Fruitful
The black-dotted, bright-red of Indiana strawberries, refreshing, resplendent, mixed with the smooth, mellow melon of cool cantaloupe. It smelled so softly sweet, like swept-back curtains, like summer's relief. And the juice dribbled from their lips, down clear whisker-tips, flicking off like wayward, sugared dew. There was a bit of whipped cream involved, too. The kind (generic, not brand) that came in the little plastic tub. With the circular lid. A light, melt-in-your-muzzle finish that reminded one of marshmallows. All this food put together didn't really constitute a meal. You could call it a snack, though, maybe. A midday snack.
Yes, Field thought, smiling to himself. A midday snack. He stretched, his bare, blunt-clawed foot-paws reaching, toes pointing. And then relaxing. An inhale, an airy, squeaky breath, and, "Didn't know ... "
" ... stop it," she said, mirth in her tone. Speaking with an equal hush, like the breeze outside their open, screened windows. It was such a sunny breeze, with few clouds to cool it. The trees, full of green, verdant leaves, rustle-rustled their secret messages. And the birds joined in, only with songs (not rustles).
" ... you were a fruit bat. Didn't know you were ... "
" ... I'm not a fruit bat," Adelaide insisted, giving a giggle-chitter. A tilt of her head, her fingers dipping into the nearby tub of whipped cream. It was cool, having been in the refrigerator. Swirling absently, her fingers came forward. "Fruits and insects," she breathed, "comprise the foundation of any bat's diet." Her fangs showed. "You know that," she said. "You totally know that."
"Uh-huh." His muzzle opened, trying to take in her fingers. Trying to suck the cream off. Cute, wide-eyed squeaky-sounds. Squeak, squeak. Squeak.
"You're bein' a bit silly today," she went, playfully holding her cream-covered fingers back, grinning a toothy grin. They were both in bed, the navy-blue sheets strewn, the comforter on the floor (with their discarded clothes; for, oh, they were bare, 'in the fur'). It was a Sunday afternoon, over ninety degrees, very hot and humid. And when your body was covered with fur, such heat was stifling, suffocating. They were both matted lightly with sweat (which made their fur appear a bit darker than normal, perhaps), and were lightly panting as a result. It was after church, after lunch, and their daughter (Akira) was in her own bedroom, in her crib. Not sleeping, but playing with her toys. And Adelaide's telepathic mind was monitoring her.
Everything was fine.
And everything tasted of fruit. For they had a big, glass bowl of assorted fruits, sitting here in bed. The strawberries and cantaloupe, of course. But also watermelon, blueberries, sweet cherries. Along with the tub of whipped cream. Along with some plastic cups of water sitting on the bed-side stand (the ice all melted inside, condensation dripping down the bright plastic). It made one drool. It made sleepy, lazy yawns taste like all-natural sugar.
"You're bein' silly," she repeated, whispering it. Still looking her husband in the eyes. His murky blue-greys. Her own eyes being a deep, shimmering pink. "Silly, silly," she teased.
"Only cause," he breathed back, "you are. You're contagious." His thin, silky-pink tail side-winded on the sheets. Side. Wind. Side-wind. Before stopping for a moment, a moment. And then starting up again, as if run by a motor. Indeed, a mousey motor! And Adelaide mentioned this. "Your mousey motor. Your heart," she said. For that's what it was. It was his heart. "You're only silly when your heart is happy."
"Isn't it that way for most furs?"
"I suppose. But most furs can be silly, you know, like ... silly-immature, silly-stupid, silly-stubborn, or just plain silly-irreverent."
"I don't try to be silly," he told her, honestly.
"I know. But when you are, it's ... seems purer. It's rather," she whispered, "fun to watch." Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened. "And you're right. When one of us gets silly, the other follows suit. Maybe I am contagious. But so are you. We're ... "
" ... symbiotic," he finished for her. "Joined at the hip. Or someplace."
A giggle-chitter. "Someplace, hmm?"
"Well, I don't wanna be ... "
" ... crude, I know." A pause, tilting her head. Then bobbing it a bit, as if to some imaginary music. The pink-furred bat breathed, "And, before, I didn't even mean you were being silly-silly, even. I just meant silly-happy. Like a punch-drunk love kind of thing. Light and prone to giggle-squeaking, prone to bright-eyes."
