Ask a Silly Question
It was mid-morning, a new day. Another day of waiting.
The butterflies had agreed to come and 'notify' the furs when any potential rescue ship entered range. Which, Talkeetna hoped, was soon. Maybe three or four more days. But, honestly, they had no way of knowing whether or not anyone had monitored their crash, or had picked up their debris trail. Hopefully, someone had been watching their long-range sensors.
The drizzle had stopped, and the sun was peeking through. The sky was only partly-cloudy, and the breeze had notably picked up. Caressing, cavorting. All the better to dry the land with. The trees seemed to dance, the leaves rustling loudly. The limbs swayed and creaked, swayed, swayed. And creaked.
"May I join you?" Her voice was carried away by the wind. She'd spoken so quietly. She cleared her throat.
Talkeetna finally looked up, sniffing the air. "Ensign," she said, as if surprised. And she was. The wind was blowing in the opposite direction, and had carried the pika's scent with it. Her nose hadn't smelled her coming. "Course. Uh ... have a seat. Ground's a bit wet, but I'm afraid that can't be helped." She scooted over a bit, her bushy, luxurious tail caught in the moving air, fur ruffled. Her tail had a few sticky-burrs in it. And the fur was matted. "It's a mess, I know," she breathed, seeing Wasilla looking at her tail. She brought it around, holding it in her own paws. A shake of the head, and she let it go. "Guess you like not having one, huh? One less thing to worry about."
"I got teased enough, actually ... I still get teased about it," Wasilla said. "Not having a tail." A whisker-twitch, and she tilted her head, dismissing the whole thing. "But not much I can do about it. My species doesn't have them. So ... " She trailed, sounding indifferent. "As for such, uh, conditions," she said, looking around, sniffing the air. "I'm used to it," the round-eared 'rock rabbit' replied. "I grew up in the mountains, you know." She let out a breath as she sat down, on the ground, next to her captain.
The red squirrel nodded, angular ears swiveling. They'd all been making do. Busying themselves. The ship was still giving off radiation. Would be for a few more weeks. They had to stay away from it. So, they ate, bred, slept, bathed, bred. Waited. Bred. They had more than enough field rations, and they had fresh water from the nearby stream. But, without shelter, it was taking some getting used to. But, being furs, they'd adapted easily enough. When you came from nature, you were never so unacquainted with it as to be at a loss for what to do.
"In a temperate climate. Temperate 'rainforest,' really. A lot of conifers, some deciduous trees. Lot of mist and fog. Frozen fog in the winter. And grey, cloudy days in the summer." A pause. "Not to say we never saw the sun."
"Sounds nice ... "
Wasilla tilted her head, eyes a bit distant. "It was," was all she said. Not really elaborating on that. And she let out a breath. "I just wanted to apologize," she said quietly, "for my husband's attitude. That's why I came over here, I guess. I ... I know he hasn't been helping." A pause. "I know he likes to give others a hard time."
"Well, just as you're used to moist weather, I'm used to handling predators," the captain responded. She chew-chewed on something. "Oh ... want some? Mixed nuts, sunflower seeds. Field rations can't ruin nuts and seeds. I don't think anyone can ruin nuts and seeds. Unless you mess up how much salt," she said, swallowing, "you put on them."
A small shake of the head.
"You sure?" Nibble-chew. "There's more where ... "
"I'm not hungry," the pika insisted.
"I won't have my crew-furs forgetting to eat. You eat something, okay? If not now, then soon. We have plenty of ration packs. Enough for another week. And Aspera knows a spot full of berries." If they weren't rescued by the time their food supply ran out, they would have to appeal to the butterflies for help.
"I'll eat later," the pika said again.
"Alright," was the whisper.
"And I know how to deal with them, too," she told the squirrel.
Talkeetna met her eyes.
"With predators."
"I didn't mean to suggest that you ... "
" ... don't know what I'm doing, is what they think. Why'd I marry him? Why do I defend him? Why do I love him?" A sigh. "They think I don't know what I'm doing."
Talkeetna paused for a moment. Whiskers twitching. Before asking, "Do you?"
A shy, little smile. Maybe with a bit of sadness in it. Maybe not. The pika was very hard to read. "I guess that's open for debate."
