Debatably So
"She wasn't all that happy," the mouse said quietly, whiskers twitching, darker-blue eyes staring at the cornflower-colored horizon. The rural vista, all these rich, verdant fields and wild pastures, all these snowy cottonwood and noble sycamore trees, and all the puffy, island-like clouds above, all of it held together with photons and force-fields. Held together by unseen technology. He and Petra were in one of the simulation rooms on the Promenade. "But I expected that, so ... " A whisker-twitch, finally looking to his wife. His posture unmistakably submissive. Demure. " ... why can't I let it go?"
"Well, they're still your family, an' you love 'em. You care what they think." They were sitting in a wooden swing, which was strung on a pole that ran between two tree-trunks. It was late-afternoon, the sun a lemon-bold. And quite warm. And almost real. It really was hard to remember that they were actually in a grid-patterned, boxy room on Redwing Station.
"I didn't say I didn't care, or that it didn't bother me," Peregrine replied, honestly. Taking a breath. Holding it. And letting it go. "I just said I expected it, so ... you know?"
Petra, looking to him, tilted her head and asked, "What'd she say, exactly?" Her green eyes probed him.
"Well ... something along the lines of, 'A rat?!' At first. And then ... " He blew out another deep breath, whiskers twitch-twitching. This whole thing had him worked up. He'd contacted his family earlier in the day. Using the sub-space comm channel (which traveled along a whole line of deployed satellite relays). However it worked (and he wasn't an engineer, so he wasn't entirely sure), he could communicate with any-fur back home in real-time. Even though he was two weeks away from the heart of Federation space (where the bulk of Federation 'civilization' was located).
"And then?" Petra prodded, her thick, naked-pink tail snaking between swing-boards, hanging in the air and tracing the grass.
"Then she asked me how come I couldn't just find another cute, friendly field mouse ... like I had before," he whispered, biting his lip. A shake of the head, eyes darting. "They were really happy for me, you know, that first time. And then when, uh ... you know, when things happened," he said. He looked to his bare, soft-grey foot-paws, wriggling his furry toes. "I need to file my claws. Haven't done that since I came here."
"They're not even sharp. Mine grow faster than yours. It's your teeth you need to worry about. I haven't seen you gnawin' your wood-blocks."
"I gnawed last night," he insisted.
"Didn't see ya. Maybe ya forgot?" she said, with patience. With understanding.
"Maybe," he admitted.
"A rodent's incisors never stop growin' ... you need to be gnawin' to keep 'em from ... "
" ... I know, I know." A whisker-twitch. "I know. I just ... "
" ... you okay?"
"I'm okay," he breathed. And closed his eyes. And gently leaned his head on her shoulder. His big, dishy ears (so cute!) swiveling softly.
"Didn't mean to press ya."
"No, it's ... you're looking after me," he said. Eyes slowly opening. Head still on her shoulder. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. It's ... I need looking after," he admitted. A hard thing to say, for some. But not for him. He knew it was the truth. "I'll make sure to gnaw a wood-block tonight, after supper."
"Well, I'll gnaw one with ya. It can be our dessert." A grin.
Which made him giggle-squeak, a smile melting onto his muzzle. Dimples showing amidst his cheek-fur. His whiskers still going twitch-twitch-twitch. "Anyway, as far as what happened, you know, with me and my family? They just lost patience with me. Quite a while ago. I'm the oldest of my litter, and ... I mean, the oldest of all my siblings. I have, like, five. They're all more rambunctious than I am. I'm more reflective. But ... anyway, I was supposed to marry first. Have children first. Be successful first. Pave the way for my siblings, make my family proud, and ... and I didn't." A pause. "I fell apart. And my career went stagnant while I was ... " He didn't want to say it. But finished, " ... while I was in therapy." Therapy that, he was convinced, hadn't helped him all that much. It was his faith that had kept him together. Given him purpose.
