The Good Diplomat
It was just after ten, now, in the valley. A hot summer night. Starry, and flooded with pale moonlight, the stagnant air shrouding pungent scents that stirred poignant memories. The kind of atmosphere that clung to you. Made you feel damp all over. You didn't need to wear a shirt, or hardly anything else. You had your pelt. In this heat, that was enough. Rye, therefore, was dressed only in tattered shorts. Walking in self-isolation, lost in his head, the Northern Lights above him.
Rhythmic ribbons of color, they were (lime and lavender), heaven-sent, soul-bent, casting a faint enough glow to see by. Barely. (For it was competing with the aforementioned moon.) And, Lord, he swore those shimmering bands made a sound. Something constant. Maybe it was just the echo of blood, the beating of his anxious heart in his sensitive, dishy ears. Maybe it was white noise.
Thump. A-thump. It resonated, steadily, hazily.
Most would look up and see beauty. And nothing more.
But he saw the dissolution of all that was linear. The absence of time.
Maybe you're losing your mind, Rye.
A rustle of tree-limbs, and he stopped. Spun. Sniffed the air, ears swiveling.
He swallowed. Calm down. Just some bird or something, probably. A mockingbird, making fun of you. With his right paw, he gripped his spear tighter (with its gnaw-marks on the wood, with its blunted arrow-head of stone). I feel ridiculous, carrying this. Shouldn't be traveling at night. I'm prey.
But it was what she wanted. What 'they' wanted.
You came after sunset. Never during the day. Maybe that's when they flew around, hunted for food. Fought battles. Or turned back into pumpkins. Whatever it was, they only accepted visitors from dusk 'til dawn.
For most of the 'reproductive' portion of his twenty-six years, he'd been a nightly 'diplomat' for his species. Assigned to Lyler. She'd hand-chosen him from a lineup.
He'd been the only piebald mouse there, at the time ... though he preferred the term 'patchwork.' A white base of fur, with large, irregular brown patches covering half his pelt. One of them went from his cheek, down one side of his neck, to the shoulder. Another covered one side of his chest. One on his hip. Another on his lower thigh.
They caught her eye.
She asked he be assigned to her. It wasn't a choice. She wanted it, and she got it. They all did. They weren't in charge of the government, but were like royalty. You didn't question them. But they were compassionate. Lenient. If you fell in love with another mouse, took a mate, or got someone pregnant ... you were discharged. And they would always know if those things happened. Secrets were hard to keep.
He was her oldest mouse. Had been with her the longest. At least ... of this current generation, that he knew of. He wondered if that was sad or comforting. (Oh, how lonely I am.) It was hard to tell. His mind sorting through all these polite euphemisms to describe ... well, to describe what happened out here, at woods' edge. In her thatched hut. To describe his situation.
What am I, exactly? A pet? Companion?
Lyler wasn't the only one of her kind. There were others. He'd not met them, personally. But knew they existed. At least one of them oversaw each village. The mouse lived outside a small one. Rather, way out in the wheat fields, in shy seclusion, as a farmer and a poet.
He'd gotten her letter two days ago.
'Your services are requested the night(s) of ... ' The word 'requested' in extra-bold ink. It wasn't a request. Even if it had been, he would've gone. He was too addicted to it. Besides, her services kept mouse society alive. And his services would keep her alive. It was a mutually-beneficial arrangement. A political symbiosis. A long-held treaty. He certainly wasn't going to be the one to break it.
And, again, the beat.
Thump-thump.
Thump-a ... thump.
The echoes in his ears. His pulse, or the aurora? Or his endless, scurrying mind? Just be sure you don't lose your breath. You're going to need it. You'll walk away dizzy. After this. Technically, you won't walk away at all, because you'll sleep there. Leave after breakfast, feeling as though you had just ...
... arrived.
I'm here. Did I walk the two miles already? That's not possible ...
... and he didn't have to knock, cause she'd had his scent for the past quarter-mile. (That was scary, right?) Or maybe she'd been reading his mind? Can she do that? They have supernatural powers, surely. They must. Whatever the case, the dragoness was there, waiting. In the doorframe, lithe and slinky ... as reptiles were prone to be. Dressed in what could only be described as translucent 'night attire.' Scales smooth and glistening from all available light (moon, stars, aurora). Her shoulders were bare, and her breasts (why do reptiles have breasts, the mouse wondered, as he helplessly stared at them).
"I'm up here, darling." A warm click of her discerning tongue. Lifting his chin with clawed fingers.
