Yellowknife
It was approaching evening, the air quiet. Songbirds, yes. And the breeze, too. But a blanket of organic peace descending, renewed with the promise of life never-ending.
His paws gently kneaded, gently slid, rubbing, massaging her bare, furry shoulders. Her fur its vibrant reddish-brown. Auburn, to be more precise. It was a bit matted. It was hard to keep a clean, healthy pelt in a wild environment, without the societal 'luxuries' with which modern furs were so accustomed. But she managed. She was no less eye-catching, no less beautiful. And his blunt-clawed paws slid down her naked back, the paws pressing to the muscles beneath her fur and flesh, kneading. Heating.
Talkeetna sighed, in a heavy, deflating way. Her whiskers twitched.
"You're tense," Antioch breathed, from behind her. On his knees.
"Mm-hmm."
His paws slid back up, up. Press. Press.
A tiny squeak, her eyes closed. And her head bowing down a bit, body hunched forward. Her posture getting very loose, like a rag doll. And her big, bushy tail, all luxurious in design, arched and flicked. And sagged. And arched. And sagged again, weakly twitching.
"There you are," the marmot whispered tenderly. Press. Rub. "Loosen you up," he went.
Squeak.
"Your shoulders still hurt?" he asked.
A slight nod. "Right below, uh ... my right," she breathed, "shoulder blade. And, uh, left of my neck ... " A sigh. She was at a sit on the grassy ground, on her rump. Legs bent, pads of foot-paws on the ground. "Mm ... "
Rub. Rub. Paws on her shoulders, fingers gripping. Oh, but he caressed her so well. The art of touching was, indeed, an art well-mastered by the marmot. "You are," he whispered to her, nose and muzzle coming forward. Pressing to the nape of her neck. Where he gave a little nibble. "You are," he repeated, "lovely." Another nibble, with his buckteeth. For all rodents tended to have buckteeth. Rodent incisors kept growing, and constant gnawing (on wood-sticks or nut-shells) was needed to keep them in check. It was also said that rodent teeth were harder than lead, aluminum, copper, and iron. But Antioch had no idea how they determined that. Though the word "rodent" came from "rodere," meaning 'to gnaw.' Which was quite appropriate. And, though gnawing on his wife didn't do anything for his teeth, he found he enjoyed it a great deal.
As did she. She sighed at his neck-nibbling. The gentle pressure of his teeth. The gentle nips to her nape.
"You are ... " He sighed, kissing the back of her neck. " ... lovely," he repeated. Lips pressed to her fur, and a kiss, and a gentle nuzzle of her, his love. His captain and his desire. It hadn't yet been a problem. Her being the Captain, and him being the first officer (and tactical officer). Them being married. But, then, you had relationships like that on most furry ships. But, still, there was a recipe there, wasn't there, for potential disaster. Suppose you had to choose between the ship and its crew, or your love? You could say, 'I'll do my duty.' But would you? When it came down to it? Could you make that choice?
It was not something either liked to think about.
A chitter-sound from her throat. Light and pleasant. Eyes still closed. "Well, I ... I'm just ... "
"Lovely?" he breathed, staying on topic.
" ... a squirrel."
"My squirrel," he insisted. "My lovely squirrel. With a lovely tail and a lovely ... everything," he said, trailing, kissing the back of her neck again. The audible smack-smacks, and the buckteeth nibbling.
"Oh," she sighed, so lightly. "You're being ... oh, silly," she breathed. But she didn't much care. Whispering, "Oh, keep going." So soft, her voice, as to almost not be heard. And her head lolled to the side, her muscles relaxing. She felt she could just melt. Problems? What problems? There was nothing but this, but now, but an intimacy that shielded and nurtured. That refined and built. As all natural cycles went, like the water cycle, of water being stuck in a closed circuit. Evaporating, coming back down, and evaporating again. And coming down once more. Repeat, repeat.
Oh, just like that, this love repeated. It welled, 'til it burned, burned. And they consistently consumed each other with it, and in the aftermath, it seemed that nothing had ever been so perfect, so right. Until the welling started again. Oh, the burning, the physical, emotional yearning, and they were ever-dreaming of consuming each other's bodies, pressing, grinding, sucking. They would writhe, each time, like they had never done before. Like it was brand new. Spending all that love.