"I don't know," he continued. "They wanted me to get over it quickly, and I couldn't, and ... here I am, taking an assignment way out on the frontier, taking a rat as a mate. And not having told them any of it." A helpless smile. A smile that held no amusement in it. "My mom says I've 'scurried too far.' That I didn't tell her where I was going or who I was mating cause I know, inside, that I'm making bad decisions." The smile was gone. His whiskers twitched. "But I don't think I am. You're not a bad decision. You're the best," he breathed, "decision."
"Did you talk to your dad?"
"My dad and I don't really talk that much ... "
"How come?" The rat blinked, curious. Her own whiskers twitching.
A pained, "We just don't."
Petra didn't press him for more. Just saying, "I don't have parents anymore. They're long gone. So ... I'm not belittling your familial troubles, y'know. But they must love you, Perry," she whispered. "They wouldn't care about what you did or where you were if they didn't love you. They'd have no reaction if they didn't want the best for you."
"I know. And I'm grateful for them. I just ... " A tilt of his head. " ... just don't wanna talk about it anymore?" he suggested. Eyes widening a bit, pleading. Talking about it was only making it worse. It wasn't solving anything.
"Then ya don't have to talk about it."
"Well, they know we're married, so ... and you're gonna meet them one day. All of them. I wanna bring you to see my home. And them. I mean, I'm not gonna hide from my family for the rest of my life just cause I married a rat ... "
Petra nodded.
"You just gotta understand that ... "
" ... mouses and rats don't mix. I know, Perry. You mouses are the clean, artistic, spiritual ones, and us rats? We're just the scruffy, scrappy, simple things."
"I never said that." He twitched.
"I know. But that's the common societal view ... correct or not. It's nothing new. There's been that rivalry for centuries. Mouses and rats, y'know? Used to get along, I think. That's what I heard. Then, when industry came, the rats went to the cities. The mouses stayed in the country. One group became urban and other remained rural, and ... they just got set against each other. Been a tension ever since. I mean, if my family were still around and knew I'd married a mouse? They'd call me names, I tell ya. So, I understand ... "
Peregrine nodded. "Well, it doesn't matter. I mean, I don't think less of you ... and you don't think less of me," he said. "We got over that pretty quickly, I think."
"Pretty quickly," the rat echoed, giving a bit of a smile. A cheeky kind of smile. "Well, we were sorta in the same boat. I mean, if we'd met on a station of one thousand furs, maybe we'd never have bothered to speak to each other. But here? We fulfilled each other's needs ... right place, right time. Some kind of fate, I think."
"Like God brought us together?" He bit his lip.
"Y'don't think He did?"
"Well, He has a paw in everything. He's everywhere. Omniscient. So, I think He did ... "
" ... but?"
"But nothing." A pause. "My family would make the claim that, no, this wasn't God's doing. That I'm 'simply making a mistake'."
"I guess mistakes are subjective."
"Some mistakes," the mouse whispered, "are subjective." His whiskers twitched. "Some," he repeated. "But claiming all mistakes to be subjective can be a dangerous thing. Sooner or later, you start believing that each and every wrong you do ... wasn't really wrong. Then you become an apologist for sin. And then you lose the capacity to learn from failure, because you won't admit you failed in the first place." He looked to her. A deep breath, his pink nose sniffing. "We all make mistakes. Small ones, big ones. Vicious ones, even. I think we both have the scars to prove it."
"We do," she agreed. She was a tough individual. With a great capacity for endurance. "But we both know this isn't no mistake, 'kay? Us? You an' me?"
"It's no mistake," he whispered, in perfect, serious agreement.
"So, why are ya worryin'?"
"Cause it's like you said: no matter what, I love my family. It's instinctual. And I can academically tell myself that I don't care what they think of me, but ... I do care." A sigh. "I just want them to be proud of me."
"You want their validation?"
"I'm their son. They conceived me, raised me, spent years of time and energy providing for me ... I'm not gonna be one of those children who takes that for granted. Who doesn't recognize that. Any child who thinks his parents are less than himself? Who looks down on them, or even hates them? Is an arrogant child. My parents were my age once, went through things ... and, like I said, spent so many years working to provide me with the best life they could give me. So, of course I want their validation. I owe them my life. And certainly my love. They matter to me. And not just them, but my siblings, and relatives, and ... all that," he said. "I mean, it's not leading me to doubt or second guess any of this. It just upsets me. I've been through a lot. I lost a lot, and ... you know, not just her," he said, of the field mouse he'd loved. "But my sanity, at times, and ... my confidence. And now that I'm finally healing, finally getting it back together ... I don't know."
