Royal Gala
Approaching six o-'clock, almost closing time. On a hot July day. Blue sky, too. The kind of meandering stretch you'd classify as 'lazy,' but ... if you were truly lazy on a day like this? When the world was raspberry ripe? (And that was ripe, indeed.) You felt guilty. Deep down. (Field did, anyway. He could never keep still. Too much scurry, you know?) Why be lazy now? You'd have plenty of time for that later. Like when you were snowed in this winter, freezing your tail off. Wishing it was hot.
This wasn't the type of day you could waste.
Yes, burning. Yes, sweat dripping off your whisker-tips, but ...
... it was so visceral, so hyper-real.
It was summer.
The sensual season.
But, oh, I forgot: you were stuck inside. From 9 to 6. Working.
Quel dommage!
The 'cider slush' machine provided part of the soundtrack. Whir-whir ... whirring. In the background. The sound of storage coolers, too. Big ones, small ones. Hiding crates of peaches (red globe, South Carolina), sweet corn (bi-color). Michigan Blueberries. Jersey Macs. The like. You knew what everything was, where it came from. The price. It floated through your sleep. Cabbage. Forty-two cents a pound. Beets. Forty-eight cents a pound. That's what happened when you ran a register. When you sold things.
And Field, let it be said, had a near-photographic memory at times. Details. He always remembered details. Moments. Like Adelaide, kissing him on the Quaker church-steps on the 4th of July, almost three weeks ago, during the Sheridan parade. In front of God, one hundred tractors, and everyone ... she'd been wearing a dress, actually. Not often she wore one. More the jeans and t-shirt type. Which was fine by him. But ... straps on her shoulders. One of them falling off. He remembered wishing he could remove the other one, as well. Mouth her shoulders. She was sweating. They all were. So hot, fur matted. And when she kissed him? She'd tasted like cicadas.
They'd come early this year, you see. And bats ate them (and lots of bugs; had to, as part of their natural diet). She and Akira (their daughter) had been munching on them all morning. 'They're like blueberries. First batch is always the best,' Adelaide had claimed. To which Field had replied, stubbornly, 'They are NOT like blueberries.' But he'd gotten an antennae in his mouth. Or a leg. Something as thin as a hair (but not a hair). Enough to notice. She laughed. He insisted it wasn't funny, and that he didn't like bugs, or bug parts (insides or outsides) going down his throat, and how she needed to start sucking on peppermints after she ate such things ... but ...
... he'd kissed her again. All the same. Willingly. Sweetly.
Until Akira told them to stop cause they 'was missin' the trackers! An' they has canny!' The tractors, that was. With furs throwing candy from them for the kids.
But that was another story ...
... ahem.
It wasn't all bad, admittedly. Doing this, orchard-work. The farm market. You got to stay in the countryside all day. (Well. Within view of it.) Work around fresh fruits and vegetables (which were healthy and tasty). You got free cider. It was seasonal, which was good (and bad; only had a job half the year, but ... at least you got a reprieve before you overdosed; sometimes, change was good ... it forced you to adapt). It was sort of a laid-back atmosphere most of the time (uh ... in a way). Family-owned. Not corporate. Didn't have benefits, and wasn't enough to support yourself on, no, but it wasn't fast-food or office-work. It was a unique place to be a part of. That was for sure.
You couldn't complain.
It was a job, basically.
And you were grateful for anything these days. Work was hard to come by, especially for those without college degrees (like Field and Adelaide). And even for those with them.
They (the staff) had already put everything away, everything perishable, anticipating no more customers. The boss himself, even, had already left. Field had a key and would lock up. Hopefully, they were truly done (unlike last night, where some lady came in at 5:57 and wanted one thing ... and ended up staying until 6:10 and getting seven things; if you give a fur a cider slush, they're bound to what 'such-and-such' to go with it; that was the moral).
" ... no one outside Indiana knows what 'sugar-cream' is," Ezri was saying, with certainty. (How she got on this topic, Field didn't know. He'd been outside, filling the mop bucket.) Her rump on the edge of the check-out counter. She was standing, but leaning. In a way that made her jean shorts ride up her legs a bit. Maybe that was on purpose. Her luxurious, bushy tail shimmering behind her, immaculately groomed and conditioned. Not completely immune to the muggy, hot conditions. Looked undeniably good, though. All the same. You had to admit. In the light coming in through the western-facing front doors.
"Sugar-cream?" went the other female.
"Pie," the squirrel said, simply. "My favorite pie." Hopping up, now, onto the counter. To an actual sit. Paws on her bent knees. Swinging her brown-furred legs for a second before stopping.
"Oh." The rat scrunched her face. Drifting to one of the propped-open entryways, own tail long and naked. Not very pretty. Not as smooth and delicate at Field's mouse-tail, necessarily. Just ... a rat tail. Snaky. Back turned, now, she pressed, "Wait a minute ... says who?"
"I think I would know what my favorite pie is," the squirrel insisted. Curling and uncurling her toes. Just because.
"No, no." Frown. Looking out at the corn field across the road. Stuff was tall for this time of year. All the heat and rain. "You said no one outside Indiana has heard of the stuff."
"Oh. Well, they haven't." Ezri tilted her head. "Just one of those unwritten truths."
"Since when," Petra went, unconvinced. Smirking a little, buckteeth showing. And turning back round, too, as if she' been challenged. She glanced over to Field. "That true? Mouse? You're as 'Hoosier' as they come ... "
"You'll believe him over me? He's more Hoosier?" Ezri went. Sitting up straighter. Not offended. But feeling like she'd been put on the defensive. "And don't call him 'mouse' like that ... "
" ... I sleep with one. I can call 'em what I like," the rat said, in that blunt fashion of hers. Petra had a very direct personality. Not necessarily dominant. (Sorta, though. Not so much in private as in public. She put up a strong front.) Just, uh ... didn't mess around. Historically, rats and mouses were polar opposites. In spite of their close relation as rodents. Rats were urban. Mouses were rural. Rats were straightforward, mouses were coy. And et cetera, all that. So went the stereotypes. That hadn't stopped Petra from marrying Peregrine, though, a grey-furred mouse. They had chemistry. Or something. (Chemistry was just another way of saying 'good sex,' right? And we do have that.)