"Absolutely ... "
" ... contagious," she finished for him. Her eyes sparkled, locking with his. Outside, the mockingbird mimicked a frog, a finch, a flurry of things. It could actually mimic squeaks and chitters. And that was Field and Adelaide's fault. They'd only encouraged it. Too many times of leaving the windows open while they made love. And the mocker, sitting in that tree out there, would hear it and learn the sounds. And, as mockers did, would constantly repeat them at completely random intervals. "That mocker," Adelaide said, thinking about it, "knows our sex-sounds. Should we be alarmed?"
A giggle-squeak. "Well, I think it's just jealous. Else it wouldn't have bothered to learn 'em."
"I can just imagine, though, if he flies to some other little farm-house, lands on the porch at sunset and ... just interrupts the scene with desperate squeaks and unchained chitters." Adelaide shook with mirth. "Silly thing. It's silly, we're silly ... I guess life has a certain capacity for silliness? I guess God allowed for that?"
"I'm sure He did." A soft, easy smile.
"But, anyway ... Field," Adelaide went, still holding her paw back. Still. Still with cream-covered fingers. The mouse was flat on his back, head propped up by a downy pillow, which had strands of his fur stuck to it. That was their reason for having navy-blue sheets instead of traditional white. Strands of loose, shed fur were very visible on white fabric. Not so much on blue. And blue was a soothing color, too. But the mouse's head was on his pillow, while her head was on his chest. His trim, furry chest, the fur soft and honey-tan. And those little male nipples peeking into view. She was on her belly, half-draped over him, atop of him. Feeling quite dominant, as she usually did. And him giving off very submissive vibes. "Field ... "
" ... what?" was the wispy whisper, whiskers twitching. "You gonna give me your fingers yet?"
"In a second. But all I'm sayin' is, you know, that if you start teasin' me by callin' me a 'fruit bat,' and if we're ... "
" ... still on that? On 'fruit bat'?"
"I believe we are."
"That was, like, five minutes ago or something. I don't even remember saying it, hardly ... "
" ... well, I'm still on it. Patience, my mouse. Patience."
"Mouses don't have ... "
" ... to assume that a fur is what he or she eats," she said. Her eyes sparkled. "If we're really gonna start playing that game, then you must be ... "
" ... hey," he said, already intuiting her response. "Hey," he whispered, with no tension in his tone. Just a light, playful defensiveness. His whiskers twitched, twitched. Nose sniffed.
" ... hey, what?"
"I know what you were gonna say," he whispered, meeting her eyes. And his dishy, swiveling ears flushed a bit. A bit hotter. A bit rosier.
"And what," she bat-purred, sliding over him, her fingers moving closer to his muzzle, "was I gonna say. That you're a ... "
" ... mouse. I'm a field mouse." His ears flushed so that the capillaries showed. "I'm a ... "
" ... mouse that likes muff. My muff, to be precise." A fang-grin. "So, that makes you ... "
He started to giggle-squeak at the silliness of this. "Adelaide, just ... just ... "
" ... mm? Just what?"
"I'm not even that. I'm not ... "
" ... a fruit bat. I'm not a fruit bat. So, don't be callin' me one," she said, finally smearing the whipped cream on his lips. "Got it? Or I'll start callin' you a muff mouse." Her eyes glowed with mischief, and her pearly-white, sharp fangs still showed, still tempted, still enticed. Just the sight of them was sensual. Knowing what they were for. Knowing what they could do. And how they accentuated her muzzle.
"I guess we'll call it even," the mouse went, lips moving, slipping around her fingers. Sucking them in a bit. She allowed them to be sucked forward, and he got all the cream off. A swallow, his pink, sniffy nose flaring.
Adelaide, withdrawing her now-wet fingers, replied, "We're gonna have to wash the sheets after this." She reached for the nearby bowl, for more fruit, picking up a little chunk of seedless watermelon.
"We have the wash the sheets every day, pretty much," the mouse reminded seriously. He was a very tidy creature. Most mouses were, indeed, fastidious, well-groomed, squeaky-clean things.