He cleared his throat and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm saying. I mean, it's not like I'm ostracized or anything. It's not like they hate me. They love me. She said 'I love you' before I cut the channel. It's ... you know, it's not like I'm not gonna be welcomed at home. It's just that they're gonna make faces at me. They're gonna stare at you and whisper behind our backs. They're going to disapprove on the inside, even if they don't say it to our muzzles." A pause. "I have enough trouble with guilt and anxiety and such. And I don't need my family adding to it by trying to convince me I've made a mistake. Cause then I ... you know, then I get confused, and ... " An overwhelmed, anxious squeak.
"We'll worry about that when we see 'em. I think we're gonna be out here for quite a while," Petra said, putting a paw on his arm, gently running her fingers up and down his arm-fur. "They'll have time to get used to the idea, and we'll have time to ... ready ourselves to face 'em."
Peregrine nodded. She was right about that. They wouldn't be leaving this station anytime soon.
Petra, her head now leaning against his, whispered, "This is a lovely program. Never been in it 'fore."
"It's just like my home. Where I grew up?" the mouse, leaving the familial strains behind, brightened. "Fields and ... you can even hear the bobwhite. Hear it?"
"Bobwhite?"
"A bird. A quail. They make a whistle-sound, like they're calling out a slow, lazy 'bobwhite, bobwhite.' Like someone's name? I always tried to 'bobwhite' with them. I tried to make that sound. They'd be out there. I'd hear one. I'd try to echo it back. Cause that's what they do. And if I did it right, maybe we'd have a conversation or something ... " A bit of a giggle-squeak. " ... but I can't whistle. Never could, so ... didn't work too well," the mouse admitted. His tail was snaking behind the swing, as well, wavering closer and closer to her own.
"Y'can't whistle?" Petra asked, surprised.
A shake of the head. "Can't roll my tongue, either. Can't trill my 'R's' ... can't crack my knuckles, can't ... well, lots of things I can't do."
"Ya poor mouse," Petra teased, grinning. "I never knew. What'd your body leave ya with? What can ya do?"
"I can squeak," he joked. "And twitch. I can definitely twitch."
"Nothin' bad about squeakin' and twitchin' ... it can be awfully exciting."
"Heh. Maybe, but I'm just ... just a lame one, I guess."
"Well, I can whistle an' roll my tongue," Petra acknowledged, "so ya can have those things vicariously through me. That's the word, right? Vicariously?"
"That's the word." A gentle, sighing smile. And he looked out at the fields. "No mysterious, potentially-deadly artifacts, no amphibious space pirates ... just you and me and the breeze." From close up, he looked into her eyes. Pulling his head back just a bit. "Kind of a change of pace, isn't it?"
"Kinda." She nosed his neck, breathing his now-familiar, earthy scent. That mousey scent. A sigh. "Mm. But it's just a fiction, hun ... as peaceful as it is. Don't let it get to your head."
"I'm not gonna be a holo-addict. Don't worry ... this is the first time I've been in here since I came to the station."
"I know. Just sayin' ... it's real easy to get attached to some fantasy. But I'm your reality, and I want ya anchored firmly with me."
"I will be," he insisted. Not upset at her for worrying. He, after all, did plenty of worrying himself. And he knew she was only looking out for him. "I just love you so much. And it sounds cheesy to say it that way. I want to say it with a startling clarity and elegance, but ... instead of the same old words. But those words are the best at conveying what I mean. I love you," he said again, his tail finally brushing against hers.
Her tail, bigger and having more muscle, coiled around his. Until their ropy tails were all wound together like a double helix (without the rungs). "I love ya, too, hun. An' I got your tail," she added, grinning.
"I thought it was me who had yours?" A squeaky sound. And a chitter, also.
