Full Upright Position
His back was to the wall, bare foot-paws planted firmly on the carpet. Body in a full upright position. He'd been in front of the mirror, checking his eyes. Or, rather, adjusting his contacts. For he had, indeed, gotten them. Just a bit of farsightedness. Nothing serious.
Cordova gently mouthed his neck, wetting his cinnamon-colored fur (a delicious and warm color, to be sure), panting lightly. Her standing body pressing to his. Both of them still dressed. Though it remained to be seen for how much longer.
"I, uh ... you ... uh, Cordova ... "
" ... what," was the impatient pant. Coming out as more of a statement. A demand. Rather than a question.
"When are we, uh ... when ... "
" ... we've plenty of time," she insisted. They were both on their hour-long lunch-break. Yellowknife was running smoothly, on its patrol route, scanning, surveying, on the watch for 'ghost ships,' furs in trouble. And the like. But, right now, there was nothing pressing going on. Well, except for the pressing of her body to his. (Just one case among several cases of 'body-pressing' currently sweeping the ship.)
"My, uh ... "
" ... you can see me, right?" she asked, in a half-teasing tone. Pulling her head back a bit. Leaning forward, so that her belly was to his. And her paws began to fiddle at his uniform. Unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers. "Gotta get this off you," she breathed desperately, hotly, with a singular, determined focus. And there was a certain thrill she always got. During undressing. Both undressing him and undressing herself. It must've been those moments, those throbbing moments of anticipation. Of revealing the hidden, uncovering the just out of sight. Like unwrapping the gift-wrap of a great, big present. You might've already known what was inside. But you couldn't wait to get to it. So you tore the paper away, with energetic abandon.
"H-hey," was the almost-giggling stammer, his waggle-ears waggling. "Take it easy. You're gonna rip my clothes ... "
" ... mm," was Cordova's simple, wordless response. A hungry huff. She was a rabbit. She was very virile. And she wanted sex. Now. She would not be denied. She peeled his shirt off. "You can, uh ... never answered my question. You can see me," she panted, "right?"
"Course I can see you," he whispered. "Course I can ... "
" ... then why aren't you ripping my uniform off? Why aren't you getting to it, huh ... mm?" she teased, nosing his neck, now. Her nose sniff-sniffed at his scent. At his spicy, warm, sweet-colored fur. "Oh, my cinnamon rabbit," she breathed, loving to say that. Loving him. And saying as much. Saying, "I love you, you know. I ... really do," she swooned, pressing further into him, "love you." His shirt was off, now, crumpling to the floor. He still had his pants on, but her paws were already undoing those.
And, oh, she'd heard furs sing pleasured praises of knots and barbs. Of pheromones. Of captivating cuteness. Of fang-bitten, telepathic bonding. But, surely, none of God's graciously-given breeding-advantages to the furry species equaled a rabbit's virility? A rabbit's endurance? A rabbit's appetite?
"Mm," Cordova went, huffing a bit.
No, surely not.
Kempton's paws, around her back, went under the shirt of uniform. And massaged, gently, through her back-fur. Soft, white and black fur, all in pretty piebald patches. Running his blunt-clawed fingers through the fur, meshing them to her pelt. Meshing, massaging, going up and down, up and down. A constant roving. Touching. Unable to keep still. Going so far, now, as to lift her shirt.
Her arms raised up. Immediately.
He tugged.
She panted, raising her muzzle to the ceiling. Lips parted, breathing somewhat-erratically. And her whiskers giving a singular twitch. As her shirt was pulled over her head. "You ... you could've," she said, lowering her muzzle, now. "You could've just unbuttoned it ... "
" ... too much time," was his immediate, panting excuse. "Oh." A huff, and his paws already unbuckling her bra.
A giggle as he did this, and a mew. An excited, rising rabbit-mew. Oh, what was breeding without anticipatory foreplay? Be it quick or long-lasting.
Her muzzle pressing, tilted, to his. Her moist, pink lips delicately brushing. Pursing, puckering, sucking. Tasting him in multiple ways, multiple fashions. Until she finally decided that she wanted his lower lip. So, she focused on the sucking.