"Yes, who knew sleeping could be so messy?" Adelaide joked, knowing full well that it wasn't sleeping that got their sheets and pillow-cases in such a daily state. Not sleeping, no. But the rolling and groping about, the sweaty, nectar-dripping, seed-spurting bump-and-grind that was all-out love-making. And, of course, they were furs. And they had needs. And about three times a day, those needs were met in bed, in the morning, noon, and night. Oh, this was a very comfortable bed.
Field sighed.
Adelaide turned her head, bringing the piece of watermelon to her muzzle. Laying it on her lips, giving it a sweet, sugary lick, and then popping it in. It was so cool and wet. Hence the 'water' in the melon, she told herself. Chewing, swallowing, she reached for more. Got a sweet cherry, this time. Those had pits in them. She put it back. And grabbed a few blueberries. "Open," she told Field.
He did as told, muzzle opening.
Pop, pop. She dropped a few blueberries in, daintily to his tongue.
He closed his muzzle, chew-chewing. Going 'mm-mm.' Was their anyway to accurately describe the taste of blueberries? Blue, maybe? They weren't very seedy, not like raspberries or blackberries. Or strawberries, even. They were a bit refreshing, but in a brief, bursting way.
"Akira was a wing-ful last night ... " A sigh, shifting positions a bit. Side-by-side, snuggling to her mouse. " ... all that wriggle and scurry. I swear, when she learns to fly, she's gonna ... "
" ... be locked in her room," Field joked, "so she won't fly away."
"She's gonna be on the short end of my telepathic leash, is what," Adelaide said, blowing out a deep breath. A pause, with worry in her eyes. "What's gonna be the worst is when she has her first heat."
"That's, like, over a decade away. Let's not start thinking about that ... "
" ... still, can you imagine? We'll be swatting males away like flies. We just gotta hope she ... you know, stays true to her faith. We can't watch her all the time. We can't ... " Another blown-out breath. " ... anyway, I remember my first."
"Heat?"
A nod. "Scary thing. My parents kept me out of school, and I thought they were overreacting." A pause. "But they knew what they were doing. Well, and ... well, even now, it's ... the animalism of it scares me. But you're always here to be water to my fire. You're always here to sate me." The bat swallowed. "No, but I just think about how, you know, it's ... yesterday, she's throwing a tantrum cause she wants dragonflies instead of crickets ... "
" ... for lunch? Yeah. Hurt my ears," Field said.
"Well, I told her she gets nothing when she squeals. She was just tired, I think. After her nap, she was fine." A pause, and a small breath. Their daughter was, for the most part, well-behaved. And Adelaide and Field did their best in raising her. To teach her right from wrong. To discipline her when she got out of paw, and to commend her when she did well. To not spoil her. But not deprive her, either. To give her lots of love. But not smother her.
It was such a balance. And in the back of your mind, you always worried that you might be doing something wrong. And you wondered how your parents ever did it. How they brought you from a defenseless, little thing into an adult, despite you being ignorant to the amount of time, energy, and worry they put into you. Despite all they'd sacrificed to give you a good life. Being a parent was never easy. Was a full-time job. Was, though, completely worth it. Akira meant the world to both the bat and mouse. They loved her so dearly.
" ... darling?" Field whispered.
"Mm?" A blink.
"You okay?"
A light nod, her head-fur rustling against Field's chest-fur. "Yeah. You know, she's in her crib playing with her toys, happy, oblivious to bad things, and ... I don't know," she said, because she didn't. It was a feeling not able to be described. Not able to be worded. "Just, you know, we work all week, we raise her in our free time, and here we are lazily sprawled in bed with a bowl of fruit on a Sunday afternoon ... " A breath. " ... and I wish we could have more moments like this. I wish we could have days of this." Outside, the rural landscape simmered greenly in the heat, the fields, the pastures. The stretches of forever. It was all, right now, so carefree.
A smile spread to the mouse's muzzle, his whiskers twitching, twitching, go, go, going. Going, "Well, these lazy, private moments might not be so special if they happened all the time." A pause. "Besides, we get our moments together. Daily," he reminded.
"I know. But I don't just mean a half hour of breeding in the morning, at lunch, and at night. I mean uninterrupted hours of sunlight through the window splashing onto our bare bodies, the heat getting to us, licking each other's lips and whispering into each other's ears. I mean hours and hours of nothing but us. No outside world."