"Well, how 'bout let's just say we both got each other's? And call it even." And her tail gave a tug of his. And she chuckle-chittered, nosing his neck some more. Starting to mouth his fur, to wet it with her saliva. Her tongue moving about a bit. "Mm ... hmm," she went, leaning into him, trying to pull him off the swing and to the grass.
And, submissively, earnestly, he followed her lead. And went.
"What are you doing?" Mortimer asked, blinking, making a sudden stop. He hadn't expected to find anybody in this corridor. The raccoon's ringed tail swish-swished through the air, and his masked face scrunched up. "Mm?" was his demanding sound.
Benji looked up. A computer pad in his paw. He was sitting on the carpeted floor, back to the bulkhead. The lighting was dim and soothing, but not too dim to be dark. And it had that faint bluish hue to it. As most of the corridor-lights on the station did. The department lights (Ops, security, et cetera) and the Promenade lights, they were brighter and whiter.
"Mm?" the raccoon repeated, tilting his head. His black nose gave several inquisitive sniffs. And his angular ears cocked atop his head.
"I'm, uh ... well, I'm writing." The nutria was reminiscent of a beaver. And kind of like a mouse, even. His species name, in origin, came from an ancient word meaning just that: mouse-beaver. His tail was short and roundish. His ears being roundish, as well. His paws webbed like an otter's.
"Writing what?"
"Poetry," was the simple, honest answer. With a slight hesitation.
"Poetry? Really?"
"That's what I said, isn't it?" He sounded somewhat defensive.
"You did," was Mortimer's reply. And a squint. "Well, how come? Isn't it kind of crazy to be sitting in a corridor writing poetry? Isn't that what furs do when they've finally lost it?"
"No." A frown.
"Think it is."
"Whoever told you that?" Benji inquired.
"Common knowledge. All poets and artists and those sorts? They're all kooky ... end up killing themselves and stuff. Have bad ends. Like painters and stuff? And composers? Artists have WEIRD lives ... and weirder habits. Seems they all die young cause of it."
"That's just ... that's just not true," the nutria insisted.
"Always seemed it was to me."
"Look, anyway, I'm not a professional poet. It's just something I like to do."
"I see." The raccoon nodded. "You know what a phase coupler looks like?"
The nutria had to consider that one for a moment. "I think so." A blink or two. "Why?"
"I need an assistant. You're it." A point of his grey-furred, black-padded paw.
"Me?" was the chitter.
"Why not? I need help with stuff. And you can't just sit around the station writing poetry all day. You gotta do something useful, you know? You gotta contribute."
"So, poetry, art ... is 'nothing' as compared to 'something'? It's not useful?"
"It's not real work," Mortimer insisted, giving a dismissive paw-wave. "It has no tangible value, no immediate utility. Not like technology or business or science and all that. It's hobby-stuff. To be done when real work is over."
"I've heard that one before." The semi-aquatic, brown-furred rodent made an unpleasant face, rolling his eyes. "I can't stand it that so many furs think that. You know, I wanted to be a writer for a living? But every-fur told me 'that's not real work' ... so, I ended up joining the fleet instead. And look where it got me: stuck on some old mining station on the edge of who-knows-where."
"It also got you a hot otter as a mate," the raccoon wisely pointed out, giving a wink as he said this. "That'd be enough to keep me from complaining. Though, personally, I prefer skunks." A grin as he thought of Seldovia, his own love. "Now, before you keep babbling, let me tell you: I'm a raccoon. I've a penchant for arguing, so if you know what's good for you? You'll stop. Else I'll start."
Benji's whiskers twitched. He gave a sigh.
"Peregrine wants our priority to be station defense systems. Anything to repel potential attacks or boarding parties or the like. I need help, and you can help me. I'll do the engineering, and you'll carry my stuff, hand me the tools I need, keep a checklist of what we've done and haven't done, et cetera."
"Milka knows more about that stuff than I do. She can give you shield harmonics, weapons frequencies for individual pirate ships ... render their weapons moot. Talk to her." He really wanted to get back to his poetry-writing. He was a solitary creature. He wasn't used to furs approaching him and making demands of his time.