"Well," Field said, a bit shyly (always, at first). Clearing his throat. He was holding that aforementioned mop. Cleaning the mud-marks and foot-paw prints off the red-epoxy floor (which he'd painted himself, with rollers, two years ago; stuff was a pain to get out of your fur ... and it smelled). "To answer that, I'd have to ask you where you were born ... "
Petra huffed. Dammit. "Missouri," was the mumble.
"There you go!" Ezri squeaked, victoriously. Clapping her paws. Whiskers twitching. "See? And you'd never heard of it, and that ... "
" ... doesn't prove it, no! I damn well have! Uh. Heard of ... " She blanked on the name of the pie. Scrunching her muzzle. Saying, quickly, " ... sweet-cream pie."
"H-hah! That's not even what it's called ... "
Giggle-chittering. "Is too! We stock it in that freezer back there ... " Pointing her grey-brown paw, wildly. " ... that, uh ... Wick's. Yeah. Wick's Sugar Cream Pie."
"That we do. Yes. Made in Richmond, Indiana. Hmm," she teased. "I wonder why!"
"That's not evidence o' nothin' ... "
"It helps my argument more than yours. Anyway ... " Ezri breathed in through her sniffy nose. " ... that's frozen pie. That's not, like ... homemade. So, it almost doesn't even count. That's not the real thing. You haven't had REAL sugar cream until it's been made from scratch."
"We're gonna debate what's real?"
"Simulacra and Simulation?" Field went, ears swiveling.
Blank looks.
Whiskers twitching. "Eh, never mind."
Petra huffed, getting back on topic, "If I went an' blindfolded you, Ezri, you could tell the difference, huh? 'Tween frozen and fresh?"
"Without a doubt. There's no comparison. Even you should know that ... "
" ... meaning?"
A hesitation. "Well ... "
A squint. "Say it."
Fluttering her tail, prettily. Angular ears cocking. "Rats ... " Be nice. " ... don't have much finesse."
Still squinting. Cause she didn't understand what that meant, entirely. "Finesse?"
"You're not delicate."
"Oh, I can't dance on the head of a pin like an angel ... like sweet ol' mouses or sugary squirrels?"
"Look, never mind. You know what I mean. I know you do," the squirrel said, quickly. Pausing. "You'd never heard of it before. That's the point. It is ... yes, it is," she stressed, stopping Petra from interrupting, "a Hoosier pie. Exclusively. And you're being stubborn if you can't admit that."
"I'm admittin' nothin'. This is a silly debate."
" ... silly? Pie?" A soft laugh, almost a scoff. Waving a pretty paw.
"Ah, I forgot, this is Indiana. Where furs are nicknamed a complete nonsense word, and where what they like is racin', basketball, cream pies, and fuckin' their tails off."
"Open-wheel racing," Field corrected, cause he couldn't let that slide.
"Not always in that order, too," Ezri chimed, good-naturedly. "Fucking is usually first. Sometimes," she admitted, "second. If it's March or May. Rest of the year, though ... "
"That's true," Field agreed, quietly. With a sage, twitchy nod.
Petra couldn't hide the smile. Even as she huffed. Wriggling in place. Impatiently. Glancing at the clock. Five more minutes. I have to have the last say. I have to. Can't resist. " ... so, look, can't say that I knew of it b'fore, but ... but," she qualified, emphatically, "that doesn't mean there's ... you know, bottom line: there's no such thing as a pie that's only known or eaten in one state. Maybe a hundred years ago. Not possible today."
"Actually," Field piped in, wanting to settle this (cause he didn't like tension and arguments, and this was starting to get a little too feisty for his tastes), " ... sugar-cream pie, also known as, uh, 'Indiana Farm Pie?' Surfaced here in the mid-1800's. Via the Quakers. It's distinguished by its lack of eggs and ... "
" ... good grief," Petra mumbled.
" ... along with persimmon pudding, is considered one of the two Hoosier-invented foods."
"I think you're a little bit biased, mouse. How am I supposed to trust you on that?" the rat challenged.
"She's just jealous she doesn't have her own pie, Field," Ezri whispered. "You can see it in her eyes. I bet she's salivating right now. Bet she wants some."
"Do not."
"Think you do."
Field nodded, whiskers twitching. Voice soft and effeminate. He was always mistaken for a female on the phone. Something that made him very self-conscious. " ... with your staff discount, you can get a frozen one for seven dollars. Or I could give you the recipe. I, uh ... I cook, a lot."
"You wear the apron in your house, do you?" Petra went, cheekily. "And Adelaide the pants, right?"
His ears blushed. Rosy-pink.
"Hey," Ezri objected, sharply. "No need to get personal. If you wanna rib someone, rib me." She was always trying to protect Field. At work. He had this endearing sweetness to him. That mousey cuteness, you know? You felt like you wanted to scoop him up and protect him. (Maybe that was pheromones or something, but ... it was a real feeling. A natural advantage for mouses, perhaps.) " ... you're married to a mouse, you know?"
"My mouse is my mouse. Doesn't mean I have to be a sunny-blanket for the entire species ... "
"You wouldn't have mated someone from a species you didn't enjoy."
"So, love has rules, now, squirrel?"
"Ezri," Ezri corrected, simply. "And I didn't say that. Not exactly."
A glare. "Point is: I got an edge to me. And I don't censor it. That's part o' my nature. You know it full well, so ... I'm not gonna be ganged up on by two smaller rodents. Both o' whom I could beat up."
"Yeah, we're probably faster, though. You'd have to catch us first," Ezri said, casually, sprawling back on the counter, now. Almost laying down atop of it. Staring at the ceiling. She riles me up, sometimes, but I'm not gonna be baited by her. Play it cool. "And cuter. You can't hurt 'cute'."
"Mouses are cute. I admit," Petra said. Relaxing a tad. You're too confrontational, you know that? Or maybe that's not the right word. Aggressive. Yeah. That's it. You don't think before you speak. Or act. "Squirrels? Maybe."
"Just maybe?" A frown. "Come on ... look at my tail."
"I don't look at other female's tails. I don't lean that way." A bit sarcastically.
"No?" A chuckle, closing her eyes. "Your loss." A bucktoothed grin. "Didn't hear an outright denial, though ... " Ezri, herself, was married to a skunk. Jinx. Tall, dark, bold. They were a playful if not traditional pair.