"You're sounding a lot like me. That mousey yearning, that ... poetry," he whispered. "So, I guess we really are ... "
" ... contagious," Adelaide finished for him, giggle-chittering. "I knew, I just knew ... "
" ... well, it's true." A beaming, whisker-twitching look.
" ... that we'd end up on that again. Our contagiousness. Our ... "
" ... mutual thinking. You are telepathic. We have a link, you know."
"I very much," she whispered, "know, darling. And I do," she promised, "savor it. It is in my every waking thought. You," she emphasized, "are in my every waking thought."
Field wanted to melt. Wanted to. Wanted to say (and did say), "I love you. Adelaide, I ... you know," he whispered, eyes closed, "I couldn't survive without you. If you ... if ... "
" ... hey," she whispered back, a paw going to his chest. Over his fur, over a nipple. Over his heart. It beat in his chest. A strong beat. A passionate beat. Beat-a-beat-a-beat. "Hey, it's alright. Nothing's gonna happen to me."
" ... I just. I ... "
" ... baby," she soothed, her breasts rising and falling with her inhales and exhales. Her supple, soft, hanging breasts.
A sniffle, clearing his throat. He was quiet for a moment. "I just ... you're like my air," was all he could say. "And without you, I suffocate."
The bat, touched, exhaled. It came out as a dreamy sigh. She wasn't sure what to say, at first. And she closed her eyes for a moment. And then she opened them. "I think," she finally confided, "that the fruit is getting jealous."
"Jealous?" A look of wide-eyed innocence. That infamous mousey cuteness.
"It thought it was the sweetest, tastiest thing in this room, in this bed." A pause, a warm smile. A decided, "But it's not."
Field, understanding what she was implying, beamed, dimples showing on his furry cheeks. And his ears flushing, flushing. Were they to be touched, one would find them to be very warm. "I love you," he swooned, his tail beginning to snake about again. It had actually stopped for a bit. But it was, once more, up and running.
"I love you, too. And I think," she said, "that we just said all that about a minute ago. But I certainly don't mind saying it again," she breathed, "and again ... and again." For, oh, confessions of love were never dull. Like favorite songs. Like sunrises and sunsets. Things that never lost their luster.
Field sighed. How many times had he sighed this afternoon? Was their a limit? It wasn't like he could stop. He kept doing it.
While the bat slowly began to focus her attention on his body, her paws sliding, stroking. Her wings slightly stretching. Her short, sturdy rudder-tail steering a bit. Her swept-back, angular ears listening for his reactions. She touched him like only she knew how. She touched him with a familiarity born of two years of intimacy. She touched him. Touched.
"Mm," was all the mouse could do, helpless under her care. "Mm ... " A soft, pleasing (and pleased) sound.
"That's it," she soothed, encouragingly, paws still working. Working. Oh, this was hardly work, though, was it? She giggle-chittered at herself. No, this wasn't work. This was play. And what was life without play?
A weak lick of his lips, eyes half-open. "What are ... what are you," he whispered, "doin' ... " His tail stopped snaking. And was now hanging over the edge of the bed, like a rope tossed over the side of a ship.
"Feel good?" the bat asked, one of her paws on his chest. One paw. She put it above his heart, feeling it beat. Feeling it hammer-hammer. Feeling it go. Her other paw being elsewhere, though.
Another weak motion. This time a nod. A distracted, happy nod.
And, "Mm ... then don't worry about it, my muff mouse," she went, smiling at the tease.
"Hey," he breathed, lamely. Smiling back at her.
"Couldn't resist," she said, with warmth in her tone. And that other paw moving, moving. Stopping, going to the tub of whipped cream. Fingers curling, dipping in. Pulling out. And then going back to where it'd been only a few seconds before (where it'd drawn those 'mm' sounds from the mouse's muzzle): Field's 'squeaky toy.' She brushed it with her fingertips, running them up and down the underside of the shaft, her palm rubbing over the tip. And then whole paw wrapping round, gripping it, giving little, timed squeezes. All the while, smothering the organ with cool, white cream.
Field gave little puff-pants, nose quivering, whiskers twitching, twitching. "Hnn ... uhn," were his effeminate, cloud-like moans. His soft, furry stomach arched a bit. His breath caught. "I, uh ... ah," he went, lowering back to a sedentary lie-down. A whimper-squeak. Finally managing a weak, trembling, "A-adelaide ... " A swallow. He bit his lip. "Adelaide," he went.
