A Purifying Risk
It was later in the day (on 'cleaning day'). Evening, now.
"Darling, where's the moisturizer?"
"Moisturizer?" Prancer looked up, blinking. Sitting at her desk in the station's infirmary, which was actually located on the Promenade. When Wheldon had said at the morning staff briefing that 'no one uses the Promenade,' he was (mostly) being difficult. They did use it. The repli-mat was here, also (which was like an open-aired mess hall, which opened into the rest of the deck). The simulation rooms were here. Those tended to get daily use. But none of the shops or restaurants were open, no. And all the blinking lights and directional kiosks were turned off. The station's Promenade was like a ghost town.
"That paw lotion. Uh ... dry paw lotion," Ninilchik (everyone called him Nin) said. He squinted, opening drawers.
"Hey, hey ... I just tidied all of those. This room is spotless."
"And so's the rest of the station," the porcupine said. "I spent all day scrubbing. That's why I need the lotion."
"You got wash-day paws?"
"All dry and pruned from the soap and water, yeah." He wrinkled his muzzle. "Lotion?" he asked again.
"Over there. Beside bio-bed one. All the lotions are over there."
Nin nodded, padding over there. His quilled, club-like tail dragging behind him. Porcupines, indeed, had very sharp quills. Deadly things, when used as weapons. But only when they were 'extended.' He had voluntary muscular control over their deployment. They lined the back side of his tail, as well as the back side of his body. He had no quills on his front, and none on his limbs. Just his back and his tail. And they didn't 'shoot.' Simply, when they became lodged in someone's body, they 'detached' from Nin and stayed with the victim. And the quills had even tinier quills (or barbs) on them. So that, if you tried to pull them out, it hurt horrendously. They went in easily. Came out impossibly.
But, right now, his quills were in a 'relaxed' state. Flattened, pressed to his body in smooth, secure fashion. Lying flat. Beneath his brown-grey fur. Though the uninitiated would call him a 'perpetual pincushion' or such, that just wasn't accurate. You COULD hug a porcupine. And Lord knew that he and Prancer had made love countless times, and she'd not gotten pricked or hurt even once. He was very careful with his quills. And also very confident. Just like skunks, porcupines had a certain coolness about them, a certain invincibility. You couldn't truly mess with one, could you?
Though porcupines did have enemies. Fishers, for a start. But that was a long, dark story.
"This the one?" Nin asked, picking up a bottle.
"Read the label."
He squinted. Porcupines didn't have the best eyesight.
"You need your glasses?"
"No," was the stubborn response. "I don't. Yeah, this is it." He unsnapped the lid, sniffing it (to make sure). "Yeah." And, with a relieved sigh, he squired the lotion onto his paws, rub-rubbing it in. Very thoroughly. "Mm. Nice."
"So, the station looks good?" Prancer asked, still tinkering with her computer consoles.
"Yeah. Best I've seen it looking, you know, since coming here. Peregrine was right to make us clean it. Even though everyone complained. Of course, it's still eerie, empty, and dark, and ... the aesthetic? They didn't build this place with artistry in mind. A mining station is a mining station. And no amount of cleaning or redecorating can change that."
"I think this place has charm. Character. I like the ovals and curves. It's not all flat and sleek. It's spindly."
"Like a poisonous spider," the porcupine said, putting the lotion bottle back. Still rubbing his paws together. He padded to her open-aired office. "What're you doing?"
"Going over cell samples I collected from the planet a few weeks ago. Plants, animals. I got some great toads. Oh, and frogs? They're back there," she said, nodding her head toward the back of the infirmary. "In those wire-topped aquariums." Prancer spent most of her time doing small things. Small tests. She only had nine other furs to look after. And the Federation rarely checked up on their progress out here, so it wasn't like she had anything pressing to compile or do. She had a lot of free time. And she didn't know enough about archaeology or history to understand all those ruins down there. That was for Amelie, Wheldon, and all of them to decipher.
"Is that where all the churring is coming from?"
"Mm-hmm." Tap-a-tap. She brought up some new schematics.
"You know, this morning, when we were making love in here, I wondered what that churring was. I thought it was you!"
A giggle-squeak. "I squeak, chitter, and ... a few other things. I don't believe I can churr."
"Mm. Well, I thought frogs went croak and ribbit? Not churr-churr." The porcupine came up behind his wife, putting his paws on her chair. He leaned over her. "Mm?"