"Wasilla ... "
"Captain, please." A whisker-twitch, her eyes darting. She sighed. "The wind in your fur, it's ... that's a good feeling. Like an old friend enveloping you." A slow, slow breath. "As long as it's not too strong a wind. As long as it's a genial wind. I think this one's more genial than not."
"Wind only makes it harder to climb," was Talkeetna's opinion. "Shakes the limbs you're on. Rattles you."
"It has a purpose."
"I know that. I respect it. I ... like it, even. But I wouldn't want it to become a lodger. I'm happy with infrequent visits. I'd much prefer a breeze over a wind."
"Still ... " A small smile, wriggling her toes. Her bare foot-paws slightly-muddy. But, then, all of them had slightly-muddy foot-paws. "Well, it feels good. In my fur."
"I know what you mean," Talkeetna assured. A slow, deep breath. And she chewed on some more nuts. And then grabbed a canteen of water, taking a few gulps. Sighing, putting the canteen down.
The rock rabbit was quiet for a moment. "I'm not good at making friends." A pause. A whisker-twitch. "I'm private. I'm ... independent. I'm a rodent, but I'm an odd one." A pause. "An odd rodent," she repeated, as if that, in itself, were an odd phrase.
"You fear we mistake your ... differences," the squirrel whispered, "for coldness? Standoffishness?"
"I don't know what I fear. I just ... don't want to be expendable, as all. I want to matter. As part of this crew."
"I wouldn't have brought you aboard," Talkeetna assured, chewing, nibbling on more nuts. "I wouldn't have ... if I hadn't trusted your ... "
" ... abilities?"
"I do trust them."
"I want you to trust ME. Not my abilities."
Talkeetna was quiet for a moment. Before replying, "Trust generally requires a sort of ... well, a sort of knowing. A closeness. You can mentally trust a total stranger, maybe. But you can't emotionally trust them. For emotional trust to be earned ... you have to give. As well as get. It requires closeness." A sigh. "Or something." A slight smile. "Me and my captainly advice, huh?"
"You don't do too bad with it ... " A moment of silence. "But, going on that, I guess I'm on the outside," Wasilla whispered, "looking in."
"Whether or not you remain that way," the captain told her, sincerely, making eye contact, "is up to you."
A sigh through the nose, and the pika looked away. "I just feel that Konka and myself, were anything to happen to us, or were we to ... part from the rest of you," she said, swallowing. "We would be the least-mourned." She looked back to the squirrel.
Talkeetna didn't reply to that.
"I should, uh ... I should go see him," Wasilla said, referring to her husband, the coyote. "He was sleeping when I left. He's off over there. We'll be needing to breed," she said, "once he wakes up." A pause. "Though he's so angry, now, when we do it, because ... he knows the butterflies are watching."
"Wasilla ... "
"He gets rough. Sometimes. Sometimes, I crave tenderness, and ... " She trailed, realizing what she was doing. Realizing that she was spilling things. Why are you doing this? Keep it to yourself.
"Ensign?"
A blink. "What ... oh, um ... well, I should ... "
" ... talk to me," the squirrel whispered, putting her paw against the pika's. "Isn't that why you came over here? To talk?" She meshed her fingers with Wasilla's. Gave a reassuring squeeze. "Come on ... "
"I don't need to talk," was the quiet insistence. She thought about pulling her paw away. But didn't.
"If Konka's ... "
" ... I love him. And it's not what you think."
"What do I think?" the captain whispered.
"That it's one of those textbook predator-prey relationships. The emotionally-vulnerable prey innocently stumbles into a union with the hungry, control-seeking predator. The prey unwittingly becomes the predator's pet ... more than the predator's love. The predator abuses the prey. The prey loses all self-esteem and sticks with the predator ... because the prey is too scared to leave."
"I didn't say your relationship was like that."
"It's not," Wasilla insisted, swallowing. "It's not ... "
"I'm glad to hear it ... "
"I just ... it's not like that," she said again. "I DO love him. And he's very possessive about me. Very protective. He'd kill for me." A breath. A pause. "But it's like all of that, you know, is ... instinct. And not TRUE emotion. He loves me on instinct. Not on feeling."
"We're furs. We're all heavily-influenced by our instincts."