"Look, what'd I say about arguing? I'm the champion. You don't know the first thing about it." He puffed out his chest proudly. "I know how to argue," he said again, almost as if daring the nutria to truly pick a fight. Come on. Try it. See how far you get, his body language seemed to say.
"I'm not even arguing!" was Benji's squeak.
"You're telling me," was the raccoon's unimpressed response. A 'tsk' sound and a shake of the head, tail swishing about.
"No, I mean I'm not even trying. I'm just ... " Benji sighed, shaking his head. "I give up. I'm gonna stop, now."
"Good." A grin. "That means I win."
"You can't win an argument if we didn't even HAVE one ... "
"Ah," the raccoon warned, holding up a paw. "You're coaxing me closer to it ... you wanna verbally spar?"
"I don't. I really don't. I just want to be left alone so I can ... "
" ... be my assistant. You're such a pal." Mortimer grinned. "We got systems to enhance. Come on, mouse-beaver-otter ... brown-furred thing," he said, starting to pad off.
"Nutria. I'm a nutria," Benji declared, scrabbling to his foot-paws and padding after him.
"Nutria?" the raccoon said, making a 'pfaw' sound. "Never heard of 'em."
And Benji, too late, realized he'd now enticed the raccoon into a full-blown argument. Dammit. And a sigh as he breathed, "Well, whoever said any-fur heard of raccoons?"
"Everyone knows about raccoons," Mortimer said, loving this, going on and on.
Benji rolled his eyes and tucked his computer pad into one of his uniform-pockets. The poetry would have to wait 'til later. Right now, he'd have to settle for wandering the corridors of the station with an argumentative coon who'd just conscripted him to be an engineering assistant. And I don't know anything about engineering, Benji thought to himself. As they entered a lift, with Mortimer still going on, the nutria thought about Milka. She was doing some tasks on the Promenade or something. They were to meet in their new quarters for 'lunch' (more than just food, in other words). He already missed her.
And lunch wasn't for another two hours.
Two hours.
" ... and that's how come shiny objects make the best birthday presents," Mortimer finished.
Benji blinked. How'd he possibly go from arguing about the notoriety of raccoons to shiny objects as birthday presents?
"So?" Mortimer asked, nodding his head. "What do you have to say to that?"
"I say that you win the argument, and I defer to your superior verbal-sparring ... powers, or whatever they are," the nutria insisted.
"You forfeit?"
A nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Hmm. Well ... alright, I allow it. But only THIS time. Next time, you have to see it through to the end." The raccoon swished his bushy, ringed tail, waving it in front of the nutria's muzzle.
And the lift stopped, doors swishing open.
"Now, come on. Lets fetch some tool-kits and see what we can fix."
"W-wheldon, I ... I cannot focus on my research when you are ... " The snow rabbit raised her muzzle, eyes slipping shut. " ... when ... ah," she breathed, momentarily losing her breath. "Ah," she went again, mewing. And her muzzle leaned back down, and her body slumped forward. She propped herself up with her paws and arms, elbows bent as her paws pressed flat to a computer console. Pressing down from the pleasure.
The tea-furred rabbit, on his knees, was suckling ever-so-tenderly on her hooded clitoris. Having undone her pants, pulled her panties down to her knees. Having freed her femininity to be slurped on by his horny muzzle. Her scent directly greeting his nose, fueling him. And her taste! He loved the taste of her pussy. As he suckled and licked deeply, always returning to that hooded bud.
The snow rabbit, losing her prim and proper restraint, gave a mew. Mew, mew. Soft, smooth sounds. She shivered hotly, tensing, tensing. Her clitoris, her pride and joy, now being expertly skirted by her husband's tongue. Indirect stimulation of her stiffening nub. She held her breath, shifting her foot-paws apart, apart. Spreading her legs by a few more inches.
A few more lip-nibbles and breathy slurps, the rabbit pulling his muzzle away. He drank in her sex with his eyes. Amelie just standing there, hunched over, naked from the waist below. At a stance with legs apart. The toes on her bare foot-paws curling, digging into the carpet. Her hips were curved, supple, fertile. The fur a soft, pure, snow-like white. And her vulva pouted like a pink-flushed flower, complete with soft, fleshy petals (her labia). And her vagina smelled moist with arousal. And, like the cherry on top, her bobtail flicker-flicker-flicked!