"Uh ... oh," Kempton panted, her bra undone. He whimper-mewed, tugging it. Tugging it off. Letting it hang between his fingers for a bit before he dropped it. The soft, soft sound of fabric hitting carpet. And his wife's bare breasts, now, hanging loosely. Supple, beautiful, furred mounds. With those nipples as the peaks. A sure sign of femininity. And his paws immediately going there, one to each, so that he could grab and squeeze and massage.
So that she could sigh out, heavily.
So that he cold mold her breasts, caress them, tweak the hardening nipples. So he could briefly suckle on her left nipple. Like a baby rabbit after milk.
"Oh ... mm," was her sigh.
Eventually, he let up, and nudged her forward, slightly, stepping away from the wall. Both of them still standing. And he guided her back, back.
She shuffled backwards, on her bare foot-paws, away from the wall and closer, closer to the bed. Paws feverishly fumbling with his pants. Undoing them, finally. Pulling them down. Her fingertips sure to slip under the band of his briefs, too. To pull it all down with a single, purposeful motion. So that all of it went to his knees, and then his ankles. So that the male rabbit, sheath bulging, bulging, could step out of them and kick them aside and undo her pants, as well.
Cordova giggled. For no apparent reason. Other than she was having fun. Other than she was enjoying the build-up. And she eyed his peeking-out penis with ravished attention.
He slid her clothing down, down. Until she could step out of it, kicking it all away. Pants, panties. Everything. Until they were both totally bare, now. Except for their smiles and their cheeky gazes and their flickering, cottony bobtails. And their ears that waggled and waited, waited for the sounds that were sure to come. Such sounds to be made! Such touches to be bestowed! Such sensations to be savored!
Such love to be made.
And Kempton gently nudged her back, back.
A giggle-mew. And she plonked down to her rump. On the edge of the bed. And, looking up, she whispered, "My dear husband ... I do believe our bodies and our souls are on an irreversible collision course."
"I would say," he breathed, with baited breath, guiding her to her back. And crawling onto the navy-blue bed sheets. On all fours over her body, now. "I would say so ... "
" ... what kind of ride am I in for, exactly?" she whispered, smiling brightly. Her breasts heaved with lusty, love-laced glee.
"I do not know, precisely," he breathed. "But, oh, what a collision it will be, darling ... I suggest you hold on."
A giggle. Her paws reaching up to hold onto his warm, pulsing sides. She smoothed at his fur, and then clutched it. And dared him to, "Do your best. Please ... "
The western jumping mouse was doing just that. Giving him her best. And in such delicate, careful ways, knowing the field mouse had his limits.
A very-distracted squeak. Naked mouse-tail hanging in an arch-like line, raised, wavering.
She heard his squeak. Registered it. And kept going. Mouthing his furry, grain-colored sac, dampening the tufted fur. Her nose flared with his earthy scent, sniff-twitching. Sniff-sniff. A sucking motion, a muzzle-ful of fur, and she sighed through the nose, moving on, moving away from his sac, sucking on the base of his shaft, the skin of his penis. Kiss. Lightly kissing, moving up, and a deep, eager breath. Her lips parting, she took him in. Just like that. Sliding sensuously down his length. Pausing, nose flaring, whiskers brushing his groin. And she pulled back up. And went down, bobbing, lips in a hot, wet ring, stimulating the now-glistening skin of his erect penis.
" ... oh. Oh!" were the high-pitched, airy squeaks. Sweetly weak, sweetly overwhelmed. Sweet, sensitive pleasure. Too sensitive, almost! Right on the edge of what he could handle. But not quite the breaking point. And Azalea knew it. And didn't stop.
She bobbed, bobbed, in a slow, sensual fashion, twisting her muzzle a bit this way, a bit that way, cupping his sac with a free paw. Kneading the tightening flesh, rolling about those swelling orbs. Gently, gently so. Until her muzzle slid back, to his penis-head. And, tongue pressing to the tip, she stopped for a moment. In contact, but making no motion. Until she finally began to suckle.
"Uh!" A sharp inhale. Emerson's breath catching. It was a gasp. "Uh!" Another gasp for air. A series of squeaky sounds. Until ...
" ... okay," was the panting breath. Azalea's muzzle free, now. Pulling off. A deep sigh, licking her lips.