"Tree frogs and, uh ... water frogs," she said, "churr. They make all sorts of sounds. And they have sticky feet. They stick to whatever they land on. Scared me to death when I saw one on my arm."
A giggle-chitter. "Mm. And what about the toads?"
"Toads are toads."
"That right, huh? Toads are toads, porcupines," Nin whispered, "is porcupines, and squirrels ... " He began kneading Prancer's shoulders. Knead-knead. " ... squirrels is squirrels. And squirrels need to turn their computers off and leave the infirmary."
Closing her eyes, the cinnamon-furred squirrel smiled. "Yeah?" she whispered back.
"Yep. Cause I love you too much. I gotta take you out of here, to our glorious, luxurious," he joked, "quarters ... "
She giggle-squeaked. Their quarters were no such thing.
" ... and wine you, dine you, and make love to you. You can hitch to me like I'm a tree. Until we're both thoroughly, pleasantly," the porcupine promised, "needing sleep."
A dreamy sigh. "Nin ... "
"How 'bout it?"
" ... sure thing," she whispered, angular ears cocked. Whiskers twitching a bit. And she reached over and tapped some controls. Beep-a-beep. Beep. Shutting her things down. A whoosh of power as the lights dimmed.
"I can't see my way to the door," Nin said, roundish ears perking.
"Neither can I. I guess we'll have to fumble our way to a bio-bed."
"We did that this morning. We might as well live in the infirmary."
"It is more spacious," Prancer teased, slipping out of her chair. Rising to her bare foot-paws. "Would give me more room to practice my acrobatics." She was a skilled arboreal gymnast. It wasn't anything she'd ever done for competition. Just for fun and exercise. Squirrels were extremely agile.
"We should eat first," the porcupine insisted. "I am hungry."
A tiny sigh. "Now that you mention it ... so am I."
"We could get something from the repli-mat and bring it back here," was the suggestion.
"We could." Prancer paused, considering. Her luxurious, bushy tail waving like a flag. "Mm." An exhale. "Now that my impulsiveness has fled, I think we'd be better suited going back to our quarters." She put her paws to his fur. Feeling the flat, safely-tucked lines of his quills lying beneath it all. "Besides, I may get more furs coming here and asking for lotion. They won't bother us if we're in our quarters."
"Well, I'll do whatever you want, darling. You lead the way."
The squirrel bit her lip. Thinking. "Um ... okay, quarters. Quarters. I want our own bed. The scent of your fur in the sheets. I want ... " A squeak!
" ... to be swept off your foot-paws?" he asked, holding her in his arms, now.
A giggle-squeak, paws going around his neck for support. "I guess so."
"Good." And the porcupine carried her out of the infirmary. Toward their quarters. For some definite 'rest and relaxation.'
A squeak of surprise, ears going rosy-pink. His first reaction (of many reactions) was to twitch and squirm. As if resisting. As if scared. But was he? Petra didn't know. But, all the same, she treaded gently. Very gently.
" ... don't wriggle," the rat said, with good nature. "Gotta stop wrigglin' ... " She was stronger than him, and began to pin him still. A slight giggle. Still holding. "There we go," she eventually said, satisfied by his temporary stillness. She leaned against him. They were in her quarters, on the couch. The lights were dim. It was late at night, after ten. "Good boy," she whispered tenderly, giving a chitter-sound. Her paw, during this time, had made its way into his pants. Not just his pants, but his white, cotton briefs. She had a confident grip of his limp mouse-hood. "Gotta get you stiffer than that, don't we ... " She began a series of rhythmic squeezes. Squeeze-a-squeeze. Stop, relax. Squeeze. Stop. Tick. Tick-a-ticking, now, firmer. Upward with blood. "Here it comes ... you're doin' wonderful, honey. Don't be afraid. Nothin' bad's gonna happen ... "
He almost cried at her words. Her tone. It was so affectionate. She knew what she wanted. Again, that scrappy rat-like confidence and verve. That no-nonsense attitude. She wasn't one to pull her punches. Wasn't one to bury things. But Peregrine was. He buried lots of things. In deep, self-made burrows. They may have both been rodents, but he didn't see that they had that much in common. Other than that they were both lonely and mate-less. Other than that they were stationed in the middle of nowhere (somewhat exiled from normal society) and were each other's only short or long-term opportunity for companionship. So, they could either ignore each other or go for it. And loneliness was too severe and wrenching a thing to opt for the former.