"But we're not prisoners to them," Wasilla replied. "We're more than the sum of our genes. You're a Christian. You know that."
A nod of agreement. She did.
"I want more. But I don't want more," she said, "from other furs. I want more from him."
"Then demand it of him."
The pika blinked. "Demand? How do you ... "
" ... should know by now. You should know by now," the red squirrel repeated, "that predators respond best to force. Domination or submission. They don't respond to finesse. Not like we do. If you want more out of him ... and want him to unmistakably get the message, you have to DEMAND it."
"How do I do that?" Wasilla asked. Still holding Talkeetna's paw.
"Bare your teeth. Pin him to the ground. Raise your tone of voice."
"I'm not like that. I couldn't ... "
" ... try it," she insisted. "You don't have to BE those things. Just ... play-act. A little bit of mimic."
"I wish he would mimic ME," was the confession.
"He will," was the assurance. "After you tame him." A breath. "To tame him ... you have to humble him."
Wasilla swallowed. "When Antioch told him, the other day, that ... his actions were embarrassing to me, I felt the heat of his shame. He doesn't want me to have a bad opinion of him. I KNOW he's softening. And I don't wish to change who he is. I fell in love with him," the pika insisted, "because of his ... strength. His confidence. His protectiveness. He makes me feel safe, and he makes me feel ... like a jewel, I guess. A beautiful jewel. Unfortunately, it's a jewel he likes to keep in a case, like I'm a museum-piece. Sometimes, he's almost afraid to handle me."
"It could be," Talkeetna said, honestly, "that he's terrified of hurting you."
A blink. "Why would ... "
" ... we're fragile things. Us prey. Us rodents, especially. We require such delicate handling." A pause. "He knows that. He's not a fool. He knows that about you ... he loves you, Wasilla. Be it instinctual or emotional, it's love ... and it scares him. Love is vulnerability. Love is ... openness. To him? It's a weakness. That's what predators are taught. That's their instinct. That's why they openly-breed. Why they rarely make commitments. They're scared of being trapped. Caged," the red squirrel whispered. "They're just as scared of getting hurt as we are. The difference is: we're willing to admit that fact. And deal with it. They're not. They bury it, and hope it'll go away ... hope they can mask it."
"I ... I don't want to hurt him," the pika whispered, swallowing.
"And he doesn't want to hurt you. Perhaps the distance ... is his way of protecting you from himself."
"We breed. We're ... intimate."
"Physically. Predators are masters of the physical. The emotional?" She let that hang. And let out a breath. "I'm not sure what else to tell you, Wasilla. I've never been involved with a predator myself. I've had to analyze and study them. As a captain, I've been required to memorize detailed psychological studies on ... countless species. All my knowledge about predators is academic. Yours? Is paws-on. You're much better-equipped to deal with a blunt coyote ... than I am. You know him a lot better."
The rock rabbit was quiet, biting her lip. Her whiskers twitched.
"If you're not entirely satisfied with your marriage ... you gotta let him know. Directly. Bluntly. Demand to know how he feels. Make him say it."
"I do that. Captain, I ... I DO that. I do that all the time. I try to return his bluntness with bluntness, but ... it spills over into my relationships with others. Around Konka, I take on a predatory demeanor. And it sticks. And, so, when I deal with the other crew-furs, I come off as cold and detached, and ... I'm not a cold fur. I'm not a bad ... "
" ... fur. No, you're not. You're not a bad fur," Talkeetna whispered, squeezing the pika's paw. "I know you're not. The others know you're not. And Konka knows you're not." A breath. And a sigh. "Just ... pray about it? Is what I would suggest. Appeal to God for help. For inspiration. For ... " The squirrel trailed. And then picked up with, "Prey respond to words. Emotions. Predators respond to ... show," Talkeetna said. "SHOW him what the problem is. Show him what you mean. Don't just tell him. Show him. And, more importantly, find a way to make him him show it back to you," she whispered, "in return. Then maybe he'll understand ... "
Wasilla nodded. "I'll ... I'll try that," she whispered. "We'll see." A pause. And she started shaking her head. "Captain, I'm sorry for ... "
" ... come to me any time." A smile, and a paw-squeeze. Squeeze. "Alright?" was the gentle whisper.