Emerson shook, eyes hooded, muzzle slightly-open. And his mouse-hood tick-ticking up a bit (a bit more). Very hard, pointing upward. Glistening pink, coated in saliva. "Uh ... uh," were his soft, recovering sounds. Barely-audible breaths. Squeaky-squeak. His whiskers twitched. His tail quivered and wavered in the air behind him.
"That felt good," she whispered, on her knees. On the floor. Him sitting on the edge of the bed. "Didn't it?" she cooed, caressing his thighs. Running her fingers through his soft, slightly-sweaty fur. "I know I enjoyed it," she said, smiling.
A weak, wordless nod.
Oh, what tender, God-given bliss!
"You like it when I play," she breathed, in total control of this, "with your 'squeaky toy' ... " She breezily touched a soft, furry finger-tip to his circumcised, bluntly-pointed, deep-pink penis-head. "Don't you ... " Her finger resting over the slit. A gentle movement, smearing the sensitive head of his cock with his own pre, a slick droplet or two. Touch-touch. Rub-rub. Oh, what a thing! 'Squeaky toy.' She mouse-purred happily.
Soft, effeminate shiver-squeaks from him. And a small, shaky breath. His head tilted back, muzzle raised and eyes closed.
"Mm?" Azalea giggle-squeaked.
A barely-made nod. And a hard swallow, his muzzle lowering back down. And his eyes half-opening.
"Oh, Emerson," Azalea breathed, with a flushed, giggle-squeaking smile. "Oh, you're SO cute ... " One of her paws was between her own legs. Her fingers deftly splaying her pink, flower-petal folds. Her hardened, un-hooded nub being indirectly stimulated. Rubbing around the base of it. "Oh ... " She slipped a finger inside herself, sighing happily. For just a moment. She was very hot, very wet. The muscles waiting to be brushed. Waiting for some kind of deep, meaningful friction (that only a male body could provide). "Now, uh ... um," Azalea panted, pulling her paw away from her legs, her heart hammering her breasts. "Now, uh, my heart's at a scurry," she said. She could almost hear it beating in her ears.
"M-mine, too," was Emerson's wispy, innocent reply.
"Well, how 'bout, uh ... we let our hearts scurry together?"
A quiet, eager nod from him.
And Azalea smiled widely. "Oh, you're so cute," she repeated. Before clambering onto the bed, pushing him down, flat on his back. Getting to a straddle of him, paws on his trim, furry chest, and her thumbs wagging atop his little, male nipples. "You know what I do to cute mouses?"
"W-what?"
"I nibble," she panted, "them up ... " And she leaned down, so eager, in such need. Pulsing, pounding with such want. She leaned down and sought out his lips. Sought out a sweet, succulent kiss.
And another.
Lips smack-smacking, saliva stringing. The hot, humid taste of each other dancing in each other's muzzles, on each other's tongues.
Until the kiss broke.
Panting.
As he leaned back, situating himself behind her. Lingering for a few moments before doing anything. And then proceeding to kiss and stroke her big, bushy tail. Exhaling into the rich, auburn fur. Stroking, stroking, fingers and blunted claws raking gently through.
A slow breath by the red squirrel. A slow, steadying breath. A feeling of warmth. So much warmth. She wanted to melt, or fall over. Or ... " ... l-lie down. I need to," she breathed, losing the words. On her knees in the navy-blue sheets, in the middle of their shared, familiar-scented bed. Shiver-squeaking in the slightest, the softest of manners, her puffy, furry tail touched in all the right ways.
The marmot, with a heavy sigh, wrapped his arms and paws around her. From behind, his bigger belly pressed to her back. His silvery-grey and dark-brownish fur. Meshing against her bare back-fur, their scents mingling. And him whispering, "Then we best get you on your belly ... "
"Okay ... " A soft, hazy huff. "Okay ... " She huffed, letting him support her. Sighing heavily as she folded forward, flat onto her front-side. Onto their sheets. The sheets where countless loose strands of their fur clung. "Oh ... " Talkeetna, now settled on her belly, began reaching her arms for and pulling in a pillow. She hugged it, resting her furry chin on it. "K-keep going," she begged, in a slightly-bashful way. All her inhibitions were cast aside. And why not? He was her husband. Her love. She was safe with him. There existed between them a complete spiritual trust.