"I'm good at findin' sweet spots," Petra explained. "You know, that spot that feels the very, very best? With males, it's almost always on the head ... "
Peregrine swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. Hammer-hammer. Dinner was over. It had been a small, replicated meal, nothing fancy. Nothing real or cooked from scratch. Rats didn't go for fancy. She'd replicated cheese, of course. Some vegetables, bread. No alcohol. She'd admitted before they'd eaten that ...
" ... I'm not one with highbrow tastes, so I eat modest meals. 'Sides, we don't got a hydroponics bay or whatever y'call those. And the planet below, it's half-desert, half-forest, but it'd take too many resources to go down there to harvest anything ... "
"That's, uh, fine." Peregrine nodded. "I'm a light eater." He was trim, slender. Like most mouses. He nibbled on things. He never had a great, voracious appetite. Whiskers twitching, he let out a deep breath, bowing his head. Putting his paws together.
Petra hesitated.
He looked up.
"Do you mind sayin' it?" she asked, of the prayer.
A slight nod.
"I just ... I pray in private. I feel a bit, uh ... it's very private," she said.
"It's just food. We're just giving thanks for our food. Our blessings," the grey-furred mouse said. He was surprised that she would be shy about anything. He was the shy one.
"Look, hun, I'm not elegant, okay? I'm not good with words or any o' that. You are. From what I know of you, you're better at that. You'd say a far better prayer than I'd say."
"I don't think God grades prayers based on flash. I think it's content."
Petra said nothing.
And Peregrine, whiskers twitching, gave a nod. "Alright. Uh ... okay." A deep breath, bowing his head again. Keeping his paws pressed together. Closing his eyes, he said, "Dear God, thank you for this food that nourishes our bodies and Your love that nourishes our soul. Thank You for our salvation through Your son. Thank you for redemption, for ... for everything we have. We acknowledge that it comes from You. That all we have, it's ... it's all blessings. Not birthrights. Thank You for everything. We love You. In Jesus' name we pray, amen." And he cleared his throat, looking up. Ears a bit rosy. "I'm not that elegant, either."
"Y'are."
"I'm not."
"Are we gonna eat or argue?" the rat asked, smiling. Her whiskers gave a few twitches. And her ears, not as dishy as his, perked atop her head. "You know what I think?" she asked.
The mouse, poking his fork into some broccoli, looked up, blinking.
"I think it's ... "
" ... the tip," she whispered, very softly, hotly. Back in the present. Attempting to stimulate his 'sweet spot'. "I bet it's the tip." A furry fingertip massaging the very tip of his blunt, circumcised penis-head.
Uncomfortable, throaty squeaks. He tensed, whimpering. "N-no ... "
"Too sensitive," she realized, understanding. A little wince. "Hun, I'm sorry. I'm sorry ... " She made shushing sounds. "Okay, hold on ... I think I know. It's here, isn't it?" Her fingers deftly moved, maybe an inch. To the back of the head. The ridge. The ridge of flesh at the back of his head, where the head gave way to the shaft. That dividing line. Her thumb carefully wagged across it.
Peregrine lost his breath, muzzle contorting, bare toes curling. All in warm, body-tingling pleasure. "Oh," was his helpless moan. The difference in an inch of flesh had meant the difference between over-sensitive pain and perfect, paralyzing pleasure.
"Told ya I could find it." A simple grin. "Penises are tricky things. I think they're much more temperamental than their plain reputation." Her thumb giving a few more wags. "Feels good, huh?"
The mouse panted airily, giving a swallow. A weak, congratulatory nod. Oh, gosh. It did. It felt so good. Oh. His sweet spot. He hadn't been touched like that in a long time.
Petra chuckled, carefully withdrawing her paw from his pants. "I never knew how softly mouses could squeak."
Licking his lips, the mouse just said, "I, uh ... I don't know much about my own squeaks." He felt a bit dizzy.
"I guess that's true. They say, y'know, that you never sound like you think you do? I listened to a recording of myself once, and it didn't sound like I thought I sounded ... " The rat snugged close to him. "I had a nice supper. I usually eat supper alone. I eat lunch, y'know, in the repli-mat, with the others, but, uh ... supper? They all go their quarters, eat, make love, and ... " She trailed. " ... and I come here eat alone. In the quiet and the dark." A pause. "It's nice to have someone to be with. Y'know?"
He nodded quietly. He knew. And he opened his muzzle to say something.