The rock rabbit smiled. And nodded warmly. "Thanks ... "
Talkeetna, letting out a breath, hugged the pika. "You're welcome." She closed her eyes. Hugging. And then opened her eyes and pulled back. "Now," she said, straightening. "Go eat something. And, when you breed with Konka this morning ... SHOW him what's bothering you. What you mean."
"I will."
"Just remember, though. He is a predator. He's not going to stop being a predator. You can't change that. But ... you can understand it. And that's what matters." A pause. A hesitation. "If you want the honest truth from me, I've never been a supporter of predator/prey marriages. I've seen the really nasty ones. I've seen how the predators get bitter hearts ... and the prey get broken ones. But I believe you two can do it. You've been together for five months, right?"
"We met on Reverie, yes. When you brought us on."
A head-tilt, and a helpful, little smile. "You don't make it that long ... without doing something right." A breath. "I'll pray for you."
"Alright." A flush. A returned smile.
"If you need help ... with anything, just ask me, okay? That's what I'm here for. I'm not around just to be your boss."
A nod, and a swallow. "I better get back to him," she whispered. "Wake him up, and ... do our thing." The pika stood, brushing her uniform. Brushing her fur. Sighing. And she began to move off.
"Wasilla?"
"Mm?" The tail-less rock rabbit stopped, turning.
"Have fun."
A smile. "I think I just might." A pause. A consideration. "I hope." And she quickly shuffled off.
"Look what I found." The male mouse scrabbled into view, coming to a sudden, teetering stop. All wide-eyed and whisker-twitching. And his silky-pink tail snaking about, bare, with a mind of its own.
Azalea looked up, stopping. She'd been walking. On her way to the stream, where they had scheduled to meet. But, apparently, Emerson had decided to meet her halfway there. "Mm? I thought you were off ... scurrying." All mouses needed a good bit of scurrying. Daily. It helped them burn off portions of their infamous energy. Or 'mousey energy,' as it was called. Plus, it didn't hurt the physique or the mood, either!
"I was," he insisted. "But I found something. Look," Emerson urged again, holding it out. His big, dishy ears swivelled atop his head. The breeze hitting his lobes in such a way that he could hear it rushing past him. Like that sound you got when you put your ear to a seashell. That whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. He adjusted his ears so that the breeze hit the back of his lobes, and not the front. Keeping the 'sound' down.
"What is it?" The western jumping mouse's whiskers twitched. Twitched.
"A vase," the field mouse breathed, sighing softly. "It must've been leftover from when the butterflies used to live on the surface. I found a few other things, too. A big fruit bowl, and ... well, I know it's a fruit bowl cause it has watermelons and oranges painted on it. I can show you ... " He turned and pointed to the distance. Through all the trees. "It's in a little meadow ... "
"Aren't you a regular archaeologist?" Azalea teased, always pleased to see him so excited.
A flush. "I just found it by accident, is all." A whisker-twitch, and he held both muddy paws out. "I want you to have it."
She smiled softly, and hesitated. "Well ... what for? What am I gonna do with a vase? I have no table to put it on," she told him.
"You don't need a table."
"I don't?"
"No. You can ... put it anywhere," he assured, in his light, airy voice. Which was almost carried away by the breeze. "I'm gonna find wild flowers for it. And ... I want you to have a vase of flowers."
She gently took the vase, letting out a breath. And her eyes met his. "You're too sweet," she whispered, with a sigh. "Mm." The sun glinted off her whiskers. "But, now, what am I to do? Here you are, giving me vases and flowers, and what have I to give you? A present for a present ... only fair."
"You don't have to give me anything," he insisted, quietly.
"I do."
His ears went a bit rosy-pink.
"I think I do," she repeated, very quietly. "I'm sure I'll think of something." A playful, sensual wink.
His eyes shined at this. Though his ears got even rosier.
"So, uh ... wild flowers?" she asked, trying to bite back the giggle-squeaks. The breeze was stirring round and around, their tails like ropes dangling about.
"There were some purple ones. Like lavender-colored. And orange ones, like how a melon would be." A breath. "And they all looked like wild lilies."
"Wild lilies," she whispered.