... Field, whiskers twitching, paused. Observing, listening (mouses, with their big ears, were natural listeners). Petra and Ezri got along. Uh, sometimes. It was clear that, on some level, they had a personality conflict. And, again, the mouse didn't like tension of any sort. (Unless it was, uh ... well. Maybe. Sexual? That could be good. Mm ... sometimes, even great. Yeah.) But non-sexual tension, okay, was only good after the fact. And only in sports. After your team won with a buzzer-beater. After your driver snagged a photo-finish. It made things more vivid in retrospect. Made for a much better story. But ... while it was going on? It made you sick. And same with personality clashes at work. Invariably, being a neutral party, Field was always caught in the middle. He didn't like that.
I'm too eager-to-please, aren't I. Does that make me weak?
Adelaide doesn't think so.
That's all that matters, right ...
Nodding, finally resuming his mopping. Tidy, tidy. Had to get this done, after all. It had rained an inch last night. Messy, bare foot-paws, therefore, tracking all through the store. Furs would insist on picking vegetables in muddy fields! Not that he was averse to dirt. He may have been tidy, but he was also a country boy, and ... wading in creeks, crawling through mud. He was fine with that. To be elemental, earthy. He and Adelaide, uh ... um. Bred, even. Outside. On wagons, in ... under trees. They got messy. As long as you left all that outside, it was fine. Houses and buildings, though? Had different rules. Decorum, please. (This coming from a mouse who went around shirtless most of the summer, when possible. He was a very physical-minded creature.)
Ezri yawned.
Petra just stared, blankly, at the main register. One more minute.
Field, done mopping ... scurried into the back. Put the mop in its bucket. And scurried back. (Probably not the best idea. Bare foot-paws on a wet floor. But he couldn't slow himself down.) He'd wash the bucket out tomorrow. I promise. Even though tomorrow was Saturday, the busiest day for the orchard. Any orchard. And July Saturdays were nothing compared to autumn Saturdays ... cars parking in the corn field across the street, in the ditch! You just didn't know until you'd lived it. The best way to survive such days? Was to not think. Just plow through.
"Time to ... "
R-ring ... ring, RING!
" ... clock out," Ezri said, voice faltering. No. Not the phone! She sat up, slipped off the counter. And backed away.
"Not me," Petra said.
Field sighed. Walking, reaching round, taking it off the charger. Putting it to one of his big, big, dishy ears. Pressing the button. "Hoosier Orchard." Whiskers twitched. I always have to answer the phone. And I hate phones. Though I guess taking calls isn't as bad as making them.
"Field? That you? It's Coriander."
"Oh. Hey," Field said. Coriander, or 'Cori,' was an older chipmunk. Who was sort of the 'store manager.' Unofficially. Not the owner, but ... did most of the 'female work' for the owner (who, himself, did the 'masculine' outdoor work and business meetings and stuff). If one were generalizing. Field worked in the store, though. The only male who did. With the females. Don't you think that's a little strange? Don't you ever wonder why that's the case? Cause I'm effeminate, right ... artsy and emotional? But I'm trim. I'm fit. I have ... uh. Boy parts. So, how come I don't feel masculine enough, sometimes?
You do when Adelaide has her way with you, he reminded.
But, uh ... clearing his throat. Yeah. But that's ... d-different ...
... what about the rest of the time?
And, as a side note, do you realize you think about her every five minutes, at least? Less than that? You're so in love with her it's not even funny.
" ... you're in tomorrow, right?"
"Hmm?" Blinking. Oh. The phone.
"You're working tomorrow?" Cori asked.
"Yeah. Uh, all day." And I'm going to miss Indy Car qualifying! Sigh. At least I won't miss the race. I don't get mad often. I'm a gentle, soft-spoken mouse, but if you make me miss my races ... or my games. Well. Hold me back. There's nothing worse than having to work while your sporting events are on. Racing's not like baseball. (And he didn't like baseball. At all. Not enough energy.) There aren't two hundred races a year. Seventeen. That's it! You miss one, and that's, like ... missing a lot. You miss something epic. Like college basketball and pro football. Every event matters. Speaking of which, I hope Adelaide and I can make a weekend trip to the Kentucky oval race again. Maybe we can ...
" ... good. Good ... Ezri, too?" Pause. "Field?"
Shaking his head. Focus. The mouse glanced at the squirrel. "Think so. Petra's off, though."
"Yeah. Listen ... " Speaking in excited squeaks. Chipmunks had almost as much energy as mouses. Almost. " ... my husband's friend's cousin, who works in the State House, said he talked to the governor. The," she emphasized, "governor. Asked him what he was doing this weekend ... guess what he said?"
"Uh ... watching the race?"
"No, before that. Saturday, not Sunday."
Petra, hearing this, rolled her eyes.
"I give up?" Field went. It was after six, now. He wanted to get home to Adelaide. (And Akira, his five year-old daughter. The mouse bat.) Home. Family. Supper. Playing outside (soccer, maybe, tonight ... kicking the ball around, first fur to ten goals wins; Akira was all-time offense, normally on her dad's side), and ... then more 'mature' playing. Inside. In bed. Just Field and Adelaide. But t-that was ... you're getting ahead of yourself. Field, stop thinking about sex! Gracious, you can't think these thoughts when you're talking to someone on the ...
" ... he's coming to Hoosier Orchard! Our orchard!"
"Wait ... what? Really?" A blink.
"Yes! You know what a coup this is? We've been trying to get the governor on our 'Apple Tree of Fame' for ... well, since I can remember!"
The 'Apple Tree of Fame' was a bulletin board. In the office. A construction-paper apple tree with apple-shaped frames, and in those frames ... famous furs. In the store. Holding the orchard's 'homemade' cider and smiling. Or 'mugging,' rather, for the camera.
"Remember Jim Nabors?" That was their most famous, so far. "And that guy that ran for that senate seat and lost? That lady from Channel 59 news ... who else? That fur from 'My Three Sons.' And, uh. Tomas Scheckter. Well, you know who's on there." Cori took a breath. Didn't want to pass out, now. "But the governor? That would be a coup. Think of the publicity: the governor shops here ... and, you know, Field. That rumor has it he might run for president in 2012. What if he becomes president? Of the United States?" A chitter. High-pitched. Blurting, "The president eats our apples!"