"I know." An apologetic nod, whiskers twitching. He'd missed her. And he ached, now, at that simple touch to his chin. It had been, what ... ten, eleven days? Too long a time for a male in his prime.
"Rye," she whispered.
"Yes?" He responded, wide-eyed.
A chuckle. "One of my favorites. You're so sweet." A pause. "They all are, I guess. Your species has this ... innocence. This cuteness. Don't they? But you, especially." Sniffing at him. Eyes drinking in his body. " ... those muddy patches. Like you're always half-dressed." A purr, of sorts. Yes, dragons could purr. "Lost your shirt?"
"It is hot," he said.
"Mm." A breath. "Who else knows," she whispered, "how many patches you have." She had counted them. So many times. With her tongue.
" ... only you," he breathed back.
A slow, approving nod. "Good." She never worried about losing her mouses to competition. She had her pick of more. But she didn't want to lose this one. This one was special. "I believe I have missed you," she said, aloud. With a hint of vulnerability. She smelled vaguely of perfume. Figs and melon.
"Thank you, Lady." A soft squeak. "I have missed you, too." A blush, bowing his head. Pleased by the compliment. Truth be told, mouses (as they preferred to be called) looked up to the dragons. There was a sense of awe when in their presence. Maybe because they were so powerful. And we, Rye reasoned, are, uh ... well. Not.
A curious head-tilt. That sleek neck. Her skin. It was a sea-green. Her nostrils began to flare, as if ready for fire.
The mouse fidgeted before looking into her eyes. That's what she wanted. What she was waiting for.
" ... you going to stand in the doorway forever?" she cooed, irises glowing. An electric-green radiance. "And let the lightning bugs in?"
He felt that maybe he was being hypnotized. Or something. His anxiety began to slip away, discreetly. And he answered her question with a soft, " ... I do not intend to."
"Good," she went, again, in that hushed, special tone, stepping aside. Gesturing with an arm. "Then, by all means ... you know the way." She was a foot taller than him. And he was tall for a mouse (six feet). Trim, too. She weighed more, herself. Had more muscle. And with those big, folded wings on her back, and that long, rudder-like tail ...
" ... sorry about the, uh ... weapon." His spear. He'd almost forgot about it, clumsily setting it down, his shadow moving in the candlelight. Five to seven candles, maybe more. Orange flames danced upon their wicks, as if performing some kind of ritual. Singing some kind of silent chant.
"You needn't carry it. No predator has encroached on mouse territory in the entire time my species has been protecting you." She took extreme pride in that.
"I know, but ... my anxiety is inherited, Lady. In my blood. I cannot help but worry."
She nodded, allowing for his weakness. She understood. "You are prey."
A shy, downward nod. Whiskers twitching.
"Which is why you need us. The felines, the wolves, the foxes ... they would overrun you without our guard."
"Likely so, Lady," he admitted. Never calling her by her actual name. Not unless it was ... well. In bed.
"And we need you ... " She trailed, not elaborating at first. They both knew why. Whatever power dragons possessed, part of it included near-immortality. She was hundreds of years old, already. Didn't look it. But she was. Add that to whatever mental abilities, that thing she'd just done to him (with her eyes). Her ability to fly. She required a great deal of energy to sustain herself. Not just food. (Though she did eat a lot.) But spiritual energy. Sensual energy, too.
There was only one problem: there were no male dragons.
Maybe in another part of the world, far away, but not here, not in this land. Maybe a disease, maybe an accident. Some spell gone wrong. No one knew (or, if they did, they weren't telling). And the female dragons in this region (and there were several) needed 'seed.' Daily. The easiest and most enjoyable way of acquiring it, and the most efficient ... was through sex. Which was where the 'mouses' came in. A shy, submissive race, eager to please. Gentle. Trustworthy.
Dragons had enemies, themselves. The same predators that would enslave the mouses would, in turn, capture them. For their powers. Their scales. For whatever else. If, indeed, they could. But even given the opportunity, the mouses weren't going to do that. They were the perfect ally. They provided whatever you asked for. They did what they were told. They gave the dragons the power and energy (through the breeding, and through the sharing of their natural resources) to maintain their edge. And they were bloody cute.
" ... Lady, if I may ask," Rye postured, shyly. Because he couldn't hold it back. Being here, again, as he'd been so many times before. It was flooding him with emotion.
"You may." Sauntering, slowly, toward the back room. Her bedroom. There was no door. Just a curtain. Which she parted, turning her head, deftly. Waiting for him to follow. There were no candles in there. What they did, what she and he would do? The universe was not privy to.