"Mm-hmm. I think they ... that's what they were." A nod of his head. "I thought we could go for a walk. I could show you," he said. Oh, so innocent. He was so, so innocent, so gentle. It could just melt your heart.
"I was, uh ... gonna wash our uniforms in the stream," Azalea said. "We were gonna meet at the stream, remember?"
"But we're both wearing our uniforms," the mouse said, blinking.
A wink. "I know." A smile. "We'll have to take them off to wash them."
"Oh."
A giggle-squeak from her. "Mm-hmm. 'Oh'." And a contented sigh. And she thought for a moment. Deciding, "But we can take that walk first. Search for flowers. If you really want to ... I mean, the stream can wait ten minutes, can't it?"
"The stream can. But can ... "
" ... we? I think I can wait ten more minutes ... you?"
"I can wait," was the whisper.
So, they started their walk. Heading, now, to look for wild flowers.
She was still holding the vase in her paws, cradling it up against her. "You slept soundly last night." Her tail lazily trailed her, side-winding in the air.
"Did I?"
"Mm-hmm. I woke up once ... and you were curled up there," she whispered, "against me. Your whiskers were twitching. Nose all ... sniffing. Your eyes were moving beneath your eyelids." A sigh. "What's that rodent saying? Peace is a sleeping mouse?"
"Maybe ... maybe to watch a sleeping mouse. But to be one?" Sleep was when a mouse's anxieties came out to play. Often in scary nightmares. Not to say that sleep was never restful for a mouse. Never peaceful. It could be. But when a mouse DID have bad dreams, they were BAD ones, indeed.
"Well, you didn't have any nightmares last night, did you?"
"No," he whispered.
"Well, there you go ... "
"Did you?" he asked, suddenly worried. His whiskers twitched as he walked beside her. "You said you woke up." He put a paw on her back. Gently.
Azalea skirted the topic, slightly. He didn't need to know she'd woken up from a nightmare. It would only tax him. "I got back to sleep just fine. Your body was ... very warm. Always," she whispered, "very soft. You make these little squeaky sounds when you sleep."
"I do?" A flush.
"Mm-hmm." A sigh. She leaned her head against his shoulder. They walked very slowly, now, taking their sweet time. The sun rippling against their fur, changing as the leaves moved. The birds in the trees sang of this and that, with all the notes they could possibly use. "Emerson ... "
"Yeah ... ?"
A slight hesitation. She licked her dry lips. "I've been thinking. Ever since we left Federation space, and left all ... we had to leave all our families, you know," she whispered. She preferred not to think about it. That she would never see her parents again. Her siblings. Never say never, she told herself. But she had a hard time being optimistic. Things weren't looking good back there. If the civil war went full-out, it would take decades to restore things. "All we have is each other ... "
His ears swivelled.
She swallowed, looking to the ground, stopping her forward motion. And he, too, stopped, gently nosing her neck. Waiting for her words. Listening. "I ... you know, you brought it up," Azalea told him, "before ... how you want a baby." She fiddled with the vase in her paws.
"I do," he whispered, sincerely. Softly. His nose was on her cheek, now.
She closed her eyes. And whispered, "Well, I think I want one, too ... I mean, that I'm ready. I mean, not NOW," she said. "I mean, obviously, but ... once things settle down. We end up serving on a snow rabbit ship, or wherever the rest of our crew goes, and we follow them. Or we end up on some colony somewhere ... when things settle down, I'd like to try."
Emerson didn't say anything at first. He just beamed, nosing his wife's shoulder, and then nosing her neck again, before planting a soft, tender kiss to her cheek. Their whiskers brushed, brushed. Brushed. "Darling," he breathed.
She turned her head. And received what she knew he was wanting to give.
A tilted lip-kiss.
Soft, wet. The kind that weakened the knees and fueled the flames of desire. The kind that left the taste of love on your tongue. And the kiss broke with a little smack-smack. "Love you," she whispered to him, closing her eyes, body turned toward his. They leaned their foreheads against each other, arms wrapped around. In a snuggle-hug. She, all the while, careful not to drop the vase. Holding onto it with a few fingers.
"Love you, too," he whispered back, breathing deeply.
The breeze ruffled through their fur, tickling them, urging them to do something besides stand there.
