Light Drizzle
It was dark, the middle of the night. Overcast, and no moon in sight. Though there was a moon up there, behind the low-lying cloud-cover. Stratus clouds, rolling in.
A pained, piercing mew. Carried by the breeze.
A shrill howl. Piercing the same air.
In the glow of the crackling, wood-burning firelight, Kempton spun on a grounded foot-paw, using the other to deliver a square-on rabbit-kick with a strong, built-for-loping leg. The force of the kick making his cinnamon bobtail to flicker-flicker-flick!
The coyote whined and fell back, hitting the ground, rolling. His claws pounding at the dirt, and his eyes a deadly gold. Growls escaping his throat, he picked himself up, focused, panting heavily. And he shook his head, fur bristling. "That was a mistake," he assured, simply. Coldly. As he stood his ground, undeterred.
The cinnamon-furred rabbit was shaking, but he didn't bolt or hop away. He just swallowed, squinting. "I'm not letting you do it."
"Do not be a fool. Back down." The coyote began to rush forward.
Another rabbit-kick. Kick! Trying to keep him back.
Konka dodged, lashing out with a clawed paw, gashing the rabbit's forearm. Slice!
Kempton yelped, folding a bit. Instinctively cradling the wound.
Which allowed the coyote to shove him. Hard. Getting him to his back, knocking the breath out of him. Kneeling down, placing a paw on the rabbit's already heaving chest. Pressing. Pressing. And then putting both paws on his chest. Kempton squirmed and mewed, whiskers twitching heavily, eyes wide open. Which only fueled the coyote's fire. Only fed his aggression. Oh, to have prey helpless. It was like a drug, the rabbit's fear. It gave the coyote an undeniable, limb-tingling pleasure. He began to wag his tail. "Do NOT," he growled, confident and in control, "think you can ... "
But his words got no further. For they were swarmed by the other furs. Wasilla and Antioch grabbed an arm apiece, pulling the coyote back. Konka thrashed, snapping his jaw. "What ... let go!"
"What happened?" Cordova asked, kneeling over her husband. "Are you okay? Uh ... Aspera? Where's ... "
" ... here. I got a med-kit," the black-and-white warbler stated, fluttering to the scene. Her beak clacked.
"I want answers," Talkeetna said, standing in the middle of it all. Suddenly there. Suddenly furious. Looking tired. Raising her voice. Which was unusual for her. But, then, she wasn't usually woken up from a deep sleep by two of her crew-furs going at each other's throats. "Answers," she repeated. "NOW. Lieutenant," she said, to Kempton.
"Why him first?" Konka demanded. "That's bias toward ... "
The red squirrel's head turned, eyes narrowed. "Quiet," she whispered dangerously. And she huffed, closing her eyes, and then she turned her head back to Kempton, who was still on the ground. The rabbit was whimpering. Talkeetna, opening her eyes, whispered, "Well?"
"He ... he was going after the butterflies. He t-told me," the rabbit stammered, wincing as the warbler attended to his wounds. But also wincing from the residual fear and adrenaline that was pooled in his blood.
"He attacked me first!"
"Konka!" Wasilla squeaked, squeezing his arm. Imploring him to be quiet. Speaking for the first time. She was such a silent individual. Odd, being that her species was famous for its loud squeaking. There was no denying her aloofness.
"He was going after the butterflies," Kempton repeated. "He was ... "
"How do you know that?" Wasilla demanded, speaking for her husband. The tail-less pika's roundish ears swivelled.
"Cause he TOLD me," the cinnamon-furred rabbit spat. "I asked him, and he told me, and said not to get in his way. And ... "
" ... he got in my way," Konka finished for him. Furious. The prey should not have interfered. They had no right!
The captain nodded, turning her attention to the coyote. And saying, "You know the butterflies are in control of those magnetic fields. You know they outnumber us ... there are hundreds of them. They're observing us. They would SEE you coming. First off, to think you could accomplish anything by attacking them ... "
" ... I will not be a specimen! I am a ... "
" ... predator, yes. You don't like being taken advantage of. Well, guess what? Neither do I. Neither do the rest of us. But we're not scheming to tear their wings apart, are we? We're not going on suicide missions. So, why are you?" was the angry demand.