"With your tail, you mean?" Antioch asked. There was a slight hint of cheek in his voice, not waiting for an answer. Cause he knew very well what she wanted. Her tail to be touched, caressed, stroked. A squirrel's tail was very sensitive to touch. The marmots paws, knowing this, having done this before, stroked her rich, meticulously-groomed fur in all the right ways. In all the right directions. Fingers raking, raking. Stopping, and going the other way, against the grain of the fur. And then with it again.
A heavy, eyes-shut sigh. "Uh," was the light, pleased chitter-squeak.
"There we go ... that's my girl," Antioch whispered, so tenderly. "That's my girl ... " Fondling her tail, her auburn fur petted, pampered, with his paws straying down. To lightly press, press at the tail-base.
"Oh ... oh ... " A few pants, legs shifting. Trying to open her legs, to give access to her perfect, pink petals. To give access to her vagina. Almost not aware she was doing it. It was almost instinct. A reaction to the feel-good, feel-great pleasure that got better and better as he touched her more and more. It would feel even better if her genitals were involved. Her body knew this. And her mind couldn't have stopped her legs from spreading even if it had tried.
The marmot's paws were already accommodating, slipping down. One paw massaging a rump-cheek. The other slipping between her labia, fingers delicately, joyously tracing the velvety, fleshy lips of her vulva. Which, not surprisingly, were moistened with the gentle dew of her body's excitement. A finger finally slipped into her vagina, rubbing against the walls. Gentle fingering. And he had to close his eyes and deeply exhale. Just at the feel of that searing hot, slick, raw muscle clamping around his finger. He needed more than his finger in there. His desire sparked.
The red squirrel whimper-squeaked, tail raising fully. Almost involuntarily. Oh, she was being swept away, no doubt. Her tail to a full upright position. A stand. Flagging a tiny bit. Unmistakable body language: 'mount me.' There could be no other interpretation. Any male would read a raised tail as 'mount me.'
"Can you ... " A huff. " ... roll over ... "
A weak, dazed nod, as she, panting, chitter-huffed, rolling over onto her back, legs immediately spreading, opening. "Oh ... "
The marmot's greater weight sliding over her, his solidly-built body warm, strong, rubbing. His small, roundish ears moving so slightly (as to be almost unnoticeable). His black nose sniffing. Hips and groin bumping to hers. "Uh ... uhn," were his whistle-grunts. As he tried to get in. In his sudden, gripping over-eagerness, he had a mis-try or two. Huff, puff. Finally, he got in, slip-sliding, inch by inch, into her steamy, welcoming tunnel. "Oh," he sighed deeply, with a hot reverence in his voice. His eyes hooded, he gave a loud marmot-whistle. Oh, this felt so good. This was a dreamy sort of pleasure.
"Oh, mm ... " A huff. " ... Antioch ... " Her arms were lazily around his strong, furry back. "Oh ... " Her arched, puffy tail became pinned between her back and the sheets.
His tail, looser, scruffier, but also bushy, swished around with excitement.
He humped. Slowly, at first. But instinct being what it was, he soon picked up the pace. A beautiful slick-slick sound, produced by the friction of their genitals, the clear, lubricating fluid, the glistening flesh. Her pussy completely swallowing, enveloping his penis. It was like a furnace. Oh, the heat, and the sensitivity. He was loathe to pull back, but knew he had to. If he didn't pull back, he couldn't hump in, and if he couldn't hump in, his penis wouldn't feel so incredibly good! So good that the marmot-whistles became a bit more random, uncontrolled. Became louder and more declarative.
Talkeetna, her slender, agile form beneath him, wrapped around him so fully. She was, after all, born to be an acrobat. An aerial acrobat. She had no problem hitching to the marmot's body like she'd hitch to a handsome tree-trunk. "Uh ... uhn," she moaned, chittering, her walls rubbed, rubbed by his shaft. The satisfaction of being filled. Having him inside her. Making them one. Thinking, in her mind, about how they both seemed to be in an 'extra yiffy' mood right now.
Sometimes, sex was passionate, romantic. Sometimes, it was animalistic. But the intent never changed. The core emotions, the core feelings. The love, devotion. The patience to work through the bad times. And the gratefulness to appreciate the good. They may have been a bit more lusty than usual today, but such was okay. For any amount of lust was purified and justified by their love, and the purpose it provided.