Oh, thank you, dear God, for this.
Redemption, salvation. And love at fruition.
There is so much hope.
So much.
They lingered a moment mor, and then began walking again. Her head back on his shoulder.
"Flowers," Emerson eventually whispered, pointing. "Look ... oh, they're blue!" he breathed in his soft, wispy voice.
Her ears swivelled pleasantly. Eyes wide open. And she lifted her head from his shoulder, standing up straight. "Well, let's pick a few, and ... when we go back to the stream to 'wash'," she said, smiling, "we can fill the vase with water. And then bring them back to the camp. Share them with everyone."
"Alright," he whispered, already kneeling down, picking a few of the best flowers. Putting his nose to them. Sniffing them. And then he came back to her, putting the picked flowers into the butterfly vase.
Then, the two mouses walked back in the direction of the stream, talking, squeaking. Confessing, whispering, giggling. Acting as much in love as they clearly were.
Being generally and irrepressibly cute.
She nipped on his shoulder with her buck-like teeth. Nipped. Gnawed. Her paws pressing against his strong, warm body, meshing in his tawny fur, keeping him to the still-damp ground. Keeping him beneath her. In the broad daylight, away from the camp. In a private enough spot.
Konka was unsure how to respond, at first. He hadn't expected this. Her show of fire and force. Her demanding posture. Her lack of words. She normally spoke of things. Whispered. But, now, she only kept him in place. Only gnaw-gnaw-gnawed on him. It didn't hurt. More like 'love-bites.' Shows of consuming affection.
Wasilla felt him respond. He began to respond. Mentally and physically. There was no mistaking his bulging sheath, excitement peaking out. His growls, from the throat, low and rumbling. How his tail began to wag as best it could, half-trapped between his backside and the forest floor.
A light whine.
A squeak.
Bodies pressing, writhing, both warm and weak. Draining, surely, of resolve. If resolve had ever been there. She latched to him in a desperate, needy way, her touches and caresses conveying to his predatory 'show me' mentality more than, perhaps, words themselves could do. He didn't need words.
But, oh, she was prey, and she did need them. She needed them uttered.
So, as she rose to a straddle of his heaving, horizontal form, her paws pressed down to his multi-brown chest-fur, and she looked down at him and whispered the words.
That trinity of pronouns and a verb!
"I love you."
Then pleading for him to whisper them back. Pressing down, grinding herself to his hips. Brushing, anticipatory touching, but no penetration. "Konka ... tell me ... " A squeak. Another squeak. "Feel it enough," she breathed, "to tell me."
"I have told you ... before," he panted. "I have said the words many times before ... "
"MEAN it ... I want to FEEL it ... show me," she huffed.
He did love her. He wouldn't have married her, otherwise. But he preferred not to think of it as 'love.' Rather, instinct. Rather, need. Physiological satisfaction was far less messy when psychological icing wasn't applied. The extra taste. The extra sweetness. The extra meaning. He craved the MEAT of the matter. Not the seasoning. But, on the other paw, what was meat without salt, pepper, all that preserved? If breeding was the food that fed his physical need, than wasn't love the salt that kept it all from spoiling?
Lust without love, a dangerous meal. The risk of 'food poisoning' was too great.
In predatory terms.
This was part of his thought process.
She pleaded, again, with sensual openness, to, "please tell me ... " There was desperation in her voice. The remnants of her months-ago choice to marry him. Had she been misguided? Had it been a mistake? Sure, he could physically satisfy her like no one else. An exquisite breeder. The sex was great. But she wanted more. The 'more' of it.
He could give her emotional love.
It could be mined from him. And she would mine it, she decided.
Not passively.
Actively.
She was going to draw those words from his muzzle, and he was going to mean them. She leaned forward, lips so close, breasts bare and sinking against his chest. Their lips brushed, soft and moist, breaths colliding invisibly. "Tell me ... "
A huffing, eyes-open growl. Which faded. And a stable, admitted, "I love you."
"How much?" she pressed. "How ... much?"
"More than you can know," was his coyote-purr.
A huff. "What does that ... mean ... "
"I love you," he went, hesitating. "I love you like ... " A whimper-whine, as she rubbed her groin-fur over his revealed, pink member. "I need sex."