"I will not be spoken to," the coyote huffed, his tawny fur matted. His muscles evident, flexing. "I will not be spoken to ... like this."
"Nor will I," the red squirrel whispered. And she swallowed, pressing her paws together in a prayer-like formation. She let out a deep breath, bowing her head for a second, and then raising it. Her paws fell apart. Her luxurious, arched tail gave a single flicker. "I can't lock you in the brig, because we have no brig." She swallowed. "We're operating here," she said, gesturing with a paw, "on trust. I have to be able to trust you, Konka. If you attack the butterflies ... we lose our ONLY way off this planet. We need their cooperation to leave. And, again, they outnumber us, so ... where's the logic in waging a fight you can't win?"
Kempton mumbled, "Since when do predators need a REASON to start fights ... "
A growl, and Konka was twisting toward the rabbit. But was still held back by Antioch and Wasilla.
Talkeetna cast a glare at Kempton. "Lieutenant," she snapped, indicating that he wasn't helping. And, looking back to the coyote, she said, with a sigh, "You have to promise me that you won't take matters into your own paws. I've worked out an agreement," she said, "with Mariposa. The butterflies will deactivate their devices, lowering the magnetic field ... allowing us to leave when help arrives."
"If," Konka said, showing his teeth. "We may never be rescued. We may be forced to live here, on our own. Perhaps for months! We cannot rely on the outside. We need to ... "
" ... what, lieutenant-commander?"
A moment of silence. "Take initiative. Take control. We cannot let INSECTS tell us what to do."
"Your kind of initiative ... is not the kind I'm willing to entertain," she whispered, whiskers twitching. "Do you understand the situation? I explained it earlier. I explained it now. I do not want to have to explain it," she said, raising her voice, "again." A breath. "Understood?"
A head-tilt.
"Understood?"
"Yes ... ma'am," he whispered, enunciating each word with chest-rising force.
"Good," the red squirrel whispered, letting out a breath. She licked her dry lips, and then looked skyward. Through the canopy. "It's going to rain by morning. I suggest we get as much sleep as we can, and ... we'll have to spend the day staying dry. If you wanna go off, as pairs ... you can do that in the morning. But we're all spending the night together. By the fire. And NO one is to approach the butterflies without my permission."
"You would trust the butterflies, Captain," Konka whispered, "but not me?"
She looked to her chief engineer. And didn't respond to the question. Only said, "Let's all get back to sleep ... " And she moved away, back to where the fire was.
"Is Kempton okay?" Anitoch asked, still holding to one of Konka's arms.
"Wound's all healed. You'd never know he had one. Well, except for the blood on his fur. He'll have to wash that out." Aspera took a breath. "It's just a good thing there was a dermal regenerator in this med-kit ... " The black-and-white warbler moved off, flickering her tail-feathers.
"Apologize," Anitoch ordered Konka.
"No," he breathed back, dangerously.
The marmot tightened his grip. He was the only fur among the crew that could match the coyote in strength. Though the coyote, being a predator, had the obvious edge. "Apologize," Antioch repeated, "to the rabbit. He saved your tail. Had you gone off and mauled yourself a few butterflies ... you would've regretted it. And you woke up Talkeetna," he said, of his captain and his wife. "I don't appreciate that. And I'm sure your wife didn't appreciate being woken up, either ... you're embarrassing her, Konka."
The coyote flushed hot, taking a deep breath. Perhaps that was true. But the prey didn't understand. They didn't understand the nature of blood-lust. They had no idea. So, not making eye contact, Konka mumbled to Kempton, "Sorry."
Kempton, rising to his foot-paws, just nodded back. Also not making eye contact. "Yeah," he went, sounding more emotionally hurt than physically hurt.
Konka smelled the rabbit's fear.
Antioch let go of the coyote's arm, drifting away. As did the others.
Leaving only Wasilla and Konka in the darkness, the firelight only barely reaching them. They were both cast in heavy shadow.