" ... I, uh ... " Following her, obediently, losing his train of thought. What was I going to say? Whiskers twitching and ropy tail in his own paws in a cute gestures of shyness. " ... I was wondering why you've never taken a mouse as a mate." Like me, he thought. "Why you ... "
" ... take partners, instead?"
A nod, his bare shoulders brushing the soft curtain. He knew his way around. A wooden table in the corner. A place for clothes. And a big, feathery mattress on the dirt floor. Filled with the softest feathers he'd ever felt. He'd asked her, once, where they'd come from? Geese? Ducks? She'd been coy, as she sometimes was. Only saying, 'Something a little more prized.' Rye suspected they were gryphon feathers. Some things were better left unknown. He knew Lyler was a predator, but ...
" ... we prefer partners because we would outlive any mouse we mated. By centuries." It was an honest admission. Her clawed hand coming to her shoulder. Removing one of the straps of her nightgown. "That is a very painful prospect for us." The mouse was so innocent, the poor dear. He just didn't know. What it was like ... to be so strong, so capable, to have such control over life and its elements. To occupy this world for eons. She'd made the mistake, once, of taking a non-dragon mate. And he'd died old. In her arms. And, she, still as young as the day they'd met. It had been wrenching.
She pushed the pain away. Enjoying, now, the simple pleasure of undressing. And doing it in front of someone who craved her so. It was an invigorating feeling. The other gown-strap, gone, off, arching her back. Sighing. The dress toppled down, slowly. She stepped out of it like a dancer. She may have been a big dragon. But she had a grace about her. No bra. None at all. Her breasts hanging, in the dark, like barely-lit moons. Like dark surfaces awaiting exploration.
The mouse let out a spellbound squeak. Hanging on her every breath, her every gesture (which, in the dark, he intuited ... he'd been with her so many times).
"And, besides, each male has a distinct sexual resonance ... a unique energy. A soul," she reasoned, continuing. Educating him. "By taking seed from a group rather than a single individual? We diversify our own power. Which is good for us," she said, slanting her supple hips. That thick tail. Claws beneath her panty-bands. Easing them off ... " ... and good for you." Each dragoness had about ten/fifteen mouses in her 'harem,' as it were. But none pleasured her like Rye. And the mouse knew it, cause ...
... she was wet.
Glistening wet, from her petal-lips. He could smell it already. His sensitive, sniffy-pink nose going, going. Audibly. Whiskers wild. She couldn't hide that. Nor could he hide the bulge in his pants. The blood, the heat, the erection. They could fashion a game of words. They could play their roles. She was a queen, basically, in this land. He was a mere peasant. But, here, in the bedroom, they were on equal footing. Neither able to deny their deep desire for the other. All pretenses were dropped.
The piebald mouse was panting softly. Just standing there. His eyes had adjusted, and he could make out ... just enough. Again, memory, experience, it was all there to fall back on. That's what paws were for. That's why he had a sense of touch. That's why he was ... his paws, rather, were fumbling with his rope-belt. Untying it. Trim hips giving one of those patented mousey wriggles. Getting those shorts off, the underwear, too, and ... everything. Exposed. Bare. Before her. All five inches of him.
He was no dragon in the penis department (though it had been over ninety years since she'd coupled with a male dragon, back before 'the incident'). Modest length. Surprising thickness. A few of the other mouses in her group were a bit longer, but ... he used his with finesse, with purpose, with passion. Just the thought of it dangling there, between his legs, and knowing that it carried such a potent gift, one that nature had conspired to make him give/make her take ...
" ... I suspect you love me?" she whispered. Both amused and touched. But needy. She could hold about three different moods at once. Dragons were masters of enigma.
"A little."
" ... be honest," she pressed. Barely audible. Mouthing the words against his cheek, his big lobes, pressing her front, her breasts, squishing them to his chest. His beating heart. She didn't want to have to beg him, to say 'please' ... but she desperately wanted to hear it. Those words. That special phrase.
" ... I do, my ... my Lady. I do love you." He confessed this with such distinction, such proper, poetic tone. As if he were reading from an ancient romantic tome. Her distinct, reptilian presence beguiling him. They swayed together on bare, dusty foot-paws. In a gentle circle.
His words made her spine shiver, her scales to flush with delight. "Does this embarrass you?" Claws down his sides. Dragons didn't file or blunt their claws, as mouses did. They kept them sharp. And it made Rye wriggle.