"Tell me," she panted, "first. Keep going. Come on ... you can do it ... "
A swallow. A deep breath. His paws ran over her soft, furry back. So soft, yes. So warm. He caressed and stroked her beautiful form.
"You can trust me," she whispered, right into his ear. Panting. "You can trust me ... tell me ... " A squeak.
A huff. "I ... I love you as the bees love," he said, feeling silly. But doing it. For her. If this would make her happy, then he would do it. "As the bees love the flowers. As the moon loves the tide. It is an elemental need," he confessed, "that I cannot live without."
A shiver went up her spine. Her eyes watered. She squeezed them shut, nodding. Yes. Yes, this was it. This is what she'd wanted to here. "More," she breathed.
It came easier, now. Now that he'd started. "I love you ... as I love pleasure itself. For you are pleasure. There is no distinction. You are sensible," he panted, "and reliable ... and ... you tingle me with every touch. You ... " Huff, huff. And growls emanating from his throat. Lusty growls, and he twisted a bit, getting out from under her.
She squirmed, unsure as to what he wanted. What he was going to do. Only squeaking as her legs were pried open. As his muzzle went down.
"Oh ... oh," she began to cry, head rolling to the side.
Slurp-lap, slurp. Broad, wet tongue licking up and down her vulva. Her pink, pouting pussy-lips, from the bottom to the top. Making sure to wet the hooded clitoris. Making sure to let that powerful, talented tongue get a taste between those petal-like folds.
Wasilla sighed, deeply, at the soft, wet pleasure. His tongue felt like bliss. Each enveloping, tender, juicy lick. His paws stroking her thighs. As he kept at it, while she did what her species was known for: squeaked. As she willingly, needily spread her legs further. As he slurped, nibbled, ate her pussy, her femininity. Tonguing her vagina, lightly, lightly. Again and again, before slurping all over her groin again. He toyed with her clitoris, un-hooding it.
"Uh, uhn ... uh," she moaned, weak with pleasure. "K-konka," she breathed. "Oh ... "
The coyote broke to breathe. Panting, golden eyes glowing, strong body heaving. "This is how much ... I love you," he panted. "That it would please me more to give you pleasure ... more to give you pleasure," he said, licking at her. Again. More. " ... rather than give it to myself." He hadn't touched his throbbing member. Hadn't mounted her. Channeled all his energies, as best he could, into her. Her body. Her joy.
"K-konka, I'm ... I'm sorry. I just ... sometimes, I need more than ... "
" ... what I normally give you." He huffed, nuzzling her belly. "I know. I know, also, that you are prey, and ... your needs vary from mine. As a good protector, a good predator ... " He trailed, sighing. "I should not forget that." A pause. "You are the only prey I have ever ... been involved with. And, now, you are my wife. I ... sometimes," he confessed, eyes darting, "I treat you like how I would treat a predator femme. It is ... instinct."
"I'm not," she panted, "a predator femme."
"Nor am I a prey male."
"No," she whispered, swallowing, breathing through her twitching, sniffing nose. "No ... " She paused for a bit, panting. "We gotta communicate better. We gotta ... try harder."
"Agreed ... "
"Don't be afraid to show emotion," she told him, "to me. I won't hurt you."
The coyote met her eyes.
"I won't," she breathed.
And, finally, a slight nod. And a breath. And the tongue-loving started up again. Temporarily washing the issues and worries away. Leaving them for another time of day.
Cordova paused, her waggle-ears stretching. Standing tall. "What's all that squeaking?" she went, looking around. Eyes wide. It seemed to be coming from everywhere!
Kempton, standing beside her, flickering his bobtail, said, "Silly rabbit. Konka's giving Wasilla muzzle ... over there." A point, gesturing at the trees. "And Azalea's riding Emerson over there." A point in the opposite direction. "And, from the sound of it, Taylor's all over Aspera up in some tree ... " A squint, the cinnamon-furred rabbit looking around. Ears perked. "And I don't know what Antioch's doing to Talkeetna, but she must be liking it ... " His eyes back to his wife, now. A cheeky grin. "Love-squeaks, darling. Love squeaks."
The piebald-furred rabbit grinned, already undressing. "Oh ... well, ask a silly question ... "