"You left me," the pika whispered. "In the dark, in an alien forest, you left me ... "
"I could not tolerate the thought of being at the mercy of bugs. It is demeaning," he said, "to me. It is ... it is ONE thing to have to treat prey as equals," he said, ignoring the fact that his own wife was prey. Ignoring the hurt expressed in her posture. "But bugs? To be at their ... " He trailed, growling, shaking his head.
"Don't leave me like that," was all Wasilla said, again. Her eyes were watering up. And yet her voice was stoic. Solid. "So help me ... I need you to be there," she said, "when I wake up. You scared me," she said, her voice shaking. She tried to steady her breathing. A few tears slipped from her eyes, and she sniffed, shaking her head. "I know I'm prey, but ... maybe you can try not to hold that against me. I DO love you," she insisted, her lip quivering. She blinked, shaking her head.
The coyote swallowed, feeling slightly awkward.
"Let's, uh ... get back to bed."
"Alright," was his whisper. He put his paws in her fur.
She closed her eyes.
And they both went back to the firelight.
The morning was grey and dim. And drizzly. All the forest-sounds muted down, replaced with the light rustle-rustle of the breeze, and the tiny dip-dip-drip of water droplets. The land was under a misty veil.
"Are you sure you should be doing that? In the rain?" the marmot called up, craning his neck. He let out a worried sigh. "Darling," he pleaded, his muzzle scrunching up. "Come down ... you're gonna slip and ... "
" ... I'm a squirrel," was Talkeetna's response, as she hitched up a sizable deciduous tree, already twenty feet up. Her blunted claws, both on her paws and foot-paws, dug into the bark, her arms and legs securing her hold on the trunk. She was making quick and easy progress. Pretty good, she thought, for not having climbed in a while. But, then, it was instinctual. It wasn't a skill she could possibly lose.
Antioch sighed again. There was no stopping her. Not when she had her mind set on something. "I know you're a squirrel," was his response. "But there's something called gravity, and things fall, and ... "
"I've been aching to do this since we got here. I can't put it off any longer." A huff. "This feels wonderful," she breathed, and she giggle-squeaked. Actually kissing the tree-trunk. A smooching sound. "Mm," she went, climbing another foot. Another.
"Well, just ... just don't go up too high," was the marmot's plea. He couldn't climb a tree, even if he wanted to. Not to save his life. He didn't have the form for it. Or the head for heights. "Maybe you should stop at that, uh, next limb ... right there." Pointing his paw. "Yeah, sit on that limb ... "
Talkeetna turned her neck a bit, looking down to the ground. Her tail arched and flickering. Telling her husband, "It'll be okay."
"It's raining. What if your paws slip ... "
"It's just sprinkling," she insisted, but she stopped at the next, sizable limb, all the same. And, with a slight pant of exertion, she sat, straddling the limb. And smiling as she looked around. Pant, pant. "Well ... " Another pant. "There's something about a drizzly forest, you know. It's ... you'd think it wouldn't be as beautiful as a sun-drenched, one, but ... it still is," she whispered. And she closed her eyes and took a deep breath through the nose. And then, opening her eyes, told Antioch, "You feel as if the clouds are within reach."
"Well, if you reached 'em, you'd get a paw-ful of wet," was the marmot's grounded response.
A giggle-chitter, and a slight nod. "Mm ... that I would." The rain still sprinkled, collecting and sparkling on her fur. Collecting in little dew-drops. Not drenching her, but misting her. "I think it'll pour, though. Later. It always starts out as a sprinkle, but ... " She trailed. " ... it does feel good, doesn't it?" She closed her eyes. And cocked her ears. And just listened. And just felt it. Breathing slowly in, and breathing slowly out.
"What are we gonna do? About shelter?"
"Mm?" She opened her eyes. "Well, our fur should keep us from getting hypothermia. As long as we stay under ... close-clustered trees, or something. That's all we can do." A pause. "I'm not about to ask the butterflies to shelter us."
"You don't think they would?"