"No. Never. I just ... I'm ... "
" ... yes?" Flattening her hand, rubbing it up and down his back. The other on his hip, inching toward that ropy tail. Aiming to reel it in. Trying to catch it. But it swerved at the last second, and she missed. Damn. Not to worry, though. Patience. She tried again. Got it!
A squeak. His tail grabbed, reeled ... reeled in, like a fishing line. And he gaped like a fish. P-panting. " ... I'm a bit below your station. You deserve much more."
She didn't deny that. It wasn't ego, simply the truth. Dragons were more powerful in every way. Close to eternal. Why didn't they deserve more? But ... " ... I do not care. Tonight, you will be one with me. There will be no difference between us." Her turn for poetry. "We will be as one."
A heavy sigh, at hearing this, at feeling w-whatever ... she was doing. To him. More than just metaphor. Making him short of breath. Making his thoughts to fragment. Making his heart to beat, again, as before, in that rhythmic, pulsing way. The echoes in his ears returning. As if the Northern Lights had come indoors. Such was the sudden infusion of romance into the room, and though there was little to no light in here ...
... he swore she was glowing.
He swore it.
A dim, phosphorescent green.
Pulling him into a strong hug. Back, back, bending her knees. Long, heavy tail swinging with a thump. Dropping to her rump, the feathery mattress ... the furred blankets, pulling her with him. (He couldn't be sure, but Rye wouldn't be surprised if they were pelts of her blood-enemies, that all this time they'd been having sex on the luxurious fur of Arctic foxes and polar bears she'd defeated ... that was both horribly creepy and bizarrely erotic at the same time.)
He went, eagerly, his trim hips slotting perfectly between her bent-kneed legs, her smooth, parting thighs. Perhaps it was a lack of self-control that made them jump straight to intercourse. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the dragon's mysterious powers would cause the mouse's seed production to unnaturally intensify, ensuring this would only be one act of a nightlong, joyously exhaustive show.
His rigid, raging mouse-hood, a vein popping on the side, the head plum-pink and rounded, leaking strings of sweet, sticky pre. It knew where to go. Pushing past her petal-lips, into ... though her femininity, like a knife through butter. So easy, the motion, his member already marinating in her nectar. Already tingling in whimper-worthy pleasure, and he hadn't even ... started ... t-thrusting yet ...
... but he was bid to, by her, claws digging into his cute, furry rump. His long, ropy tail wrapped round a wrist. Giving it encouraging tugs, gentle ... insistent tugs, making him raise, his hips to pull back. And then using her scaly palms to pull him in. To keep him ... t-there, there, letting him grind, clockwise. Against her gorged clitoris. " ... o-oh." Sharp breath. Crying in vulnerable notes. Her long neck lolling, forked tongue darting out of her mouth. Releasing her grip on her lover. L-letting him ...
... letting him be male, do that male thing. Follow his instinct. Hips motoring with a mousey energy and allure, until her tunnel was besieged by tremors, little earthquakes, spasms, shakes. A slurping squirt of hot juice gushing onto his nestled, swollen sac, milking him, making ...
... making the mouse to moan, to hilt, to twitch, spurting streams of rodent semen filling her womb, making her body to glow (he was sure, now ... she was glowing), and a visible spark which he did not see jumped from her fingers to his tail-base, making him do a full-body arch ... " ... u ... uh. U-Hn-n ... " Delirious panting, squeaking like an animal. " ... h-huh. Oh-h." Huff, licking his lips, dazed. Bound to, after ejaculating for well over a minute ... the seed. She absorbed it, all of it, writhing beneath him with renewed, purified power ... y-yes ...
... both of them panting, and the mouse feeling drugged.
Short but sweet.
The next go-round would be more ... diverse.
"My love," she breathed, scales beading with sweat, horns making her look crazily exotic. "Y-you have no idea ... what this does for me ... " Hand on the back of his neck, caressing possessively.
Sweat on his own body, as well, though soaked in matted stretches of fur on his forehead and down the middle of his back, he was hardly able to form words. Even his tongue was swooning. He tried. To speak. And ... finally managed, at a whisper, whiskers twitching against her cheeks, " ... d-do I ... m-make you feel? G-good? Lyler?"
"Very, Rye," she promised, passionately. Simply.
A happy sigh. Oh, that meant so much to him. To ensure the mouse-dragon treaty endured. To be a good 'diplomat.' But, much more importantly, to know that he was loved.
He was a muse for her powers.
She was the muse for his poetry.
Like their species, they, individually, needed each other.
It was symbiosis.