But she intuited his unspoken concern, beating him to it. "I'm not gonna make you sin, 'kay? I'm not gonna make you sin," she promised, paw beneath the shirt of his uniform, fingers splayed in his belly-fur. "No intercourse or muzzle."
A nod. A tiny sigh.
"We'll just use our paws, 'kay?" A pause. "Well, maybe our tails, too, but ... " Her paw ran up his chest, now. "Just gonna paw," she whispered, trying to soothe him. "Just relax." Softly stroking his rain-cloud fur. "Pretty color." Her fingers splayed, then came back together. "Mm ... Seldovia, she told me 'bout what happened. Were you even gonna mention it? I bet it's been on your mind all afternoon ... just gotta bottle it up?"
Peregrine said nothing. Closed his eyes.
"She told me 'bout her and Morty in the shuttle. And that picture and all, and ... all that," she whispered.
The mouse opened his eyes, but didn't make eye contact. "There's nothing to tell. I, uh ... I wasn't mad at them or anything." A swallow. "But they shouldn't have been in my shuttle. It's ... " A sigh, not finishing.
"She said you seemed very sad." A pause. "After hearing what she said about you, I understand why. Your fiancee and all? All that trouble?"
"It was years ago. I've moved on," he insisted, with as level a tone as he could muster.
"Still, one can move on and still be in pain, y'know? You gotta have some scars, an' they can haunt a fur. I should know. I never lost a lover, but I lost family. I had some things happen to me." She didn't elaborate on that. At the moment, there was no need to. "I just want you t'know that ... "
" ... are you going to try to apologize, too?" he interrupted, whiskers twitching. Feeling very self-conscious. Which was odd. He felt more self-conscious now, talking about his past, than he did when she'd had her paw down his pants. Shouldn't it have been the other way around?
"No," the rat whispered, using her free paw to gently run her fingers across his cheek. "No, hun ... I just don't want you to cave in on yourself."
"Every time furs find out, the first thing they say is 'I'm sorry.' What are they sorry for? They didn't know her. They don't really know me, either. It's just ... it's something they say, not something they mean."
"What would you rather have them say, then? Nothing?"
The mouse considered, swallowing. "I'm, uh ... " An exhale.
"Y'don't know, mm? When furs find out 'bout a thing like that, a heavy thing like that, they gotta say something. They're not patronizin' you when they say you're sorry. You're 'fraid of being pitied?"
"I don't know, Petra." His voice was shaky. "I really, really don't wanna talk about it."
The rat nodded. "Then we won't," was all she said, with no ill will. Her paws starting to fumble. "Gotta get you naked, don't we. First, the button, then the zipper ... down we go," she said, playfully. Undressing him.
He didn't stop her.
"I can't tell you how refreshing it is t'do this with a male rodent. Oh ... before, y'know? When every-fur was busy, the only free one on the station was that feline captain. I pawed with him a few times. Cause he was single, too. Or ... he was, uh ... not very gentle. He scared me." A dark pause. Saying nothing more. Only, "And he had that sheath? I didn't know what t'do with it." All male rodents had their sheaths snipped at birth. A tradition that dated back thousands of years. No one knew when it started. But it was still adhered to. "Your squeaky toy's a pretty one ... " She deftly ran her fingers along the shaft. "One o' these days, I'm gonna be honored to be sown with it," she assured him. As if making a prediction. Or a promise.
" ... I'm sure a feline's more impressive than a mouse," was all he said. "I'm sure you've pawed with furs who've had better."
"Nonsense." A chitter-sound. "You're handsome," she assured, "all over. Or should I say cute? I'm not sure which is more appropriate, but ... and you're a rodent," she breathed, content. "That's important to me. I don't feel I have t'marry another rat, but I gotta at least be with another rodent, y'know? Someone I can relate to. Someone ... " She trailed. " ... I don't care if some feline's got a bigger, bulkier thing on 'im. Gimme a modest, sheath-less rodent any day. Comfortable. Humble. Not too big, not too small ... something that'll feel nice and easy inside me, with no barbs, knots, or other outrageous quirks ... I want what you got, mouse. I want it where it aches. So, don't tell me what I should be findin' impressive."
Peregrine blushed horribly. At her frankness, her honestly. Her direct, confident words. Her implied statements of how she wanted him in a permanent, bonded way. Why couldn't he take life and seize it like that? And love, for that matter? Why did he let the past bog him down?