"They might. I mean ... they probably would," she reasoned, looking about. Identifying all the species of trees. As many as she could from sight alone. "But, considering we're nothing more to them than ... specimens to be curiously observed," she breathed, sighing. And she cleared her throat, looking down at the marmot. "I don't feel comfortable relying on them any more than we have to."
"Isn't that pride? Doesn't that cometh before a fall?"
"Perhaps," was her whisper. She went quiet, whiskers twitching. And she sighed. "The only bad thing," she said, "about being able to climb so high ... " She trailed. And then picked up with, "Is that it takes me away from you. Foot by foot. I'm up here, in the air, and ... you're not there. You're not with me. You're still rooted in the soil." She swung her foot-paws a bit, like a little squirrel. Swing, swing. And then she stopped. "Just wish I could share this ... with you," she breathed.
"We have shared it. In simulation rooms."
"That's not the same," she assured, looking around, breathing through her nose. "Not the same," she whispered. She wriggled her furred, blunt-clawed toes in the air.
Antioch's whiskers gave a singular twitch, and his bushy marmot-tail swished around. "I ... you know I'd join you, if I could."
"I know," she said warmly. "It's not your fault. I'm not lamenting," she told him, "your inability to climb. More like my inability to stay on the ground." Her tail flicker-flicked. "It was like that, too, with ... my job, you know. I climbed the ranks pretty fast. Most furs do. It's not uncommon to have captains who are ... twenty-one, twenty-two." She was twenty-two (and a half). "But the only reason," she confessed, "that I'm in this position is because ... I was better at climbing the ladder than others were. I mean, there were plenty of other furs my age, YOUNGER than me, even, that ... would've better suited for a captaincy."
"That's ridiculous," Antioch said, his paws against the bark of the tree. He ran his paw-pads over the wet bark, letting out a slow, soft sigh. "You were promoted on merit."
"None of it matters now," was the squirrel's ultimate conclusion. "The Furry Federation is ... falling to pieces. Civil war. Martial law. I don't see any victors in this." She looked down to her love. "What are we going to do? I mean, we're running under the assumption that ... that the snow rabbits are gonna come and rescue us. What if they don't? What if no one does?"
"They'll come," Antioch whispered, neck craned upward. And he lowered it, for his neck was beginning to strain. He rubbed it with his paws, still standing, leaning with his back against the tree-trunk. He closed his eyes and breathed a bit. The air was cooler, now, than it had been yesterday. Not chilly. But cool. A warm-cool. The kind you would associate with spring. In fact, the air had that smell of Easter. "If they don't, we'll survive."
"It's not that I don't have faith," she told him, and she stopped herself. Her whiskers twitched. Normally, when you prefaced a statement with 'it's not that I don't have faith,' you were softening a coming excuse. Don't make excuses, Talkeetna. Don't make excuses for your own doubt. A sigh. "Darling, I just ... " She sighed. "It hasn't really hit me. Fleeing home, crashing here ... all that we left behind," she breathed. "Families, home ... and just ... you know, all those things." A pause. "And the uncertainty of what we're going to do next." She swallowed. Her whiskers twitched, and she stroked the surface of the limb which she straddled. A sigh. "I loved that little ship. I know she wasn't big, wasn't ... outfitted with all the best technologies. But she was mine, and she was ... and, now, she's just an empty, twisted hull." A pause. "But everything happens for a reason. I know that. And ... "
" ... we'll be okay. And, darling, worrying ... "
" ... doesn't suit me? No, it doesn't." Her whiskers twitched. "But I'm a rodent. I might be a captain, but ... " She trailed, closing her eyes. "I'm a rodent captain."
"I'm a rodent, too. I know how it is. I'm just saying that ... you know, with faith, with love, with ... you have a good arsenal there."
A smile. And a wistful sigh. "I'm so grateful that I can be myself around you. That I can let my guard down and say these things." A shy pause. "I've said that about a million times, though."
"It's alright. I don't tire of hearing it."
She opened her eyes, looking down, smiling. "Then I won't stop telling you."
The marmot, after a moment, gently slapped his paws on the tree-bark. "It's getting all cold and wet down here, all alone. I could use some company ... "
A gentle, drizzly sigh. "As could I," she whispered. "So, I should come down now?" she posed.