Field's whiskers twitched. A little overwhelmed.
Petra, meanwhile, brushed past him. And clocked out. "I," she mouthed, impatiently, quietly, "am outta here." Scurrying out the door, then.
Ezri stayed.
And Field shared another glance with her. Phone still to his ear. Left ear. He was right-pawed, but there were certain things he could only do with his left paw: use phones, brush his teeth ... and, uh, paw. (Not that he did much of that anymore. Being married.) He didn't know why that was.
"Field, if this happens, if this goes down ... red. Carpet. Treatment. Just wanted you to know. Couldn't drop a bomb like this on you first thing in the morning. You're creative. I need you to brainstorm on how we can greet him. What we can do to alert the public ... make this a big event. A big gathering. Great for business." A quick breath. "Tell the others, and be ready ... gotta go, squeak, bye!"
Ezri, as Field hung up the phone, said, "Did she just SAY squeak? Instead of actually squeaking?"
"She was excited," Field said, in her defense. Smiling briefly.
"H-heh. You think?"
The honey-tan mouse clocked out. And waited for Ezri to do the same before covering the computer with a trash bag (as if that would make it less visible from the windows when no one was here). A sigh, admitting, "If the governor does come, I'm gonna be nervous. What if he comes to my register?"
"Ring him up like a normal customer."
"Yeah, but ... I get anxious," he repeated. Twitches.
"You're a mouse. That's part of your reputation. Everyone understands that, so ... you know, no one should hold it against you." A soft smile. Ears standing up. "I get nervous, too. You're not alone, you know."
A nod, checking all the doors. Secured. Except the one. The last one. Which they opened, and Field locked it from the outside. "See you tomorrow, I guess," was his soft adieu.
"Adelaide gonna come in with you?" The bat had been. On Saturdays. As needed. Wasn't a busy day for the library (which was where she worked), and she and Field needed any extra money they could get. Working so hard as they did, saving as much as they could, and still not having much (or any) financial security. But they tried. And they were happy. There were more important things, right? It was all about perspective. "Field?"
" ... yeah."
A giggle. "You live so much inside your head. Your imagination is probably huge." In a private tone, she added, guessing what he might be thinking about, " ... last weekend, you two were the last ones here ... and you with a key?"
" ... what are you ... what's that mean?" Saying it slowly. Fleshy lobes turning sudden shades of rosy-pink.
"Your ears just answered." A wink. "Straw barn, maybe?"
Beet-red, now. Fidgeting. " ... um. Uh ... "
"You're a farm boy, Field. And, you know, barns ... besides, only so many times you can do it in the bottling room or attic or ... you know." From experience. She did. With Jinx. Hey, they were furs, okay? Sentient animals. With strong instincts. Couldn't be helped. Honest. " ... alright, gotta go. I'm drifting, now, too," the squirrel said, taking a deep breath. "And I'm hungry. I gotta eat supper. I don't wanna faint when the governor shows up," she joked, giggle-squeaking.
"H-heh. Yeah," Field said, quietly. Shyly. Swallowing. It had been a long day, right? He didn't have a vehicle to go home in. Adelaide was going to pick him up at quarter after six. They were trying to get by on just their pick-up truck. Which kinda worked. Most of the time. The orchard was close enough to their house (a mile) that he could just walk, really. And sometimes did. But she was going to pick him up today.
Ezri drove off.
And Field waited. Biting his lip, swaying. Holding his tail in his paws. Sensually. But he wasn't thinking entirely with his, uh ... mouse-hood. No. No, I'm thinking other things, too! Like, uh ... um. My stomach. Yeah ...
... I wonder what the governor's favorite apple is?
Hours later, between 11 and midnight. Their daughter in her own bed, in another room. Five year-old mouse-bat fast asleep (Adelaide had checked, twice). Just them, now, the adults (both age twenty-six) all alone, half-awake. Stirring, was the mouse. In the upstairs of their modest country house. The bat arching breathlessly, paw-pads sweaty.
Licking his own lips, slowly. Nose sniffing. Again, again. Eyes glazed, half-open, and blinking once, twice. Her thigh. Her hip. Closed, now ... they'd been open only a minute ago, and his muzzle had ... sigh. Feasted. On her. While, elsewhere, she ... her tongue ... and he felt so happy ...
" ... Field?"
"Mm?"
She shifted, nakedly, on the bed-sheets. Still on her side. Glancing at him from her reverse position. It wasn't that hard to guess what they'd been doing. "You alright?" Whispered. Knowing he was, of course. But asking. All the same.
"I'm f-fine. Just dazed ... "
" ... not surprised. You went off like a firework. Think I swallowed three times."
A blush. Shaking his head. "You didn't."
"Mm-hmm ... " Soft chitter.
" ... no."
"Well, when I bite you ... you'll know I'm telling the truth."
"You're gonna bite me, huh?" His heart hammering in his chest.
"I'd considered it." An audible breath. "Strongly."
All sorts of sweet, pin-wheeling thoughts, born of poetry and prose. Floating through his head. He wanted to say them to her. But all that came out was, "I love you."
A lazy smile. Unseen, in the dark. But he knew it was there. "Love you, too. And you're not a sap," she responded, lightly. "A romantic. That's far nobler."
I didn't say I was a sap, he thought. You're reading my mind, aren't you?
"I'm telepathic. It's my prerogative." She'd sensed it, though. He always worried about being too emotional. Too sensitive. "If I wanted a dominant, cocky macho-male, I would've sought one ... I like you the way you are." Always reassuring him. Always keeping his confidence up. She was, after all, a flighty, toothy, winged thing. Dominant, herself. Needed someone submissive to wrap up. And Field was willing. Always willing.
"I know." A wide, familiar smile, himself. Lips to her tufted groin-fur, her mons. Mouthing. Wetting it ... breathing through his nose for a moment. "I love doing that to you."
"Eating me out?"
A flush. "Giving you muzzle," he corrected, politely.
"Mm." A sigh. "And I appreciate that," she breathed. "Believe me." Field didn't have the world's longest, most-versatile tongue. By any means. But he was so careful and so delicate. His touch was so soft. And ... she shivered. Just thinking about it. It was still fresh in her mind. Just a few minutes ago, his maw ...