Chitter-squeak.
Marmot-whistle.
Gasp.
Grunt.
Pleasure!
And, in her head, the red squirrel added, 'If I haven't said it enough, dear God, let me say it again: oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for sex!'
Seward and Aisling were thanking Him, as well.
Oh, indeed.
Mews.
In the privacy of their bedroom.
In their quarters.
And, oh, the stars streaming by outside the windows were peeking in as they passed! They could not resist the temptation for 'just a little look.' 'What is it those creatures are doing in there? Ooh ... '
Paws in fur. Rubbing, softly. Fingers meshing as they slid, slid. Paw-pads massaging in soft, errant ways. Not able to stay still, in one spot, for very long. There was so much body to explore. So much fur to grab.
So much to want.
And so much steam to release.
Indeed, such release. Such venting. Such expression. A slipping away, momentarily, of hard-edged logic. A temporary thawing of all that was permanently frozen. Everything built up was, in this way, removed. For snow rabbits, such controlled, analytical creatures, this was the only true venue for loosening. For creatures that could not fully feel emotions, could not fully express them, this act (of breeding) allowed them to dip their toes in that hidden water. This allowed them such sparking, free-wheeling passion.
This allowed them relief.
"Mm," was the soft sound. Not-yet-satisfied. For this was but mere foreplay, this lazy sprawling. Mere foreplay! Imagine, then, what lay ahead! Soon enough, there promised to be an even louder calling (of both their voices, in mutual glee).
Bodies bumping, grinding. Snowy-white fur to snowy-white fur. Their limbs were touching, bellies brushing. Two very naked snow rabbits doing what naked snow rabbits did best, bodies resting, now, with arms around. In haphazard hugs.
Hug her. Tell her that you love her. Hold on.
And do not let go.
"Darling, I ... you are beautiful," Seward had to say. Had to whisper. Just to have it said. His muzzle to her cheek. Mouthing, mouthing, slightly wetting her cheek-fur with his saliva. And their whiskers so intimately brushing. Oh, so many parts of them touched (and touching). "You are beautiful," he breathed again. For she was. Oh, with breasts like snowy peaks and soft, soft thighs, and legs built for loping, built for kicking. A solid body (as one would expect from an engineer). Durable. Radiating an inner heat. A quick, stolen kiss. Sweet, moist. Soft (oh, forever soft, everything soft).
A light 'mm,' the kiss taken.
The kiss held.
The kiss broken.
A breath, and a swallow. And a contented, whispered, "Oh ... I love you, Seward." Still so new-sounding on the tongue, that phrase. For her (and for him, too, really). She'd only been saying it for a month. Oh, to be bare, in bed, sinking into softness, with a 'one and only,' a 'husband.' There was such a healthy, reassuring permanence in this. It thrilled her. A chance to settle, to have roots. A chance for lifelong growth. A journey started. The number 'two' was a perfectly symmetrical number, wasn't it? A perfect half-and-half?
"As do I," he replied, in that snow rabbit way of 'love-saying.' "As do I love you," he breathed, "as well, Aisling." A pant. Pant. And shifting, fur-rustling. Sheets moving, too. As bodies writhed just a tiny, tiny bit. Him slinking down, down. To mouth and suck on a loose, pretty breast.
Aisling sighed. Letting him do it. Letting him explore. Every little part of her, every pleasure-point. He could kiss and nose and lick it all. "Make," she breathed, eyes closed. "Make love to me ... "
"I will ... I will," he assured, head twisting a bit, turning. Muzzle mouthing, wetting her left breast. Right over her heartbeat. Beat-a-beat. Beat-a-beat. He could hear it. A steady, drumming rhythm of life. "I am," was his final declaration.
They were.
Making love, assuredly.
The chipmunk panting, muzzle parted. Slightly drooling as he sucked on her smooth, black beak. Licking up. Feeling her breath coming from the two, tiny 'nose-holes.' Her beak opening, allowing her to pant. Her thin, pink tongue flickering slightly. To touch his broader, shorter tongue. As saliva strung from one to another.
Oh, darling, the taste, the heat of you.
Let us draw closer, closer.
Closer, still.
