn't her ability to hold back. And he was going at it, going at her, for all it was worth. With pressing, searing muzzle-humps, his lips and nose pressing at her folds, parting them, his tongue poking in her vagina, retracting, poking, and his lips, loosely sliding up, up her labia, as his tongue licked all over. Didn't matter where, now. His own saliva was coating most everything, mixing the scents, the flavors, making licking easier, more smooth. He squeaked and pressed in again, sucking at the moisture. Little drops of liquid glistened on his clear whiskers, which twitched, twitched, pussy-juice raining off.
The snow rabbit writhed, now, mewing, antennae-ears waggling. "Mm ... hmm ... " The wet pleasure, the friction of his actions, his sucking, kissing, nibbling, licking, all of it focusing, now, on the perimeters of her revealed clitoris. Oh ...
The mouse, hot, hot, hot, squeaking, put his lips over the nub. Nose flaring, whiskers brushing against the thicker tufts of fur on her mons. He put his lips over her nub, and he hummed. From the throat, once. Twice.
The snow rabbit shivered. Her muscles seemed to shake. She exhaled sharply. "Huh ... uhhh. Oh." She tried to slow her breath.
The mouse, seeing the sensitivity, withdrew. By inches, he withdrew, and proceeded to lick her softly, slowly. Much more slowly. As if grooming her. Mouses, after sex, had the instinctual compulsion to groom themselves. To lick at their own fur, smooth it, clean it with their tongue. Mostly their arms and paws, or shoulders, or whatever they could reach. Their tails, too. It didn't make sense. Your tongue couldn't really keep you clean. But it was instinct. And hard to fight. A mouse could spend fifteen minutes sitting, licking himself afterward, grooming in the way of mouses. But, often, he would start to groom her, too. She allowed him to.
Arianna knew that Ollie felt silly about having to groom like that. She saw how his ears flushed. How he was embarrassed. But how he couldn't stop. Early on in their marriage, she had simply told him, "Groom me, too."
He had blinked. "You ... " Slurp. " ... want me to?"
"You had your muzzle and tongue ALL over my body before. In every nook and cranny." An eye-smile. "Why not now?" she had asked, with perfect logic.
"Well, we were horny then." Lick, lick. "Now, we're not." Often, what was erotic and desirable in the throes of 'yiffy-ness' was, afterwards, when orgasm had momentarily relieved you, a bit shy and silly.
"Groom me," she'd simply repeated, with a patient, pleasant tone.
And, so, he had. And, so, he always did, now, after making love. Groomed them both. And, now, as he pleasured her, as he gave her oral, he thought of how, after the fact, he would groom her down her. How he would end up tasting his seed and her wet release, all mixed together, and how that taste would stay on his tongue, seemingly, for hours. Fluids of life and love and intrinsic passion.
The taste of her.
And the sound of her. As she panted, mewed. As she rustled the sheets.
The touch of her. As she reached for his blood-gorged, turned-deep-pink ears. As she brushed them with her soft, furry fingertips.
The scent of her. Familiarity. She smelled of desire. Not just sexual desire. But romantic desire, emotional need. She smelled of their bed, and their quarters, of safety. Of assurance. Of the greatest of comforts.
And the sight of her, too. The soft, snowy-white, the icy, Arctic eyes, the night-black charcoal fringes of her ears, and the black, perfect nose, and that bobtail. That bobtail that flickered like it did, like a flame behind her, luring him.
Ollie stopped, panting, pulling back a bit, back onto his knees and shins, huffing. Whiskers twitching. He squeaked. And reached for the water bottle. And gave it to her. She needed it.
Arianna nodded gratefully, taking it. Drinking. Saying, between gulps and lip-licks, "I was ... almost ... to release."
"I know," the mouse whispered. And he had known. He was good enough at giving oral to know when she was close.
She put the water bottle aside, breathing with momentary stability. And she met his eyes, from her lie-down. Looking at him, kneeling there, between her open legs.
"I gotta breed you, now," he whispered, barely audible. "Please," he managed. "I gotta put it in ... "
But, again, the snow rabbit had more control. She had a stronger yiff drive, true. Her yiff drive was twice as strong as his own. But she also had an emotional freeze that allowed her to hone that increased virility. And she didn't want this to end just yet. And said, almost purring it, "You want to put in ... "
A swallow, a nod. His paws were on her body, feeling her up.
"Straddle my upper body," she instructed.
"Why ... "
Her eyes sparkled, eye-smiling. "Just do it."
He didn't argue. He understood. She didn't want intercourse yet, but she was going to compromise with him. He could put it inside. Her muzzle.
Arianna, putting an extra pillow under her head, put her paws on her husband's slender hips as he squirmed carefully up, up, at a soft, light straddle (positioning his body so as to put very little actual weight upon her). And she, sighing, pupils as dilated as his own, her instincts flaring, heart beating, she let a paw wrap around his stiff, male flesh. She held it in her paw, marveling at its design. At the thoughts that it inspired. At the pleasure it bestowed. "You are beautiful," she told the mouse.
A severe blush, and his eyes darting. "So are you," he assured, so genuine. So modest about himself. But never modest about her. Always whispering poetic things to her. But, at the moment, he didn't get the chance.
For she directed his mouse-hood forward a bit. Immediately suckling on the head.
Ollie's neck turned. He swallowed, letting out a squeak. His whiskers twitched.
The whole of the head passing her lips, now, tongue poking at the tip, licking the pre.
Ollie leaned forward, instinctively.
Which is what she'd wanted. As it caused him, inch by inch, to slide into her muzzle. Until she'd taken what was comfortable to take. And until she gave a rabbit-purr of contentment.
A little gasp.
And, though mouses gave very tender, emotional oral, rabbits gave very 'lusty' oral, if you wished to call it that. They WERE sex experts, after all. They knew how to work the body in the most fiery of ways.
Ollie squeaked, moaning, gripping the top of the headboard with both his paws, his chest rising and falling, his tail dangling about like a fishing line. "Oh ... ohh ... "
Her lips slid up and down his shaft, in a wet, sucking, bobbing motion, stimulating every little nerve, every blood-filled spot. And getting the flavor of the male essence on her tongue. And doing something so intimate.
And he squeaked.
And they continued their build-up to eventual intercourse, their senses reeling.
For love appealed to all the senses.
Or, rather, love simply appealed.
Oh, love!