... mouthed her groin-fur some more. Slobbering, slightly. His breath washing over her clitoris. Slowly. And on purpose. He felt her shiver. And that made him happier. Pulling back, eventually. "Adelaide ... "
Her fingers tracing along his lower leg. To his ankle. "Yes?"
"I don't know." A slow breath. "Just wondering what kind of apple you would be ... "
" ... yeah?"
"I think a 'pink lady.' A pink ... " Her fur. Carnation, cotton candy, watermelon. Pinks. Hot in temperature. " ... blush. Er, uh, flush ... on the body. It's flavor is, uh ... tangy and sweet. At the same time. Crisp and refreshingly ... " A swallow. Licking his lips. He still tasted her. " ... effervescent." A breath. "And it originated in Australia. L-like you ... "
Stirring with passion, emotion. Touched. Heart skipping beats. She propped herself up. With an elbow. Then both. Winged arms, the membranes between her limbs and sides. Soft and velvety. As she stretched. Over him, tongue, that same tongue ... that still tasted of his seed. Slipping into his maw.
Lips, glistening, easily apart. Locking. Wetly. Nose flaring for sudden breath. Paws wrapping round her neck.
"Mm-h," was the little moan-sound from her throat. Twisting to the right.
He lifted his head. Lower lip between both of hers, sucked on. Foot-paws sliding, knees bending. A sensual, very feminine squeak. One of simple, simple pleasure.
She pressed ... b-back down. And smacked. Finally. Kiss broken. Nose to nose. Forehead to forehead, whispering, " ... you're delicious. You know that." Not a question. A statement.
A tiny nod, nibbling on her cheek. Their whiskers. Tangling. And he kissed at ... at. The corners. Of her whiskered maw.
Her head beginning to drift ...
... and, soon, he was nibbling at her neck. And she was grinning, mumbling, "I'm ... normally the one ... " P-pant. " ... that does this to you. Tables turned, huh?" The biting. The moment his 'pre' came in contact with her vaginal fluid, a chemical reaction, a spark ... an instinct. Flared. Full-force. Had to bite him, then. (Technically, she could ... decide not to. If she wanted to live with a massive hangover for a few hours. Which she didn't.) Locking them, connecting them in a circuit, an electrical, telepathic union. Thoughts, feelings, memories. Physical sensations? All shared. All as one. It was intense. And incredibly addicting. One of nature's tricks. (There was a reason bat's had the lowest divorce-rate amongst furry species.)
Forging a bond that, five years into their marriage ... to break that connection? Would be almost impossible. It wasn't uncommon for older bats, when their mates died ... even if they were healthy? They would die, too. Soon after. From the psychic/telepathic shock. The loss. The grief. But ...
... that was a ways off for them.
They were still young. Twenty-six was young, right? Still?
They had time.
And, oh, it was summer, and they were making the most of it. And she said, teasingly, " ... been studying my technique?"
"F-for biting?" The air of his giggling washed over her neck-fur. And he raised up, up, to her chin. Sucking on it. Managing to reply, somehow, "You do it b-better. You're a master." His tail trailed off the side of the bed.
"Mm-h ... " Her rump shifted. His paws. Were there, on it ... soft, supple cheeks. Rudder-y tail. Massaging, gripping. Up and down those ... yes, again, cheeks, soft-furred. Pink-furred. Cheeks. And the backs of her legs, too. Her tail-base. His fingers grazed it.
"You ... I just ... I don't know how to tell you ... " His voice breaking. Whispering against her cheek. " ... you make me feel ... "
A shush. "Hey," she mouthed, almost inaudible.
He nodded. Just nodded. Didn't know why, but ...
" ... I'm not goin' anywhere, okay?"
A sniffle.
Nuzzling her nose to his. " ... all the things you've ever said to me? All the things ... they go both ways. Now ... hush and enjoy your pink lady ... "
He couldn't believe that he was ready (or able) to go again. I should be tired. I should be ... just one of those days, though. Those nights. Those times. When nothing can satisfy me. When ... I am not done with her. And she is not done with me. Hunger and appetite. Two different things. But the line was blurred, now. Right now. He didn't know if his desire was psychological or physiological. (Probably both, admittedly. Absolutely both). Didn't matter. Just ...
... her hips. Fertile, feminine. Strong. Sliding over his. Raising. Just a bit, a few inches ...
... as his. Slimmer, trimmer hips. Rose.
She lifted. And sank back down, rubbing, bumping.
He, the opposite, grinding ...
... soon, finding ... between her legs, between it all. That treasure. Tunnel between the petals, nestling between and ...
... slipping ... in. Just like that. Already. And muzzle scrunching. Eyes watering. " ... o-oh ... " A hot squeak, paws all over her back. A squishy sound. As he found a quick rhythm. No waiting. Not now. N-no ... yes ... oh, my gosh ...
... her fangs dribbling from the tips. Sharply bared. Straddling him, hunching over, belly to belly. Their fur meshing. Zeroing in on his neck, tongue washing. The spot. Saliva numbing it for the ...
... it was all happening in a dreamy whirl.
" ... a-ah ... " A wriggle. Bucking. " ... ah!"
The bed beginning to creak. The mattress. Then the headboard (t-tap ... tap, against the wall). And he heard these sounds. Their own moans, too. Not just from his own point of view, but from hers ... her ears. Her hard nipples. Her breasts were jiggling against his toned chest. He l-liked that. Wanted to grope them, but couldn't ... w-would have to wait. Her contracting t-tunnel. He felt it. It was s-so difficult to fathom, but ... hers. And his. And they ...
... careened, quickly, toward a cacophonous finish. Only lasted about two, three minutes. Which was quite short for them. Well. They'd already gone once (with muzzles, granted, but ... that counted), and it was late, and ...
... neither cared.
Hitting that heart-swelling, string-sounding high, and ... a-and ...
... it was glorious, and more than sweet enough to warrant their subsequent rest.
"You've got to be kidding me. What's that say?" Adelaide asked, as they parked their truck in the grass. Off to the side of the farm market. Dew still present, clinging, the light bright and rising. It was going to be another hot one. Another lemon-sharp sun.