But love was never spent, was it?
No, love replenished itself. In an instant. You could never give too much. Nor could you receive too much. It was life's most-spectacular element. Undefined, this. Untouchable. A sheer delight to cloak yourself in.
No verbal permission was needed.
To continue.
To initiate.
Her body language gave it. Begged for it. It was as if, silently, they knew. And didn't they? So intimate with someone for so many months, you became symbiotic with them. And how could a love like this ever die? Too many furs, too often, gave up on their relationships. Fell 'out' of love, they claimed. 'Irreconcilable differences.' An excuse for 'we didn't know what we were doing. We didn't really know each other.' Why get intimate with a stranger, someone you do not trust? Where is the patience, the wisdom in that?
Love was not easy. It wouldn't feel as good, wouldn't mean as much, no, if it were easy. Too many furs wanted pleasure without effort.
But, oh, foolish ones, you are cheating only yourselves!
Why so afraid of commitment? Is this a modern plague? A fear of devotion? Where is this fear rooted? Where is the sense in it?
Why so reticent to talk? To make it work?
Why does effort turn you off?
Surely, if you're having sex with someone, have a child with them, live with them, marry them, surely, if all those things have been done, you love them? How can those things be done outside of love? And, surely, if you love someone to the point where are you, indeed, doing those things, those things of utmost intimacy, then you will not stop loving them, will you?
How can it be so?
Like the misguided that lived together without marrying. If the love is there, the commitment there, why not seal it? Why not cement it?
Fear.
They wanted a way out. No tape. No barriers. If the going gets rough, they wanted a way out.
Oh, society! You abuse love! You misuse it, and when it comes to exact vengeance, you run away. Unable to reap what you sowed. When will you learn that love is not fabricated? Is it forged.
No, furs do not fall out of love. True love, if it exists, always exists. It does not stop simply because you claim it to. It does not falter when hit with your fear, your realization that it is bigger than you, and that it requires your very sense of self. You do not intimidate love.
Love intimidates you.
Can you handle it?
The true sign of maturity is knowing what love is. And what it isn't. Knowing that love is not malleable. It is not the clay. You are the clay. Love, blessed by God, is the potter. It molds you. It shapes you.
Submit.
It is a question of mind-set. Oh, culture, why are you blind to this?
You behave like children. Yet you would not admit it. You would not admit that you arrogantly tried to own a force bigger than life itself. You tried to own love, conform it. You tried to use it for your own purposes. Own pleasures. You failed. And you make excuses. It is never your fault, is it? Oh, culture, don't you know?
Admit.
Love is different than you think.
And the marmot and red squirrel knew that. Though young, not older than twenty-two, they knew as much. Mature in their ways, faithful in all their days. They knew about love. And, right now, they reveled in it. In the strength of their own commitment, sharing themselves. Pressing, worming, squirming. Trying to become one fur, one flesh. As close as close could be.
They were, now, on their sides, bodies moving to the beating of their hearts. So hard to stay still. So hard to steady your breathing.
Pant, pant. Huff.
Squeak.
Knees all wobbling and weak.
Breath increasing with heavy heart-beating. And lips wetly pressing. Oh, the taste of her!
The taste of him. Her paws fishing in his fur.
His nose against her cheek.
Her foot-paws gently bumping, brushing his, and her tail, all bushy behind her, flicker-flicking like a flag. Oh, the thoughts she had!
Oh, the thoughts!
The thoughts.
Thoughts ...
... eventually gave way to action.
Her whimper-squeaking, to all fours. All fours on the forest floor, raising and flickering her tail. A feral, non-verbal cue: mount me. Mount me. Her heart hammering, mind a haze. Couldn't think. Couldn't focus. Could just pant and lower her head, and whimper-squeak. And keep that tail raised, flickering it like a flag. The urge to be filled. It was beyond reason. But needed, so needed, and she waited. Desperately waited.
As he desperately mounted, from behind, furry, soft belly meshing to her back-fur. Five inch, circumcised marmot-hood stiff and sliding, easily smothered by her pouting, pink pussy-lips. Easily to a hilt, furry ball-sac kissed to her vulva.