Cheep-cheep. Twitter-twitter-tweet. Her warbles, her fluid, beautiful notes of pleasure, ringing, spilling out, washing over the chipmunk's perked, angular ears. And filling up the space of their bedroom. Oh, what singsong, symphonic glory! What a spiritual, harmonic story! That male and femme, husband and wife, be joined, be fused into a single-minded entity, a soul-knowing intimacy. Oh, that it may be so.
Oh, that it may be blessed.
Oh, yes, blessed.
Oh, yes.
"Oh ... oh, yes," Taylor chitter-moaned lightly, unable to help it. Oh, unable to be helped. As his hips pressed to hers. His multi-brownish fur meshing with her downy, black-and-white feathers. Her groin feathers very, very soft. Very downy. While the feathers on her winged arms and her legs and her belly and back, those feathers were longer. Quill feathers. But, all over, fur meshed with feathers, as his modest (five-inch), circumcised member plowed her feminine depths. Plowing forward, pulling back. Pushing. A soft, super-slick motion, of such steamy, sensual satisfaction. It was almost too much to register. The mind had to shut down. No rational thought could be drawn from this. This just was. It just is.
Oh, beautiful.
Oh, sweetness and light.
"Oh," was the breath-baited moan. Taylor's hips softly bump-grinding, pulling back, pushing forward. His glistening, pink member the recipient of such blissful friction. Her walls rippling more and more. As she became more aroused, the walls seemed to close in on his shaft, squeezing it lightly. Encompassing him completely, a glove-perfect fit. Every fraction of his flesh being stimulated.
Her tail feathers jiggled beneath her. Having not much room to do so.
His brushy tail with the bold-brown stripe flagged about.
Friction!
And, for her, just as much friction. Just as delightful. For the back and forth, push and pull movement of his masculinity was massaging every inch of her tunnel. Oh, and it was feeling better and better. For the chipmunk, knowing her as he did, angled his hips in that certain way. Carried out his forward humps in such a motion as to grind their groins together. So that his fur, his pelvic bone, would press against her becoming-exposed clitoris. Providing a delightful spark with each grind. Gently ...
... gently, slowly. Slowly.
Coming to a shaking stop.
Azalea, her breathing erratic, squeaking, squeaking, kept him at a hilt. Settled down, straddled. And hunched forward, her paw-pads flat on his chest. Hanging her muzzle, she began to twitch. "Uh ... uh," were the short, squeaky sounds. At first. Which soon gave way to longer, drawn-out squeaks. Sharper squeaks, too. A mousey medley.
Fused with Emerson's wispy, ever-present sounds.
She came first.
Her vagina tensing, so heated, so wet, so much. So much. Flitter. Flitter-flutter. The muscles soon contracting, in delightful, pleasure-peaked spasms. Making her walls to ripple. Making her cervix to dip down. Making clear, sweet nectar to heavily leak out, soaking Emerson's sac-fur. Droplets of glistening femme-juice clung to strands of fur, drip-dripping from his sac-fur to the sheets (in just-audible fashion).
Azalea cried out. Squeaky-squeak. Chitter-chit. Squeak. Her basic animal sounds. And gasps for breath. Her naked tail whipped around. Her big, dishy ears a deep-pink.
Pleasure!
Oh, the pleasure.
Oh, what a thing was pleasure! What a wonder!
"Ahh ... uh. Uh, uhhn ... " Shaky, enduring moans. The ferocity of the physical bliss only matched by the fullness of the spiritual satisfaction. The emotional well-being. Oh, what a well-rounded act this was. Oh, what it gave to her. Oh, so much.
So much love.
Oh, in abundance!
And that abundance soon overwhelmed Emerson. Bringing him to orgasm, as well. The squelching, milking motion of her muscle-tremors, and her love-sounds, and the way she was touching him, and the sensitive stimulation, and all of it, all of it. All too much! The male mouse letting loose an effeminate squeak! Squeak! Tensing, twitching, whiskers all a-twitch and eyes screwed shut. In the throes of so-satisfying ejaculation.
His penis shot spurt after spurt of steamy-white mouse semen. Flinging it in tiny ribbons at her waiting womb. Though she was not in heat, the act was no less reverent. No less. Rather, he was leaving his stamp on her. This moment of shared, tremulous pleasure, both of them in climax, both of them twitching, squeaking, their bodies fused. This was a moment of true soul-brushing. Of true, complete union. For this moment in time, they were truly as one fur. They were truly synchronized. Oh, in the purest of ways.