Field, whiskers twitching, read the banner strung from telephone poll to telephone poll (at the entrance to the gravel parking lot) as he opened his door and got out, "'Welcome Governor - Royal Gubernatorial Gala'."
"Gala?"
"The apple," Field said. "Royal Gala." One of my favorite apples, too. Royal gala. September wonder. Golden delicious. Pink lady.
"Well, I know that," Adelaide said, aloud, in response to his thoughts. Smoothing her t-shirt. A 'Will Power - #12' Indy Car shirt. It was actually Field's shirt, so it was a little loose on her. "Makes it sound like they're throwing a shindig for him, though."
"We don't even know he's going to come. This whole thing is a rumor. I hope this is just ... I hope they didn't go overboard with this," Field said, already beginning to fret. This had the recipes of a comic disaster. Like in a sitcom or something. Where was the laugh-track?
Adelaide, in a light, breezy mood, said, "If I knew this was going to be a day to remember, I would've brought Akira. Maybe I should call your parents. They can stop by?" They were watching her while the two of them worked.
"No. No one needs to know about this." A whisker-twitch. Squinting. Looking around, ears swiveling. "I hear a helicopter ... "
"Field, calm down. It's probably just ... a medical copter? You can't seriously think the news would cover this." Again, reading his thoughts. Effortlessly. Without permission. Something that Field was very used to. Now, she couldn't read the deeper thoughts unless her fangs were in his neck. Just the surface. Her swept-back, angular ears, just as keen as his (though tuned for slightly higher pitches), cocked a bit. "I do a hear a helicopter, though. Huh."
"Yeah." A sigh. Looking at that banner again. How did they get that done-up overnight? Was it homemade? More twitching. "And Coriander said I was creative."
"Well, you are."
"I know, but she wants me to come up with ideas on how to greet the governor. And I didn't spend time thinking of any." He was starting to stress out.
"Just tell her you were too busy having sex with me." A toothy, playful look.
"I am NOT saying that," he went, blushing modestly. Keeping his voice down. Blushing. "Adelaide ... stop it ... "
"It's the truth."
" ... w-well." A flustered sigh.
"H-heh. Field. Look, she'll probably forget she even asked you. She probably took matters into her own paws."
A nod. Probably.
"Let's get inside," the pink bat decided, keeping it light. "We gotta clock in ... "
"Now, when the governor gets here, we need a signal. Something obvious but tasteful," Coriander said, having assembled the staff. In the back room, where the apple-picking chart was. And the shopping carts and cider press, too. It was a few minutes before opening-time. "Which is why I've hired a jazz group!"
"Jazz group?" Ezri went, sounding tired.
"'Straight, No Chaser.' That's their name. Clever, isn't it?" Coriander, as usual, was rather, uh ... perky. It went beyond the usual 'rodent energy,' with her. She had a bubbly personality, to boot. The combination could be quite potent. Her whiskers were going almost as much as Field's.
"Only if they're playing drunk." Ezri, again.
"H-hah. Now, now," the chipmunk said, paws raised in a 'calm' gesture. "None of that."
A raised, scaly talon-hand. A female cardinal. Kessler. Who was, truth be told, a bit sassy. Not as 'potent' as Petra. More laidback. "I vote for drunk music. Let 'em live up to their name. Let the governor see that we may be commoners ... but we have a touch of character."
A few chitters and nods of agreement. " ... yes ... I second that."
Adelaide's fangs glinted as she giggled.
" ... I think I'll file that suggestion under ... how about 'inappropriate'?" Coriander said, with a slight chuff. "This is serious, furs. Central Indiana orchards have been trying to get the governor's patronage for decades. It's the first step ... "
" ... toward what?" asked Emerson, Field's cousin. He was going to be running the weigh station today. And ferrying customers through the orchard with the tractor and wagon, as necessary. He, like every other mouse in Field's extended family, had mated another mouse. Azalea. They were good together. Similar personalities.
It had actually taken a few years for Field's family to accept that he was with a bat. Him being the only one in ... what, two, three generations? To marry outside the species? His family was very conservative. Not until he'd gotten Adelaide pregnant with Akira ... the presence of a 'grandchild' somehow made everything alright to them. In the hospital, they saw the baby, and ... everything was forgotten. And she was still his parents' only grandchild to date, so they spent a lot of time watching her. Babysitting. Doting. Though Field knew they still had a silent unease around Adelaide, as if they really believed she was some seductress or vampire or something. Some creature of the night. Out to corrupt good mouses with her 'mind-control.'
"Toward what?" Coriander repeated, as if the question were unfathomable. "Emerson, dear ... Indiana has a state flower. A state song. A state tree. And so on. But do we have a state apple? No?" She paused, looking around. "Or better yet: do we have a state ... apple orchard?" she emphasized.
Uncertain, unconvinced looks.
"We get the governor as a customer. Win him over. Soon, other politicians are flocking for 'u-pick' this and 'u-pick' that. Only the freshest fruits and vegetables, healthy and affordable. It's good for Indiana! And maybe, just maybe ... well, I'll let your imaginations fill in the gaps. The sky's the limit."
"So, this about fame and money? For us ... or, rather, the orchard?" Kessler asked, tartly.
"H-hah ... this is about the spirit of family-owned agriculture! Whether we make a few tens of thousands of dollars and get in newspapers and ... or maybe win some civic awards." She looked away, modestly. " ... well, that's a necessary evil. I mean, it's not for us to want bigger salaries, public adoration ... but, you know, if one has to grudgingly accept those things in order to serve the public good, then, well ... "
Adelaide, thought-speaking directly into Field's head: Maybe she should run for governor. She has the energy ... and she's beginning to sound like a politician.
Field bit his lip, hiding a smile. Asking, aloud, to Coriander, "We know he's coming, for sure? Today?"
"That's what my source said. A very reliable," she added, nodding, "source."
"Husband's cousin's friend or something," Ezri whispered to Kessler.
"We need a signal, though. Kessler. You're a bird. You can warble. Give us a few notes, um ... in the tune of 'Back Home Again in Indiana.' The opening bars. That'll signal the ensemble to emerge from the bottling room and begin playing the song. We'll release some balloons, confetti. And then give the governor, on the house, whatever he wishes to buy."
"Wait, so we're not gonna charge him?" Ezri asked, blinking. "How is that fair?"