"Oh ... " A pant. The red squirrel shivering, her tail drooping off to the side. Her loins filled, empty space occupied. Easing the aching, but spiking the desire.
His tail brushing around behind him. As he nibble-nipped on her shoulders, the back of her neck. Squeak-huffing, lovingly lusting. And he slowly drew his hips back. An inch, two. Another. And then, exhaling sharply, he pushed forward. Going back in, grinding to her, giving a moan of pleasure. This was the ultimate in biological satisfaction. But also the ultimate in intimate interaction. This was closeness. This was union.
This was love expressed as highest art. Love shown.
Not love at its most important or most pure, no. For love was not sex. Sex was not love. Sex was merely an extension of love.
Love given tangible, physical form.
"Uh. Uhn," the marmot grunt-squeaked, as he pulled. Humped. Pulled. Humped. A motion of utter simplicity, utter design! A simple friction was all it took. A mutual stimulation. Her walls squeezing, rippling around his member, and his member touching, rubbing all those walls.
She, wet and hot, steamy, raw-pink. A squelching sound. Oh, her heat.
Him, stiff, rod-like, back and forth, back and forth.
"Oh ... oh ... " Her bare, hanging breasts wobbled with the gentle, rocking thrusts he gave her. Never too fast. Never too hard. Her nipples firm, sensitive. And eyes closed. Muzzle open.
Rocking against her, stiffer, more sensitive. Driving into the heat of her depths. Steaming, lubricated heat, drooling pre into the wet mix.
Going, going, a writhing, grinding, gyrating mixture of fur and form, driven by many things, not the least of which was the warm, warm happiness stemming from their genitals.
Her lower-lips flushed with blood, enveloping his stiffness. As he slid, slid, each movement a movement of bliss.
Time, feelings, everything blurred.
They just went.
It just happened.
Until her chitter-moans indicated her spasms. Flutters prompted groans. As her climax produced a milking motion, and rippling suction.
Forcing him to sow. He had no choice. Nor did he want a choice. Member jerked, jerked, firing marmot-seed at her womb. Flooding her tunnel with the excess. Intimate, fierce action.
Pants and squeaks.
Bodies weak.
Until he pulled out with a heavy sigh.
And she lowered her tail with a chitter-purr.
And then ...
... the afterglow.
The two furs panted on the forest floor, matted with sweat, bodies hot and tingling with the remnants of their coupling, their shared, physical endurance. Oh, pleasure! Oh, how could one describe it? Indeed, truly, sex meant nothing in words. Words paled. Sex was the 'show me' side of love. Show me. Please, show me.
And, oh, they had. Shown each other. Quite thoroughly.
"That," she panted. "Oh ... that was," she went, licking her lips, "good."
A huffing giggle-squeak from the marmot. "Y-yeah," he went, still regaining his focus. Still coming down from that orgasmic high. A heavy sigh, and his paw holding to hers, fingers meshed. Laying side by side, sharing their warmth.
It was in moments like this that life was trouble-free.
When you were reeling from what love had done.
Such splendid glee, dear Lord. Our actions blessed. We could give you nothing less than our own love, in return. For love is like the fishes and the loaves. Never-ending in supply. More than enough to go around.
From Abundance comes abundance.
From Love, comes love.
Sigh!
Mew.
Exhale through the nose. A singular whisker-twitch. Whiskers brushing lower-lips.
A weaker mew. Legs spread. "Oh ... " A pant, pant. Bobtail trying to flicker, but unable. Pinned beneath her backside and the navy-blue bed-sheets.
"I ... let me," came the male voice, muzzle pulling back. "Let me get our, uh ... more drinks ... " He stole another lick of her vulva before pulling back again.
Stars streamed by outside the window, streaks of distant, blurring light, framed against a black-velvet backdrop. The ship's engines purr-humming faintly. Power-sounds, even filtering up to B-Deck. Not enough to be a bother. A true background sound.
The snow rabbit ship Yellowknife was on the move.