Soon, her clothes came off, too. Shirt tossed aside, bra undone, pants off, panties flung. Until she was just like him: bare, in the fur. Exposing herself. Not in any lewd way. But with softness, with tender hope. Hope of affection, shared pleasure and purpose. For something good. To start a bond.
His eyes drank in her body. She was four inches taller than him, and weighed more. Solidly, strongly built, fur a plain, darkish-brown and tufted. Average-sized breasts with pink, pert nipples. That rat tail, those ears. Twitching whiskers. And a pink, pouting vulva between her legs. The last thing he looked at. And it drew his longest stare.
"I know you can't do muzzle 'til we take the vows, but ... " She softly touched herself. Soon fingering herself for a moment. A soft, slick-slick sound. A slight huff, pulling her paw away, finger glistening with her nectar. She held it our for him. "Go on."
A few tentative sniffs, and he was suckling on her finger. For several seconds. He was very thorough about it.
"Well?"
Lips slipping off, he sighed. "It tastes good ... " His breath whooshed out at the word 'good.'
She fingered herself a bit more, being playful about it. Extending her paw again. With two fingers damp this time.
Eyes closed, he sucked them clean. A dreamy sigh through his twitch-sniffy nose.
She began to dip her fingers into her excited honey-pot for even more fluid, but he stopped her.
"You're, uh ... I better not taste too much. Or my muzzle will end up between your legs, and I, uh ... I don't wanna lose control," he whispered. "Not yet. I ... "
" ... didn't mean to tempt you," she said, sincerely. "I just thought you'd like it."
"I did. I do. But ... " He cleared his throat.
She settled comfortably on the couch-cushions, bare, breathing steadily. "I hear male mouses are, uh ... what's that word? That C-word?"
"Connoisseurs."
"Yeah. Of muff, yeah? Taste, scent, texture ... it's like a what's it called? A culinary art for you," she said. A giggle-squeak.
A shy nod. "I guess you could put it that way," he whispered.
"Why is that?" Petra asked, genuinely. She tilted her head. "You got this universal reputation. What makes you male mouses so good and so, uh ... expertly delectable at eatin' out a femme? You don't have the greatest tongues. Yet it's ... how come it's the best comin' from you things?"
"I don't know," was the quiet response, avoiding having to answer. "Just instinctual talent. I, uh ... " His cheeks got hot beneath his fur. He still tasted her on his tongue. He wanted more. But, no. Calm down. Control yourself.
"You're not embarrassed, are you? Of talkin' 'bout all this? Of pawin' together?"
"I just ... I normally keep to myself. I'm normally modest."
"S'okay to be modest. Just don't be embarrassed."
"I'm not."
"Way I see it," Petra said, fingering his belly button gently. Making him squirm a bit. "Desire itself isn't a bad thing. It's the application of desire ... like, uh, appetite. For food, attention, sex. It can go wrong, and it can be a cold blade through your shoulders. Some furs are just immature. They don't think big-picture ... how will this," she whispered, "affect me tomorrow, next week, next year? Not sayin' you should obsess over that, but maturity comes through experience."
The mouse shook his head, not understanding. His whiskers twitched. "What are, uh ... "
" ... well, I told ya. I'm not elegant with words. I can't get to a point real quick. I guess I'm tryin' to say that you don't strike me as the type that uses desires in unwieldy, self-indulgent ways. You strike me as thoughtful, careful. Devout. It's not your desires that's your vice. You shouldn't be embarrassed by them, cause you're partaking of them in safe, responsible ways. It's ... well, it's your anxiety that's the vice. You're not afraid to be open about sex, feelings, memories, y'know, cause you're ashamed ... it's cause you're afraid of rejection. Or spillin' it all upon deaf ears. Or spillin' it all," she finally said, "and trusting someone so completely ... only to lose them. You strike me as a fur that gives of himself when he's in love. You gave yourself. And she died. And a part of you died with her." A pause. "But God's full o' grand things. And He heals all kinds o' wounds, and I know you can heal to."
"I try ... "
" ... but it's hard?"
"The fact that healing is hard," Peregrine said, "is a given. It's healing alone," he admitted, "that's the wrecking ball."
"Well, maybe I can be a solution t'that ... yeah?"
Peregrine swallowed. Giving a tilt of his head. Blue eyes looking to her green ones.
"You alright, hun?"