Wheldon squirmed, trying to turn her around. As he buried his nose in her fluffy, puffy tail, mouthing at her tail-fur, wetting it. Gripping her rump-cheeks, his fingers digging into the soft cheeks, kneading, rubbing. Mm. Hmm.
The snow rabbit, trying to clear her hazy mind, realized she had work to do. But even a logical, frozen-over snow rabbit could look at the choices (work or sex) and mew out, "I ... I wanna fuck."
Wheldon shivered deliciously at her strong request. The word hadn't seemed vulgar coming from her tongue. It had seemed vital and needy. It had seemed extremely rabbity. And they were both, after all, rabbits. Fucking was like breathing to them. So, so virile, so hot, Wheldon grasped at her hips, pulling her down. Down. With him. To the carpet.
Lingering clothing was pulled at, tugged off, tossed aside.
As bodies began to writhe, writhe.
Thriving on touch.
Striving to breed.
He didn't remember getting into position. Had she presented herself, flickering that holy-white bobtail of hers? Or had he pushed her legs open? He didn't remember that short build-up. He was only conscious of her suddenly flat on her back, legs raised. Of his body at a shimmy on top of hers, his penis sticking forth, dipping into her vagina. Velvety vagina. Hot, muscular tunnel, deep-pink, blood-fed, raw with heat, slick with femme-nectar. His muzzle contorted with pure, happy pleasure. He moaned from it. No way he could keep quiet. It felt too good. So, so good. So good that he zoned out for nearly a whole minute, at a hilt in her body, reveling in it. Panting, panting, antenna-ears twiddling. Twiddle-twiddle!
Until she mewed. A desperate, pleading mew. Friction. She needed friction. Her vagina was hugging his rabbit-hood. It was all good for him just resting there. But she badly needed his penis to move back and forth, back and forth. So as to rub every centimeter of her naturally-lubricated vaginal walls.
And Wheldon surely needed the friction as well. He wanted to orgasm. And to do that he needed to make his penis move in and out of her more and more until the sensations rose to where his vision sparked and his seed spurted out. His instinct knew as much. For that's what he was running on. Simple instinct.
For oh, this was basic, lovely breeding, lacking pretentiousness, full of the most feel-good physicality.
Wheldon humped his wife, his bark-brown belly-fur meshing with her white belly-fur. Her snowy, nipple-peaked breasts warmly snugged to his chest, which surged forward and pulled back by inches, her nipples rubbing through his fur. Hardening. And his little male nipples also hard, though not nearly as noticeable.
But the feverish pace and crazily-virile need of the act had Amelie already matted with sweat. Her fur damp, sticking. Her tongue lolling out. "W-wa ... water," she mewed, trying to get the word out in between building moments of bliss.
It was so, so hard to do, but Wheldon pulled his pink, stiff, seven-inch rabbit-hood out of her body, out of that feminine furnace. It glistened wetly, so hard. A vein showed. Pre drooled from the slit. The penis head was flushed and super-sensitive. A weak whimper. Whimper-calling, the naked rabbit crawled carefully over her equally-naked body, clearing her. Getting to his knees and reaching onto one of the tabletops. Stretch, stretch ... got it! Got her water bottle, which was filled with ice water (snow rabbits required twice the amount of water that other furs did, so they were constantly toting water bottles around; and, of course, during the hot and heavy act of breeding, they often had to stop for water breaks, lest they dehydrate).
She reached for it with both of her delicate paws. Licking her dry lips. Panting hard. Her ears waggled crazily.
He fumbled it over.
And she put the 'nipple' of the bottle in her mouth, greedily sucking, gulping. Water dribbling from her lips and running down her clear whiskers, where they flicked off. And, finished, having polished off half the bottle, she tossed it aside. It rolled off a bit, stopping on the carpet. And she, breasts heaving, reached her arms out. Wanting to hug him down atop of her. Wanting him in her grasp. Wanting him.