"You, my dear ... " A few pants for breath, feeling somewhat wobbly on his foot-paws. Finding his balance. " ... are exquisite," was the finished, level compliment. Spoken with calm, proper tone. The taste of her femininity still graced his muzzle, his tongue. A few clear drops of fluid dangling from his whisker-tips. The sound of liquid pour-pouring from a bottle, into a stemmed glass. A bit of dribbling. And another glass being filled. And the bottle set aside, the male snow rabbit slowly padded, in a stumbling way, back to the bed. His bed. In his quarters.
"And you," Ada replied, "are inebriated ... " Her ears gave a few waggles.
" ... does that make," Graham replied, returning her glass to her, "my words any less ... true?" he posed, sighing as he fully entrenched himself among the sheets. The bedroom was dim. A very soothing sort of dim, with a lovely ambient temperature. No music. No distractions. Just each other.
The femme snow rabbit took a healthy sip of her liquor mix. A mint-flavored concoction, heavy on the cream. "I suppose," she said, licking her lips, "it does not."
Holding his glass to the side, Graham leaned forward. "You are," he repeated to her, in a whispering voice, "exquisite ... and I do not care ... " His lips were on her cheek. Their whiskers brushed, brushed. " ... how many times I have to tell you." Their lips, now, brushed. Whiskers freed. But muzzles pressing. In a tilting, simmering kiss. Smack-smack sounds, and little "mm's," and rustles of fur against fabric. "Oh," he panted, the kiss breaking. Both of them breathing. "Oh, I ... do believe you are making me heady."
"It is," she told him, "the alcohol."
"It is you," was the assurance, kissing her cheek, mouthing. Sucking on her cheek-fur. Eyes closing. "Mm ... " He slowly pulled back, bringing his glass to his muzzle. Sip. And then tilting his head back, taking a bigger sip, and then reaching out to set the glass down on a bed-side stand.
"Should you not be more guarded," she whispered, in a restrained, sensual way. Showing as much heat as her emotional freeze would allow. "Should you not be more guarded ... against the temptations," she breathed, "of the fur?"
"Are you not," he asked, ice-blue eyes locking with hers. In a simmering, controlled state. " ... my wife?"
A head-tilt. A polite, tiny nod. "I am."
"Then I have no need of guarding myself," he breathed, "against you ... and your 'temptations of the fur.' My heart is given to you. My closed doors," he said, "are open to you ... "
"They would say that is dangerous. They would say ... "
" ... what they will. They will say," he breathed, kissing her bare, snowy-white shoulder. Soft, furry shoulder, so beautiful. "They will say what they will," he finally finished. His bobtail flickered like an Arctic flame. His fur, as hers was, the color of windswept snow. A purity of sight. With charcoal-colored edges on their ear-tips. Their noses and paw-pads being black, as well. Only accentuating the abundance of ice-white.
"They have been," Ada breathed, whiskers giving a singular twitch. She was the ship's communications officer. She heard everything. Not just the comm traffic, the incoming and outgoing signals. But the chatter in the corridors, behind closed doors. She was an acute, practiced listener.
Despite the recent shifts in snow rabbit culture, the recent changes, a good three-fourths of the snow rabbit population still adhered to the practice of 'breeding parties.' That left the monogamous individuals in the minority. Though the practice of monogamy, as well as following the Christian faith, was rising. Spreading. Especially among the youth. And Graham, like Ada, was among those 'youth.' Early twenties, full of energy.
Three years ago, the adherence to breeding parties had been solidly at ninety-nine percent. The shifting point had been the war with the Arctic foxes. The cold war that had escalated into bloodier, darker things. The fall-out from that. And the subsequent destruction of the Arctic foxes' sun, and the war with the wasps. The ending of relations between the snow rabbit High Command and the Furry Federation.
In the midst of the extreme turmoil and loss of life, many snow rabbits had turned to faith. It was a need. It was hope. It was, they found, an eternal truth. As for the breeding parties: though convenient, they simply didn't work. Underlying jealousy and mistrust almost always existed in such arrangements. When you shared sexual partners, it was impossible to not be infected by subjective hurt. The snow rabbits liked to claim, 'but we can't be affected by subjective hurt, or any emotional hurt.' Because their emotions were frozen-over. Frozen over, true. But not non-existent. Clearly there. Clearly real. So, they continued to hurt. Hurting in denial.