"I was just thinking about something else. I guess it's related to being lonely. But ... see, I'm the outsider here, and ... " A whisker-twitch. " ... where do I fit in? This is not where I thought I'd be at twenty-three years old. On a mostly-abandoned mining facility above a mysterious, deserted world? With odd furs? I wanted to be married by now, with children, and ... that was going to happen," he said. "And then I lost it all."
"It can still happen," was the assurance. Still leaning against him. A sudden giggle-squeak. "Am I one o' the odd ones? Odd furs, you said?"
"Not so much as, uh ... Mortimer and Seldovia. And Wheldon. And ... "
" ... yeah, well they're certifiable. I'm the only sane one round here. You've fallen in with the right rodent," she assured, giggle-squeaking some more. And then, more seriously, "But we're all outcasts here. The Federation abandoned us. We're all we've got. Some o' the furs here might be cranky and quirky, but ... "
" ... they're not all we've got," the mouse insisted. "We've got God. And Christ."
"Yes ... yes, I know," she whispered, thumbing one of his little male nipples, now. "I know. I was referring to our mortal peers." A smile. Thumb-thumbing softly, before her paw strayed and went back to his fur. "I know your faith is very important to you. I believe it, too, you know. I just ... I'm not as devout."
"I know," was his echoed response.
"But just because I don't speak of my faith all the time ... you know, it's inside. It's private. It's personal. I share it by living it, not by, uh ... telling of it," she said.
A nod. "I try to be a good Christian. I try to follow the path." A breath. "It's not easy for me to talk about my faith, either, cause ... you know, some furs don't understand. They don't care. They think they know religion, but they can't see past their own biases to know much of anything." A pause. "But mostly cause I'm so shy."
"You're fine," she assured. "Don't worry 'bout it, 'kay?" She caressed his grey pelt some more. "You've been through horrible things. But those things will make you stronger, better. God has a plan for you."
He was quiet, eyes closed.
"And maybe I'm a part of that. I don't know. But ... hopefully," she whispered, "I am." Her paw slid down again. Down, down. "You were engaged, hun. You knew what love felt like. But ... no fur's ever asked me. Furs look down on rats. No one's ever asked me," she whispered, regret in her tone. Pain, maybe. Of being shoved to the margins. "What was her name?" she whispered, cupping his furry sac.
"It doesn't matter," was the blank response.
"It does to you."
"It doesn't matter," was the repeat. "It's over. It's ... I've moved on. I'm on a couch," Peregrine said, "with you. Light years from where I used to be. Out here on the edge of who knows where. I don't wanna bring all that back up." A pause. "Your name's the only one I need to know right now," was his honest, quiet response. Not necessarily romantic. But a statement of truth. "I can't enjoy this if ... if I try to bring her back."
A quiet nod. "I just ... thought you might wanna talk. If you do," she said, trailing, putting her nose in his fur. A deep sniff. "If you do, just ... just talk to me, Perry," she said.
A flinch. The only fur who'd ever called him Perry had been her. The femme he'd lost. That field mouse. Whose name he wasn't going to bring up.
Realizing her mistake (by the tension in his muscles, and by his twitches), Petra closed her eyes. "Sorry, hun. I ... "
" ... it's okay. You can call me that. I like it. It's ... I always liked being called that."
"You sure?" She opened her eyes, looking into his own.
A whisker-twitch, and a light nod.
A soft smile. "Perry," she whispered. "Well, you," she breathed, "have changed my preconceptions of mouses ... and I must thank you for that."
A little, sudden gasp, head leaning back. Eyes hooded, half-open.
"I know I said you'd have to have sex with me before I'd tell ya ... y'know, 'bout what a rat's sexual advantage is. But ... "
A weak, gaping squeak. Oh. Gosh.
" ... but I'll tell ya now. Can't resist. It's our tails," she whispered, grinning. Her thick, fleshy tail was completely coiled around the mouse's erect penis. To where his 'squeaky toy' couldn't even be seen. The tail had it completely hidden. "Our tails are somewhat like mouse-tails ... naked, little hairs, long, ropy. But ours are stronger. Ours have muscle to 'em. A rat's tail is very, very," she whispered, "versatile."
An effeminate, pleasured moan. Her coiled, ropy tail was rippling. The muscles were actually rippling. Squeezing. Tail-flesh to his penis-flesh. Body heat to body heat. The stimulation. Oh.