"When royals visit your place of business, dear, you give them what they want. It's protocol." Putting her brown-furred paws together.
"He's a governor. Not a duke."
Field scrunched his face at the word 'duke.'
Adelaide grabbed hold of his tail (with both paws) in a 'down, boy' gesture.
"True, true, but," the chipmunk insisted, "we do a little something for him ... he might do a little something for us." Sly, bucktoothed smile. Ears straightening. "That's how you get your foot-paw in the door. That's how you hobnob. How deals are brokered. This is a business. Not a fun-house."
A few sighs. That much was apparent.
And some knocking from the front doors.
"Oh, it's opening time! Places, stations ... everybody," Coriander chattered, scurrying this way. And then that. And back to the kitchen, out of sight.
Beep! Beep!
Field rang up the lady customer's items. With the paw-held scanner-gun. The red crisscrossing lines of light washing over the barcodes. Strawberry-rhubarb pie, frozen. 11.99. Black raspberry jelly, 8 oz., 2.95, ten pounds of u-pick apples ... half-gallon cider. Half-peck peaches ... some of these things had to be entered manually. Using the weigh machine. He glanced at the numbers, double-checking. This, this, that, that ... " ... that'll be 29.87," he said, with a neutral smile.
She handed him forty dollars. Two twenties. And he typed it in, the cash register sprung open, and ... " ... wait, wait," the lady went. An older feline. Her fur graying. "I can give even-numbered change."
"Well, uh, that's okay," Field insisted. Swallowing. "I already rung it up."
"No, no, I have it here. I have, uh ... nickels." Slapping the coin on the counter. Audibly. "Pennies ... "
Field discreetly scanned the pennies. None of them were 'wheats.' He collected wheat pennies he found in circulation. Had over one hundred fifty, now, including four from the Teens. But ... no, these weren't wheats, and ... besides, "I already entered the number into the computer," he said nicely. And shyly. "It'd be easier if ... "
" ... there we go," the feline said, ignoring him. Cats often did that. Ignored you. Especially if you were 'mere prey.'
He bit his lip. Tensing. He hated when customers changed the dollar amount they were paying with after ... after. I've put the old amount in the system! Why do they do that? I mean, sure, I can accommodate them ... I guess. But I failed algebra four times in high school. I passed it the fifth time with a D-minus. I can't work with numbers on the fly. I'm going to mess this up. The whole drawer's gonna be off, and then the owners are gonna think I'm stealing money cause they see me rummaging through the pennies and quarters (he collected Indiana quarters, too) all the time, and ...
... Adelaide stepped in. Coolly. Having sensed his flustered-ness from across the room. Smiled at the cat (with a challenging showing of her fangs ... the only way to get the respect of a predator was to show them you weren't scared; and, besides, she was very, very possessive of her mouse ... being the dominant partner in their mate-ship, she was constantly letting it be known, subconsciously, that he was her territory).
Field hid behind her, a bit.
Adelaide, adjusting the numbers in her head, took the exact change. Nodded, shut the door. Completed the transaction accurately. "Have a nice day."
The feline just glared. Impertinent bat, she thought! (Forgetting that bats were telepathic.)
Adelaide just smiled wider. Fangs jutting. "Thank you." And she turned, saying in Field's mind: you alright, now?
"Yes," he whispered, aloud, flushed. Blushing in the ears. "T-thanks." And taking control of the register again as Adelaide sauntered off to do odds and ends. It wasn't even busy yet. Not 'busy-busy.' This was tame compared to how it would eventually get (later in the day, and certainly later in the season). During those BUSY days, he often had chest pains. The panic got so severe. At least that wasn't happening today. Yet.
He stole another glance at Adelaide, though. As she went. Had to. Walking away, bare foot-paws. Exposed legs. Pink. Just the softest, sweetest ... truly-pink fur. So female. So ... hot. Wearing those jean shorts, and her brief, rudder-like tail, and ...
" ... hello?" the next customer went, impatiently.
Field cleared his throat. Immediately snapping back into 'work' mode. Ringing up: two large cider slushes, 16 oz. honey bottle, cobbler mix, onions ... and so on. And again. As the hours passed, each transaction beginning to blur. And soon it was just before noon. Almost time for his lunch break (which he normally took at 12:15). He'd almost forgotten about this whole 'governor' thing. Gladly, too. Was looking forward to his lunch. Tomato and lettuce on cheese bread. Granola bar. Vanilla yogurt. Um ... blueberries. A celery stick. And some whole-grain cheddar Sun Chips. He was a very healthy eater. (And he liked cheese.) And began to count down the minutes until ...
... until a large limo-like car snaked through the gravel parking lot. Looking very out of place next to beat-up pick-ups and such. Hot, rubber tires pop-popping on the bits of loose gravel. Pop-a. Pop. P-pop. Screech. It was hard to miss. Both the sight and the sound. He glanced over at Kessler, who was restocking the zucchini (green and yellow).
She sighed. Mouthing, with her orange beak, "I'm not warbling. Not in front of all these furs." Winged arms flashing a 'field goal - no good' signal. "No way."
"Then just go and get her," he mouthed back, hurriedly. Of Coriander.
The cardinal did so, lacking the mouse's urgency.
Field tensed. Is this really the governor? If it is, and I'm working the only open register today (in the fall, there would be three registers) ... then I'm gonna have to ring him up. Talk to him. Oh, my gosh. I'm gonna stutter. I'm ... there's ...
... he blinked. A bull? A Jersey bull? Was getting out of the limo. The governor was a horse, though. (The last few governors had been hoofed things. Deer. Horses. Bovines. They weren't really predators, but they weren't true prey, either ... maybe why they won the vote in such a conservative state. Didn't alienate either side. Never been a prey president, though. Yet. Just canines, wolves, felines, foxes, a few eagles. The populace wanted a 'strong' leader for a 'strong' nation. And mouses didn't make good leaders, supposedly. They were too honest and easy to read. You had to be a good liar to hold office.)
Before he could think anything further, Field's ears were assaulted by sudden, jazzy bursts. Brass instruments. One by one, flaring into toe-tapping, tail-wagging fury. Players emerging from nooks and crannies in the store. Customers scattering in surprise. (I hope no one has a heart attack, Field thought.) One old male fur dropped his bag of peaches. They went rolling. And a trumpet playing otter, really getting into the 'groove,' eyes closed as he sauntered about, slapped someone's cart with his rudder-tail. Sending it into the wall. Stepped on a peach, himself ... slipped ...