"I'd say so. But ... I guess it depends."
"On?" She smiled, her whiskers twitching.
"On whether what we're gonna do together down here is more exciting ... than what you're doing alone up there."
A giggle-squeak. As she was already hitching and scrabbling down from her perch, filled with such thoughts!
She massaged both of his big rabbit foot-paws, fingers kneading the pink pads on the bottoms, thumbs stroking through the cinnamon-colored fur on top. Smoothing over the arches, the heels, and then tickling the toes.
Kempton, eyes closed, sighed. Her ears bent forward a bit. "Mm," he went.
"You should've called me. Or at least gone and found Antioch."
His eyes opened halfway. They were both on the grassy, getting-slightly-muddy ground, the drizzle dusting them. The trees rustled in the grey breeze. "There was no 'finding' about it. It was just ... "
" ... fight or flight, huh?"
"It was," he whispered, closing his eyes again. "That feels good," he whispered helplessly. A mew. She knew all the right spots on his body. But, then, she'd had plenty of practice in finding them.
"So, you chose to FIGHT the coyote? He could've ripped you to shreds," she whispered back to him. A sigh. And a slight smile. Rub-rub. "But, still, it was ... "
" ... turned you on or something, didn't it?" A smile from him. Eyes opening. "My assertiveness?"
She stopped massaging his foot-paws, settling back on her knees. "It was very brave of you," was all she said.
"Mm. Well ... I asked him where he was going. And he told me, bluntly ... like he does, you know. Like predators do. He told me, and I said he shouldn't be doing that. I told him I would tell the captain. He said 'shut up,' and ... "
A tiny nod. "I know. I know," she said quietly, and waggling her slender antennae ears at him, she added, "Don't you do it again." Her voice was serious.
"I won't ... " A sigh. "But ... "
" ... you did the right thing. I know. But ... " A pause. And looking around, the piebald-furred rabbit yelled to the air, "You hear that, butterflies? My husband saved your wings!"
"Cordova ... " Kempton flushed.
"Well, it's true."
"I'm sure they would've stopped him. He would've been totally outnumbered. I mean, they would've KNOWN he was coming."
"Butterflies don't seem like fighters." A pause. And a shout of, "No offense!"
"Will you stop that?"
"Well ... "
" ... they're observing our every word," he reminded, "whether or not you shout. Yelling's not gonna make them hear you any better." A pause. "They don't even have ears, do they?"
A shiver. "Mm. No. Imagine ... having no ears?" Rabbits took great pride in their ears. Also, "They couldn't have ear-sex," she whispered, shaking her head. As if feeling tremendously sorry for them.
Kempton sighed, giving a little mew. "Why'd you stop massaging my foot-paws?"
A smile. "Felt nice, did it?"
"It did."
"Good. Then you can rub mine." She shifted to a sit, and then laid back, wriggling her furred, blunt-clawed toes. "Don't worry. We'll be touching more than foot-paws. Soon enough," was the promise. "But fair is fair. I gave you a foot-paw massage. You give me one."
"I didn't know we were keeping track of physical favors," he replied, on his own knees, now. Rubbing, caressing her big foot-paws. All the better to kick with! To hop with! All the better to touch. "Not that I mind," he added, at a warm, drizzle-covered whisper. Rub-rub-rub.
"Oh ... " Her eyes closed, giving a contented sigh, Cordova replied, "I didn't think you would."
The chipmunk and warbler were in their own secluded spot. Doing their own secluded things.
A heavy, heated sigh from him, his angular ears cocked, swiveling, whiskers twitching. A breath. And another. Slowing himself down to a simmering state where all he could do was savor her, his wife.
She twittered and chirped beneath him, in a light, singsong way. Her winged arms 'spread-eagle' at first, before wrapping completely around his back. A feathery shield. Her legs already parted, clasped behind him, in a hold-on, here-we-go position.