"Uh, uhh ... uh," Emerson moaned, pleasured. Paws desperately holding to his wife's hips. He swallowed hard, nose flaring, whiskers twitch-twitch-twitching. "Oh," he huffed, breath shaking. His fur matted with sweat. Both of them, indeed, wet with sweat, saliva, and shared fluid. Both of them all over each other.
Azalea leaned down. Horizontally, belly-to-belly. Slowly, making sure he stayed inside her. And with a grateful sigh, her head on his chest, she whispered, "Oh, Emerson ... oh ... I love you."
"I love you, too," was the light, unhesitating response. For he did. Truly, truly did. Heart and soul. He loved her personality, her soft, humble confidence, and her light, understanding presence. He loved the color of her fur. And he loved those strong legs and foot-paws of hers (for she was a jumping mouse). He loved everything about her. "I love you, too," was the repeat, voice very soft. Almost-inaudible. His eyes closed. A slow, steadying breath.
Azalea breathed, breathed. Her heart still racing.
And he wrapped his arms and paws around her back. Hugging her down atop of him. As they settled from their orgasmic, pleasured high. As they, in the aftermath, the afterglow of this, descended into tender, squeaky softness. Full of nuzzles and whisker-brushing lip-smacks. And full of thin, ropy tails side-winding in the sheets like happy, happy snakes.
"We must be," Azalea breathed, after a few minutes of silence, "the silliest mouses ... "
" ... how come?" was the returned whisper. His blood-gorged, super-sensitive ears began to flush downward, downward. Back to normal.
A shifting of her body, still atop of him. Raising her hips just a bit.
Emerson squirmed a bit, pulling out, shrinking. Asking again, holding to her dearly, "How come we're the silliest?"
"Cause love makes furs silly, and ... we're in as much love as we could possibly be in. So, that means we must be," Azalea reasoned, "the silliest mouses."
A warm, innocent giggle-squeak from him.
"See? See?" she teased, nosing his neck. "You're giggle-squeaking. You're proving my point ... "
" ... mm ... well ... maybe," he relented, still panting ever-so-slightly. "Maybe," he whispered. "But I guess us silly mouses better do a silly scurry to the silly shower, cause ... we gotta be back on duty in twenty-five minutes."
Her turn to giggle-squeak. And a bit of a giggle-chitter, on top of that. And so it was that they slipped out of bed and into the shower. Where she, without warning, playfully pinned him to the shower wall, the jetting stream of warm water pelting both of them, matting and darkening their fur. Where she nibbled on one of his big, dishy earlobes. The nibbling giving way to licks and breath-blows.
And a sudden stop. The water raining on them, dripping to the floor of the tub. And a smiling whisper of, "You don't mind if I give you ear-sex, do you?"
Airy squeaks, airy gasps. "P-please," he begged simply, with no pretention, his ears gorged (once more). Pulsing, pounding, dripping heat down through his body. And making him shiver uncontrollably. Water droplets flew from his twitching whiskers.
"There's a good boy ... don't worry," she breathed, promising, "I'll be gentle." A mouse's ears were extremely delicate. Extremely erogenous. Mouses were one of the few species that could have 'ear-gasms,' orgasms brought on through ear-stimulation alone. (Rabbits happened to be another. But rabbits didn't have the finesse and delicacy that mouses had, and didn't often have the patience for 'ear-sex,' which is why it was performed more among mouses than rabbits.) But true delicacy was required. If you worked the ears too firmly, the pleasure would turn into pain. If you worked them too softly, the ear-gasm would never come. It required finesse. And, Azalea, being a mouse, knew about finesse.
So it was that their affections were continually shown.
Continually expressed.
And, after a bit, they returned to their showering (Emerson left with very wobbly knees, forced to hug Azalea to keep from slumping to a sit; she held him tightly, whispering such things to him). Their tails coiled together like silky-pink pieces of twine, swaying as one tail.
Both in a full upright position. Arms wrapped around one another. Both of them standing on a foundation as old as time. Older than. A foundation of Holy design.
And, though they showered, the water only made them wet.
It was their love that made them clean.