"Our tails can squeeze things, go places ... you'd be surprised what my tail can do." Ripple-squeeze. Milk-milk. Uncoiling lightly, and then coiling again, squeezing. "So, now you know what my species' advantage is ... "
Peregrine writhed, squeaking. His paws clutched weakly at her fur. His breaths growing erratic, squeaks switching to even higher pitches (an orgasmic signal in male mouses, indicating that orgasm was less than a minute away).
"Not yet ... not yet," she whispered, tail uncoiling, easing up. "Earlier, I found your sweet spot. You know how to find a femme's?"
A shy, hot nod. This wasn't the first time he'd pawed with a femme. It was just the first time in quite a while.
"Well, go on. Explore," she nudged, leaning into him. Leaning, taking him to a horizontal lie-down on the couch. Naked and on their sides, facing each other. Both of them with twitching whiskers and sniffing noses.
Panting, Peregrine fished between her legs with a paw, brushing her clitoris. Teasing it.
"Go where you need to go. Like I said, don't be embarrassed ... your intentions are pure. We're both workin' up a romance, right? Romantic love and purposeful faith ... they purify sex. And all that, uh ... spawns from it," she said. For they weren't technically having sex. They were only pawing. But it was still sexual pleasure. "Take it from a mere, instinctual act of animals into a higher art of sentience."
A swallow. Ears swiveling, flushing with blood as he listened to her. He stuck two fingers into her vagina, slowly. The slick, wet muscle so hot, so steamy. So raw and pink. It felt like a juicy furnace. Oh. It gave him hot shivers. He had to pause for a moment. He penis got even harder, at its full, modest length (of just four and a half inches). And, both fingers fully in her tunnel, he bent them upward, fingertips and blunted claws gently scratching the top of her tubular vagina. He pressed, massaged. Pressed. Slid his fingers. He started to twitch. Maybe he wouldn't be able to find it. Maybe she would laugh at him. His fingers two, three inches in, he twitched. Where, where ...
" ... ah! Ah ... "
... there. A sigh of relief. And of happiness (at making her happy). And he kept his fingers there, pressing, easing up. Pressing. While his other paw skirted her clitoris time and time again.
"Oh, y-yes ... yes," the rat chittered, arms going round him. To a loose, haphazard hug. She squeaked into his neck-fur, the sounds hot, muffled. Her loins aching, flittering, femininity welling with seismic heat.
Peregrine kept stimulating her.
And she didn't forget to return the favor. Her tail resuming its snake-like stranglehold on his penis, resuming the ripple-squeezing and hot, rhythmic coiling/uncoiling.
The grey-furred mouse's problems and pains slipped away. His fears. Being in a new place. None of it mattered right now. All of it displaced by a physical bliss so pleasurable, so satisfying. He squeaked happily, helplessly, paws still playing with her genitals. His own genitals being played to perfection. Pawing off had never felt so good. Never felt. Felt ... felt ...
... her vagina in spasms.
Petra hit her orgasm, crying out. A rat-like sound, a half-squeak, half-chitter. A bit of a yawp. Paws clutching at Peregrine's back fur. Muzzle sucking on his neck. Huff, huff. Her body hot, hot, fur matting with sweat. She looked even scruffier than she did when they'd started this. But it didn't matter. Because she had fire in her. She wasn't a dainty, elegant kind of beautiful, not a fashion kind of beautiful. She was a tough, strong beautiful, and she was moaning passionately, squirting a spurt of clear femme-nectar, squeaking desperately, curling her toes against his foot-paws. She was expressive. Moaning, "Oh ... oh, P-perr ... perry ... oh, y-yes! Oh! Uhn ... uhngh ... "
Peregrine's senses reeled, reeled, fire-worked. Erogenous ears sensitive, gorged with blood. Her sounds, her words ringing in his consciousness. His penis jerking about in her tail's grip. Jerk, jerk. Nothing. Jerk. And jerk, and spurt! Spurt!
"Uhn, hnn ... nn ... "
"Huh, uh ... ohn. Ohh ... ohh," the mouse went, unable to stop himself. Wispy, pleasured moans of ecstatic relief. With many mousey squeaks. Squeaks and chitters, mouse-hood spurting spoonfuls of steamy-white semen, sowing, coating the coiled length of Petra's fleshy tail. Each ejaculation sent shivery hotness up his spine, from tail to nose-tip. He wriggled, arching.
She kept him in place, panting, recovering from her own climax. Hugging to the mouse as he endured the retreat of his own.