He loved the feeling of her belly and breast feathers sliding through and meshing with his own soft fur. His fur being shaded different colors of brown. He loved the gentle, warm, wet wonder of making music with her, bathing their hearts in such shared light, souls seemingly taking flight.
Oh, his songbird.
Oh, dear Lord, thank you for this.
Expression.
This union.
Oh, this heart-to-heart.
Aspera gave a cheep of pleasure.
"Mm ... mm," were the squeaky sounds coming from Taylor's throat, as his hips moved in that oh-so-familiar way. That slight, sensitive push-and-pull. In the tingling, bewildering throes of intercourse, pushing into her steamy wetness. The feathers on her groin, that surrounded her pink, fleshy folds, were very downy. Very soft. His furry sac gently pressed into all that down. With every hump forward.
Her black beak was open, and huff-puffs of air were given, her breasts rising, falling. Rising. The feathers rippling with her breaths. Her taloned toes curled, uncurled. Her entire body was awash with flighty motions.
"Uh ... " The chipmunk pulled his penis back, slowly, drawing a sharp, squeaky breath. A few inches withdrew, the erect flesh glistening from her vaginal juices. Swallowing, he plunged back in, sighing. Her walls surrounded every millimeter of flesh, his entire shaft. Perfectly snug. A perfect fit. And not just for him. For her, as well, her walls getting brushed by his member. They were both giving each other a mutual, pleasured friction.
His member.
Her tunnel.
Cheep!
She'd never known pleasure like this. Or, indeed, love and devotion like this ...
Aspera had, in the past, consistently and casually bred with male birds, what with birds practicing open breeding (like most predators did, and snow rabbits, and other groups of furs). Sometimes, she hadn't known their names. It hadn't seemed to matter. Birds weren't mammals. It was just the way they did things. Sex had always been a quick, feral affair, intensely pleasurable and satisfying. But short and meaningless, when all was said and done. Instinct took over. The male's plumage caught her eye, became ingrained in her brain. She began to lose focus. Began to get hot. He began to ruffle his feathers, puff himself up.
It generally happened the same way every time.
She, as the female, would wag her tail-feathers up and down. Permission. Submission. Five minutes later, in the nearest available space of privacy, clothes were off, the male was twittering, wings audibly flapping in a frantic, breezy blur. Having no external genitals, he would introduce his sperm into her body by pressing his sexual opening against hers, grinding, grinding, as if their sex organs were kissing. A twitter. A cheep. Pleasure! And it was over. And a few minutes of grooming, and clothes back on, and they went their separate ways.
And it almost seemed like it wasn't worth it.
If only the brief pleasure hadn't been so amazingly intense. If only their very feathers weren't designed as sexual lures.
In the end, she never lamented it. It was how birds were. She was a bird. And, like most female birds, she'd been fertilized several times. She'd laid nine eggs by the age of twenty-one. But, after pushing out each egg, she was back to raising her tail-feathers the next day. It hadn't concerned her. And she couldn't help it. The instinct was too strong. For herself as well as the males. They kept showing off their colorful, beautiful feathers, kept strutting their stuff. She kept flapping into rooms with them.
Anyway, that's what hatcheries were for: for taking your eggs. She, herself, had been hatched in a hatchery. Weaned there. And then given to a surrogate family. She hadn't known her real parents. As her children would never know her or their fathers. And she hadn't felt sad about the fact. Again, it was just how birds did things. It had always been that way. The bird population would've been out of control had their 'breeding window' not been so short. They could have sex whenever, of course, but the females were only fertile enough to give birth during a five-year span. From their late-teens through early-twenties.
What was a fertile femme-bird to do but heed nature's pull?
So, that's how she lived. Like a bird. Doing things just because that's what birds did.
Until she met Taylor.
After one of her performances. She'd been singing in an opera, backed by the symphony. It was at the academy.
She'd been captivated by a yellow warbler. He was about twenty feet away, desperately trying to procure a bout of sex. She was entirely willing to give it to him. She'd laid her last egg two weeks previously. She'd laid the egg of a fellow warbler or two, but never laid a YELLOW warbler's egg. Her loins tingled at the thought. Oh, he was gorgeous. The most beautiful bird she'd ever seen. Pure yellow, like lemons, like the sun, with the most handsome little streaks. His eyes were bright, and he gave a little call to her. A bird-call. So musical. It sounded like 'sweet-sweet-sweet, sweeter-than-sweet!'