... trumpet flew.
Adelaide caught it. Barely.
The otter on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Confetti on his face. Being tossed about gallantly.
Balloons (without helium, and therefore not floating) tossed about, batted by cubs and kits alike.
And the otter got up, adjusted his 1920's hat, grabbed his trumpet back from Adelaide and rejoined his compatriots in a swing-time version of ...
' ... back home again, in Indiana, and it seems that I can see ... '
Chaos, in other words.
The bull peered into the store. Broad-shouldered. With horns. Big nose. Flanked by two, uh ... cows. (Also Jerseys.) Big breasts. Naturally. "What in the ... "
' ... and it seems that I can see! The gleaming candlelight, still burning bright ... '
" ... you got a party goin' on here, mouse?" the bull asked. Ropy, brush-tipped tail swatting at his own rump and backside. Shooing any flies.
Speaking above the chaos, Field squeaked, "No, sir. Uh ... just ... well, never mind. Can I help you?" Quickly trying to change the topic. He didn't want to have to explain this. Don't make me explain this.
"Yes, as a matter of fact." The bull straightened. "I'm the governor of ... "
" ... welcome! Sir!" Coriander squeaked, waving her paws. Tail flagging. To silence the players. "A pleasure to meet you. Now, here at Hoosier Orchard, we take utmost pride in being ... " A blink. Slowly trailing. Oh. " ... wait ... you're not the governor."
"Am, too."
A squint.
"Of the Indiana Dairy Association!"
(That explains the cows, Field thought.)
A wide grin, opening his hoofed hands. Gazing about the store. "I hear you're thinking about opening a creamery here. On property?"
" ... um. Yes?" the chipmunk went. Well, that was, like, four years in the making. And still hadn't happened. One of those things you told customers ... oh, yeah, we're gonna have ice cream next year. Yeah. Cheese. Keep them wanting more. It was kinda like jerking their chain, though. They were probably gonna revolt, eventually. Field was just waiting for the day when a customer snapped.
The two 'bovine beauties' shifted on their hooves behind him. Each time they did, their 'assets' jiggled. Those were huge breasts. Field tried not to look. But it was slightly unavoidable. Cows. He'd grown up in the country. He'd seen plenty, but ...
"Well, perhaps we can talk. Are you the owner?"
"No ... but I can speak for him," the chipmunk said, impulsively.
"Let me paint a picture for you. In three simple words: Winners. Drink. Milk."
A squeaky consideration. "Hmm ... yes. Go on ... " Rubbing her chin. "I like it ... "
" ... so, this bull ... Indiana Dairy Association? Wants to be the real governor. Of the entire state," Field was explaining, a few hours later. Before closing time, when everyone was waiting around the main register. For the clock to reach six. "But needs some public victory ... like, a foundation of his platform. To get publicity and attention. Before the primary ... "
"Milk?" Ezri went, confused.
"He's from the city. Has connections there. But country furs say he's not one of them ... and he needs the rural vote. He thinks, uh ... opening creameries in every county. Local jobs. Local, uh ... produce. Furs like milk." A swallow. "Cheese. Cream."
"Big breasts," Adelaide said, slyly.
" ... yeah. It'll, uh ... well, whatever," Field finished, flustered. "Thinks it'll get him elected. And, so, he's making deals. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours ... "
" ... if he wins," Kessler said. "Which he probably won't. And since when do politicians keep their promises?"
"I don't know. I've never voted," Field admitted, whiskers twitching.
"So, the rumor was half-right? It was a governor. Or a someday governor. Kind of," Ezri said, shaking her head. "Coriander already leave?"
"Yeah."
Kessler, clacking her beak, insisted, "She and that bull were in the boss's office for a long time." A pause. "Anyone notice that?"
"Don't think I would've wanted to," Ezri replied.
"Emerson left, too. It wasn't as busy as I thought it was going to be," Field admitted. Trying not to feed into anymore rumors about anyone or anything. "Guess having no customers ... that's bad for business but good for sanity." That should be on a permanent plaque on the wall. Where all the customers can see it.
"Well, we'll all go insane eventually. Every day's an adventure here," Ezri insisted. Glancing at the clock. Yes. Time to leave. "See ya!" And, with a scamper (squirrels scampered; mouses scurried), she was out the door. Kessler, too. Leaving just Field and Adelaide.
Alone, again.
Him with the key.
And he said, without making eye contact, after a minute, when he was sure the others had pulled out of the parking lot, "You think if we ... stay and, uh ... " Shuffling his foot-paws. Tilting his head. Ears blushing. " ... you know." A breath. "We should clock out?"
"Well," Adelaide murred, sidling up to him. Paws on his exposed forearms. The fur there. Honey-tan, golden-wheat. Soft. Short. Earthy-scented. Running her pink-furred fingers, with the blunted claws ... up, up, under his shirt-sleeves. To his shoulders. "It can be very hard work." Seductive. Whispering. "So, if it's 'work,' then ... might as well get paid for it. Only fair."
The mouse nodded. Almost melting right there and then. "Yes. Yes, that's ... t-that's true ... "
" ... the most productive kind of work, of course," she added. As way of justification.
"Of course."
She tugged at him. They needed to get away from these windowed doors (which, one by one, she locked; clack ... clack. Clack.) Go in the back somewhere. And as they did so, she read Field's thoughts. "Breasts, huh?"
A n-nod, panting. "As an ... well, the appetizer. I mean, there'll be, uh, a main course." Swallow. "Dessert."
"Understandably. There has to be. Worked all day ... still working," she corrected. "Still. You give yourself an appetite." Hot, already feeling wet. Stretching her winged arms. The velvety membranes reaching their limit. Taut. And she relaxed her 'span,' the membranes folding. "Are your ears part of that platter?" she asked, nonchalantly.
He nodded, dumbly.
"Mm. Good." Licking her fangs, she turned the corner. Heading for the store's kitchen area.
And Field, after a comically cute, almost cartoon-like delay, turned off the lights ...
... scurried heatedly after her.