"Oh ... " A squeaky huff, huff. A pant. "Oh ... "
Petra swallowed, pressing her sweat-matted, furry forehead to his. "You ... you have a very deft," she breathed, "touch, Perry. A lovely touch ... "
His ears still burning, he swallowed, licking his own lips. They were dry. "I, uh ... no, I, uh ... "
" ... how did it feel? My tail?"
He lost his breath for a moment. "It felt ... good," was all he could say. There were far better adjectives to use than 'good,' but his mind was in a dumb, hazy daze right now, and he couldn't think of them. "It felt so good," was all he could repeat.
"Your paws were gentle," she breathed, providing him with positive feedback, trying to build his confidence. "You weren't rough or rushed ... it was special, hun. Ooh ... oh," she went, suckling on his lower lip. The heat. The taste.
The mouse's muzzle tilted a bit, returning the kiss. In a fuller, hungrier way. Until he had to break it to breathe, to pant, so hot, sweaty, and seed-matted.
"You wanna make this, uh ... a regular thing?" Petra finally breathed. "Pawing together, I mean?"
Peregrine, eyes closed, gave a barely-made nod.
The rat opened her muzzle again, but closed it. Kept the words back. She'd been about to ask him if he wanted to go ahead and take the vows. Furry marriages (or, more casually, 'mate-ships') happened fast. It wouldn't have been unusual for them to marry so soon. But, thinking more deeply about it, now was not the time to ask. Now wasn't the appropriate moment. And she didn't want to risk him saying no. So, she held it back. She could wait.
A squeaky sound from him.
And she nuzzled him with her broader, less pointy nose. "My tail's all sticky. Gonna need to shower ... you're gonna go back to your quarters for the night?"
He nodded quietly. "I, uh ... I think sleeping together should be reserved for, uh ... when it's permanent."
"I understand," he whispered. Though, inside, she was disappointed that he was going to leave. She really didn't want to spend another night alone. "You'll shower with me first?"
"Course ... of course," he whispered, with clear, burgeoning affection. This was, indeed, a budding romance. And while not full-blown love, it had the potential to go in that direction. He wanted it to. Needed it to. That's why he'd come to her quarters tonight. For dinner. Pawing. For all of it. He'd come to start something.
And, indeed, something had been.
But he was 'in the fur' with an officer under his command. And if they wed, and if their love was deep and spiritual, could he remain objective? The last time this had happened, it had also happened with a rodent under his command. And having a second chance at love, would he be willing to risk Petra's life for the lives of everyone else? Would he be able to order her into a dangerous situation? She was the station's tactical officer (as well as first officer). If the station was raided by pirates, she would have to lead the counter-attack. Would he be able to let her do that? Knowing she could be killed?
"Perry?"
The mouse blinked.
"T'get to the shower, we gotta get up and go there." A giggle-chitter. "You seemed lost in your head there."
The mouse forced a smile. "I was just thinking."
"'Bout us?" she asked, hopefully.
A little nod. "Yeah," was the whisper. A deep breath. Before she could ask him to elaborate, he said, "I bet my knees will be wobbly when I stand." And he, twitching, began to sit up. And then, with a squeak, said, "Oh. I forgot to tell you."
Petra looked to him, raising a brow.
"I came up with a name for the station. Other than, uh, AR-558."
"Really?"
A nod. "You might think it's silly, but, uh ... well, on the way in, it looks like those docking pylons extend from the hull-rings like, uh ... well, like wings. You know? And the pylons are a reddish color." A breath. "Redwings. Cardinals?"
"Those are birds?"
"Course. Yeah, back home, they ... they have pretty songs," he whispered. A pause. "I love birds. But it made me think. Redwing. And redwings are the colors of hearts. And that's hopeful, and ... what do you think?"
"Redwing Station?"
A shy, innocent smile. Whiskers twitching, nose sniffing. Ears swiveling. And tail snaking. His mousey senses were all go, go, go. "Redwing Station," he decided.
"You might get a few complaints about it bein' a flowery name, but," the rat assured, smiling broadly and warmly, "I like it."
Peregrine, eyes closing, put his arms around her. And put his head on her bare shoulder. And just hugged.
Taking a breath, closing her own eyes, the rat hugged the mouse back. "You're doin' good, hun. You'll be okay ... "
He heard the words. But didn't respond. Just kept hugging.
Until she pulled him upright, to his foot-paws. And guided him to the shower.