She nearly melted.
It didn't help that she was, aside from being a practicing doctor, a singer. And birds were very musical. They flocked to symphonies and operas and other musical gatherings. And they often used those events as ways to 'meet-and-breed.' She met birds after her performances that she would never meet in her classes (avian enrollment in the Federation fleet was actually very small).
She went to him, the yellow warbler, brushing past a stammering chipmunk on the way. She almost could've sworn the rodent had called her name. But she brushed the thought aside. Probably not.
Probably not.
She bred with the yellow warbler.
It lasted three minutes, but oh, it felt SO good. Oh. A yellow warbler, she thought proudly! Oh.
She reentered the reception hall, in a daze, clothes a bit wrinkled. Her blood was hot, and she smoothed at her feathers. She needed a drink, so she went to the punch table. There were also cookies there. And cakes. She ladled herself a cup of pink punch, sighing as she drank the ice-cold, sugary liquid. Water would've been better, right now, but this was all that was available. It would do. She would have to ask someone for this recipe. It was quite good.
And the chipmunk came back, stammering, whispering hello, whispering her name, and blurting out, "You sing like an angel."
She hadn't known what to say.
Such a strong compliment. From a total stranger. And the way he was looking at her with those dilated pupils. He had a total crush. Finally, she replied, a bit awkwardly, "Thank you ... " But a bitter feeling began to well inside her. An angel? She was nothing like an angel. What had she just done with that yellow warbler? There was no true love or purity in her actions. You're a bird, she reminded herself. I am. I am a bird. But is that supposed to be my species, she thought, or my excuse?
That last thought bothered her. Her excuse.
"My, uh ... my name's Taylor. I ... uh, well ... I'm normally not so nervous. Or maybe I am. I'm a rodent, but ... you know, I'm extra-nervous, now, cause I really love your voice. I love how you sing, and ... it just made me really happy tonight. To hear it. I ... " He stammered on. Eventually asking, garnering up all his nerve, "You, uh ... wanna get some tea? Somewhere else? Only, you look kind of flustered. You look kind of, uh ... like it's too warm in here? A walk, maybe, or ... "
She flushed harder. Knowing the real reasons she was flustered and hot. Glad that his nose couldn't distinguish the truth. And she'd agreed.
And he wasn't all that bumbling, after all. Once he calmed down.
He was sweet.
He was bright.
And he was intelligent.
And, oh, he was cute, too. Very cute. When they nuzzled, she would gently comb his fur with her taloned fingers. He would give airy, happy chitters.
He was faithful, too. His beliefs and his purity, and his hope. And how his faith built him up, and the kindness he projected. She was drawn to it like it was a light. And it was, wasn't it?
They got closer. Closer.
They were in love.
She'd confessed to him, with much difficulty, that she was not new to love-making. She explained avian culture. Explained avian habits. Hoping he would understand. She told him about her eggs she'd given to the hatchery. And, after several moments of hesitation, she even told him about the yellow warbler.
There was no denying that Taylor had been hurt by some of her confessions. But he forgave her. How could he not? As for him, being a rodent, being devoutly religious, he was a virgin when it came to intercourse. He defused the 'peaks' of his breeding drive by pawing. Maybe it wasn't as pleasurable. But it was the right thing to do. He wanted to marry her. And he began to fear that, well, if that's the way avian culture is, if they're open breeders, then she'll never agree to marry me. He became discouraged. He fretted.
She'd asked him, one day, what was wrong.
He'd replied, "I wanna marry you. Like ... now." He'd held his breath, whiskers twitching. "I love you. I ... I just ... I know birds don't marry." His whiskers had twitched. "But that's where I want this relationship to go. And if you don't want it to go that way ... " His voice had broken up, and he'd trailed, leaving the implication in the air. His eyes watered. "I ... I can't give you eggs," he confessed, obviously. "But I can give you my heart, and ... share my faith. I can be there for you. Forever." A breath. And he looked down, eyes suddenly very shy.