He went. Settling back to his wife's body, belly to hers, chest to her breasts. Furry hips to furry hips. And proud, throbbing rabbit-hood easily passing back through her pussy-lips. Where it belonged. Where it was designed to go. Their bodies a perfect fit. Oh, thank you, Lord, for such precision! A cry of joy, sucking on her cheek-fur, whiskers tangling, brushing. Hump, hump. Oh. Oh. Though they were rabbits and bred voraciously (each of them 'peaking' five times a day), though these sensations were nothing new, nothing original, her body still felt freshly glorious each and every time. Glorious.
She held to him, her body rocking with his grunting bucks. He grunted like an animal each time he pushed back into her. His penis firm, filling. Oh, filling her. Oh, she needed to be filled. It stroked her rippling walls as it moved. And his hip-bone was grinding with hers, tugging the skin and fur around her clitoris. Providing much-needed, indirect stimulation. Oh. Oh, yes. Oh. Oh, y-yes ... oh!
Amelie gave a gasp. A sharp one. Body tingling, tensing. She trembled. Her paws literally trembling as she squeezed her husband down atop of her in huge hug, her limbs (arms and legs) wrapping around him. Keeping him in place as she cried out in orgasm. Her ears stiff and twiddling. Her vagina trembling, in shaky, milking spasms. Tremors! Flinging ecstasy to every part of her! The snow rabbit's head rolled to the side, eyes watered shut. Muzzle open, she gave steady, simple moans of pleasure.
His cries soon melded with hers. As her orgasm triggered his own. As he gave the act its biological purpose by sowing her. With those involuntary ejaculations, his penis spurting wildly, spewing steamy-white rabbit semen at her dipped-down cervix (though she was not in heat). A rabbit-bark. Another. Bobtail flickering above his tensed rump-cheeks. Bark. His ear-tips searing hot. Oh. Oh, yes. Yes. Oh. Until finally, he tapered off.
They lay, panting, dazed in afterglow. For several minutes.
Until, shivering, rabbit-hood going limp, Wheldon pulled out. "Ooh ... oh, wow," he managed, giving a goofy grin. A chuckle followed. He felt damp with sweat. Hot with exertion. "Oh ... darling," he breathed, stroking her bare belly. Splaying his fingers and gently scritching her belly button.
She gave him an extremely-satisfied eye-smile, her ice-blue eyes sparkling happily. "That was," she affirmed, "a very enjoyable bout of breeding."
"I feel awesome," Wheldon said, giggle-mewing, a smile still plastered to his muzzle. He leaned down, on all fours over the top of her, and pressed his muzzle to hers. His muzzle at a tilt as he suckled on her lower lip before segueing into a full-out lip-kiss. Wet, moist, hot. And breaking it to breathe, he panted softly, "Thank you. So much ... I'm, uh ... " His eyes met hers. An apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I didn't make that more romantic. I think we were both worked up."
"We were," she agreed, whispering back to him. "But, as rabbits, we are allowed an occasional attack of 'all-out yiffiness'." Her paws gently on his sides. She loved the feel of him. The warmth of him. "We can be romantic tonight, perhaps?"
"Soft and sensual," he promised, "with sweet, spiritual love whispered into your ears ... I'll make it last for an hour. And then, when we go off, it'll be like the grand finale of a firework show ... "
She kept eye-smiling, eyes half-open. "That sounds lovely."
"It will be ... and you," he said, kissing her nose so gently, "are beautiful. And desirable. And everything to me. God certainly blessed me when He brought you into my life." Oh, thank you, God. Oh.
"Thank you," was her whisper. "I love you, as well, Wheldon."
The tea-furred rabbit grinned. "You need your water bottle?"
"I do," she admitted.
A chuckle as he rolled off her body, fetching it. Bringing it back.
And Amelie sighed. Last week, she'd had trouble focusing on her husband. She'd been so lost in her work. Now, she was having trouble focusing on her work, so lost in her husband as she was. And she had to admit: the latter was the more preferable malady. Much, much more preferable, indeed.