But open-breeding was habit. It was easy. Instantly gratifying. Thrilling, even, to have your choice of partners. It fed the animal lust that they, as furs (and rabbits, on top of that) were saddled with. To be a sentient animal? Meant to struggle with primal desires. Breeding parties were an easy place to 'vent' those desires. And the snow rabbits, like most predators, feared love. Their emotional freezes prevented them from expressing emotions in obvious ways. Kept them reserved, logical. Love was a powerful force. A hot, throbbing force, the biggest of emotions. There was a fear that love would prove to be mentally destructive. Some snow rabbits insisted that love would be their species' undoing.
But once you had a taste of it, you couldn't stay away.
A few snow rabbits had broken the mold. Had felt love. It had softened their freezes just a bit. Just enough. Enough to give them a taste.
Like tasting chocolate for the first time.
Tasting sweet liquor.
Sugar.
The sweetness, the appeal.
The promise.
One thing had led to another. Snow rabbits began marrying, devoting. Loving. Often with other species. Inter-breeding was rarely done with snow rabbits. But it was not unheard of today. The captain of the Arctic had married to a meadow mouse. They even had an offspring. But what had started on Arctic, with her captain and, by extension, her crew, had begun to spread to other ships in the fleet.
Including Yellowknife.
Graham pressed himself against Ada's bare, snowy-white form, whispering into her ear. Her slender, antenna-like ear.
She eye-smiled, slightly tipsy herself, taking another deep sip of her drink. Before setting her glass down, as well, on the bed-stand on her side of the bed.
Like most young snow rabbits who married, they had actually met in a breeding party. Had been two of the eight rabbits in their party. They found they favored breeding with each other. Over the other partners in the group. And some difficult choices, some long conversations. And they had broken from the group.
And here they were.
Of course, a lot had happened a long the way. Little details. Moments of personal growth. Struggles, turning points. But now was not the time for such reflection, for such thoughts. Now was the time for ...
... for prying her legs apart and putting his nose and muzzle against her mesmerizing muff. A thing to behold, truly. The beautiful folds of it, the pink. The delicateness. The promise. A thing seared into the most instinctive part of his consciousness. Her honey-pot, source of sweetness and pleasure. Oh, he was a rabbit! What was one to expect from him? When 'worked up' as badly as he was, did you expect civil, polite thoughts? Squeaky-clean imaginings?
Certainly not!
Ada closed her eyes, mewling from the throat.
As he took a tongue-swipe at her hooded clitoris, licking down the labia, parting those petals. Swirling around the pink inside. 'Til he licked at her tunnel. A thing he fixated on, drooled for. A thing that could control him with its powers of pleasure. A thing that was making his rabbit-hood swell in its fuzzy, white sheath. 'Til his tip poked out. Bulge, bulge. And he was sliding up her body, bellies smoothing over each other, her beautiful, bare breasts squashing under the gentle weight of his chest. Oh, breasts. Oh, he must remember to play with those more. There was so much to play with! So many parts of her body gave him pleasure. But the vagina was winning out. As it normally did.
Her soft, white-furred legs, so warm, spread.
His penis stiffly dangling, he carefully angled. A male rabbit, in his excitement, was likely to botch his first attempt at penetration. Which, indeed, he did. Missing by a few inches. Huffing, he angled again, propping himself up with one paw. Using the other to guide himself. Until the rounded tip of his penis-head was inside her body. Until, sighing, he laid down atop her, fully horizontal. Elbows on the sheets, hips pressing. Grinding forward. "Oh ... oh ... "
Ada panted, squirming slightly, adjusting to and welcoming his presence inside her body. Her paws going round his back, clutching to his back-fur. Smoothing up and down, stroking him. As if urging him. Giving him support. While her legs stayed apart, foot-paws on the sheets.
He pulled back. Pushed forward. Easily found his motion. He was no stranger to it. His rabbit-hood making a soft, audible 'slick-slick-slick' as he moved it.
"Huh ... mm," she went.
Graham's ears drooped, hot, wilting. His lips pressing to hers, muzzle-to-muzzle, stealing weak, wet kisses as their bodies slid with each other. Kissing was so important in the midst of this. You could not forget the kissing. The taste-testing. The lip-meeting. The shared breaths and close-an-anything lip-brushes.