She'd never loved anyone before. And, after a few moments of thought, she came to realize that she couldn't bare to watch him fly out of her life. Could she? So, she agreed. She said yes.
And they were married quickly.
And had many happy, happy nights of 'forgetting to study,' breeding 'til well after midnight. And, soon, they graduated, and both were assigned to the little ship Reverie. And, then a few months later, the Furry Federation closed its borders. Civil unrest. Civil war. And, so, here they were ...
... making love on the forest floor. In the light, silvery drizzle. In the cool air.
Again, the rodent pulled back, chittering. Chittering as chipmunks do. The act was exquisite! Her passage was oven-hot, raw-pink, slick with natural fluid. Her walls, with the increasing stimulation of his thrusts, would ripple around him, as if milking him. Stimulating his member in return. He felt little, preliminary twitches of his cock, knowing he was drooling an increasing stream of pre.
For her, it was equally lovely. Male birds weren't built like this. Endowed with genitals like this (though the chipmunk would flush at her admiration of his 'masculine parts,' for rodents were only average in that apartment, as well as being circumcised; but she'd quickly weaned him off any self-consciousness, building his confidence by the day). And male birds certainly weren't able to last as long as this.
He plowed into her, hit her walls, moved her body, breathed her name like no one else had done or could do. But what most distinguished this pleasure was, indeed, the passion. The passion of his thrusts, his sighs, his caresses. He was so tender and reverent. He was imprinting his soul on hers, and he acted like that was the case. There was no callousness. Was their lust? Oh, yes. Yes, lots of lust. But that lust was within the arms of love, within the realms of a tender-hearted need.
Lust was tamed.
Love was gained.
Her body was so light, so feathery-soft. Oh, the notes she trilled, the pleasured notes! Oh, the affection he felt for her, the companionship. Their shared love of music and art, and their shared faith. For she had come to adopt his Christian beliefs. But they had so much more in common than that. He felt safe with her. Could trust her.
Twitter-twitter!
Oh. Nothing ever felt so natural, so basic, so good. Nothing was so intimate as this, as he pressed his lips to her beak. As he sucked noisily on the sides of her beak, panting into her mouth, rutting her in gentle, rodent fashion. Furry hips grinding to her feathery hips. Her wings, all the while, wrapped around him, keeping him so warm and so close.
So warm.
So close.
He pushed and retracted his organ in and out of her body, rocking her light, feathery frame with each burying motion. "Uh, uh ... uhnn ... uhnnnn, nnn ... "
Aspera began to twitter-tweet, twitter-tweet, closer, closer, there! A flitter, a flutter, and her muscles started to spasm. Fierce, rippling waves, muscular spasms. Pleasure-pounding, juicy orgasm, steaming the air, seemingly. Her cervix dipped down, her tunnel tightened, squeeze, squeeze. Chirp! Chirp!
"Huh, uh! Uh!" Taylor chittered and shuddered with explosive bliss, penis jerk-jerking, flinging chipmunk-seed up at her womb. Spurt. "Uh!" Spurt. "Uhnn ... " A few gasps and groans, his body heaving, whiskers twitching. His ears swivelled and his tail flickered. "Oh ... oh," he panted, hips still. Resting. But still joined to her body.
Releasing a heavy sigh, the warbler tightened her wing-hug. Keeping him down atop of her. Whispering something into his ear. A sweet, private note.
Fur matted with sweat, and groin-fur sticky with dripping seed and femme fluid, and the sweet, spent scents of 'after-love' clogging his nose, he sighed and pulled out from between her legs. Semen trickled out. And, huffing, he rolled to the side, lying beside her. So that they were both on their backs, staring up at the greyness between the tree-tops, and letting the drizzle cool them off. And he said, grabbing her feathery hand, in reply to her whisper from a moment ago, "I love you, too."
And Aspera took a deep breath and beak-smiled.
Never was truer music made than the utterance of those three words!
Oh, indeed.