They were both worked up.
And they were both tipsy.
So, it didn't take long. For the heavy panting to start, and the hammering of their logical rabbit hearts. For her to be using her free paw to poke and prod at her un-hooded nub, drawing her closer, closer. Tunnel slick, smooth, squeezing.
Him pumping, sac damp with her trickling fluid, orbs swelling. Pat-pat-pat, went his sac, as it gently collided with her vulva. With each hump forward. His tail flicker-flicker-flicking! Close! Close! The tensing! The excitement!
She reached her reward first. In a mew-laden, pussy-convulsing peak.
While he followed, rabbit-parking in ecstasy, sowing her with streams of sticky-white seed.
"Uh. Oh ... "
"Ooh ... ohm. Mm."
"Oh," he breathed, before swallowing. Before pulling his hips back, rabbit-hood wetly flopping out. Semen trickled out of her in little streams, dripping to the bed-sheets. The seeds that made it to her womb wouldn't grow. She was not in heat.
Ada, her breasts tender, her breath coming back, managed, "Oh ... thank you."
Graham swallowed, panting, and squirmed so that he was right beside her. Settling down, nuzzling up next to her. "Thank you, as well," he went, in proper, restrained tone. A sigh. An eye-smile, as he put his nose to her cheek. Whispering, "I love you."
"As do I," she responded, her fingers stroking gingerly through his fur, "love you."
"Ada," he breathed.
"Yes ... ?"
"You are ... "
Chirrup!
A sigh. It was the comm. Blasted thing!
Chirrup!
"You should answer it," Ada breathed.
"I do not wish to. They can wait until ... "
" ... they would not be calling you," she said logically, giving him a teasing eye-smile, "if it were not something of importance."
He eye-smiled back at her. "Perhaps," was all he whispered, and he sighed, turning, stretching his arm. Slapping at his comm-badge on the bed-side stand. "Yes?"
"Captain, I am ... "
" ... interrupting? Yes."
"I am sorry," the snow rabbit on the other end said, politely. "But I thought you would like to know that long-range sensors indicate that another ship is approaching the planet." Yellowknife had seen, on long-range sensors, a small Federation craft crash-land on an uninhabited planet. And, six days away, had changed course. To rescue any survivors. "They are just over a day away."
"As are we," Graham stated, furrowing his brow.
"They are coming from the opposite direction. They are ... "
" ... a Furry Federation," he whispered, "vessel. They've come to 'reclaim their own'." A pause.
"Should I go to yellow alert?" the voice asked. It was the tactical officer.
"Yes." A pause. "Thank you for informing me ... I shall talk to you in the morning."
"Understood. Have a good night." The channel cut.
And Graham leaned back in bed, sinking into the sheets. Staring at the overhead bulkhead. The ceiling. "At the present rate of speed, we will arrive at the planet ... at the same time as the Furry Federation ship." He turned his head, looking to his wife. His head-fur making a rustling sound on his pillow. "We are both attempting to rescue the same survivors."
"They have precedence over ... "
" ... their own furs? We both know," Graham said, quietly, "that no Furry Federation vessel has been outside Federation space since they closed their borders. The ship that crashed ... was in flight. Fleeing. If the Furry Federation 'rescues' them, they will be harmed. Or put to death." A pause. "They would be much safer in our paws."
"Will you open fire on a Furry Federation ship?" Ada posed. "To save the lives of stranger-furs?"
"The Furry Federation cannot risk opening fire on US," was the counter. "They would not dare incite war with our species ... when they're dealing with a civil war at home. They cannot fight on two fronts. They are not that stupid."
"Recent history would beg to differ," Ada replied, with mental precision. "Furs have an enormous capacity for stupidity." A pause. "Ourselves included," she said, remembering so many recent events. Events that had scarred her species.
Graham said nothing to this. Only sighed through the nose, his whiskers giving a singular twitch. In the sudden heaviness, he'd lost all traces of his 'orgasmic high.' Another sigh. "Darling ... "
" ... yes?"
"Can you pour me more," he whispered, "drink?"
She bit her lip. And then nodded.
While Graham continued to stare at the ceiling, closing his eyes to hide the worry that glistened in them.