"I know, baby," she soothed, sitting up, now. Straddling his thighs, his knees. She kept one paw on his belly, gently stroking his fur with her fingers. "I know ... it's alright. I got you," she breathed. Knowing his sensitivity. Knowing his pleasure. Knowing his limits. She played with his body in a no-hurry way, with his mouse-hood still in her grasp, and her soft, furry thumb wag-wagging over the back of the head, back and forth over the ridge that separated the head from the shaft. "Relax," she repeated, removing her paw. And panting a bit, her pupils dilating, she squirmed, settling back, back, down, going down. Going closer to him.
Field tensed, his hazy mind understanding. He braced himself for the sensitivity. His paws absently clutching at the bed-sheets. Preparing for her ...
... heat. Humid, hot. Hovering. Her breath washing over his penis, her muzzle an inch away, less than an inch. Her muzzle parting, lips sliding loosely over his flesh, smearing the whipped cream. A sweet taste, the cream, mixed in with the earthy, mousey taste of his member, and the salty taste of his pre. Mixed in, heightening the act with smells, tastes, textures. Overloading an already overloaded thing. Already, the bat found one of her paws straying. Already, she rubbed at her clitoris. Other paw in his stomach's groin-fur, pressing gently to him. Pressing. As her muzzle rose, rose up. Slowly up. Juicily up.
The mouse's eyes were watered shut. His head lolled to one side, muzzle open. A squeak, squeak. Light, pleasured sounds. What, what was going on, his mind asked him? And he hardly knew what to think. He couldn't think. No thinking, no. Just the sensation of sizzling, steamy something. Making his penis tingle so hard and hot, so good, good, good. Oh, his body throbbing, pulsing, aching, wanting. His body, right now, was so much. And his mind? His mind was just along for the ride. "Oh ... ohn. Ah ... "
The bat, ever-mindful of her fangs, expertly worked him, bobbing, sliding. Sensuous and slow, never fast and greedy. And never suckling for very long. A suckle now and then. Oh, she couldn't resist a suckle. But, mostly, she just slid those lips up and down, all around. Her tongue, too. All around. Her tongue supporting her lips in this, and tasting, tasting whipped cream. A sweet, sweet treat was her husband's mouse-hood! Better than any popsicle or pushup, for sure. She enjoyed the feeling of having the most precious part of his body, the essence of masculinity, in her muzzle. In her succulent maw. Enjoyed, oh, enjoyed him. But had to let him go. She could tell he was getting over-sensitive. And she didn't want him to lose that erection (or to orgasm, even). Not yet, not yet. There was more to do.
Field sighed heavily as he felt her lips slip off, in a slippery, goodbye suckle. "Oh ... oh," he went, catching his breath. Trying to control his sounds. But 'quiet as a mouse' didn't apply during love-making. No, he was a 'squeaker' during sex. Something that sometimes embarrassed him.
"Squeak as much," Adelaide breathed, reading his mind, "as you need to ... just, uh," she went, panting, "let it out, mm? Mm. Just ... ooh, Field," she managed. "I made myself dizzy doin', uh ... " She went quiet, panting. She wasn't dizzy from a lack of air. Or from her head being hunched over, bobbing, bobbing. No, the dizziness came from the heart. Some rich, emotional reaction, feeling lighter, brighter, better. Feeling drunk on hope. Drunk on love. "Oh," the bat sighed. A deep exhale, shoulders slumping. One paw still down there, between her legs. One paw still massaging her clitoris. And she couldn't pull it away. She didn't have the willpower to pull it away.
So, Field panted, swallowing, licking his lips.
While she massaged her little nub.
He watched her play with herself, eventually breathing, "Let me do it. Please ... "
A nod, feeling Field's paw soon go there, his body shifting positions, moving her, sprawling atop her own. Feeling it. Feeling. "Field ... "
His fingers were delicately tracing her soft, pink petal-lips, one finger slipping between the folds before withdrawing. Allowing another to slip in. Teasing her, caressing her with a deft touch. Before two fingers slipped in together, running up, up. Stopping. Withdrawing, circling, circling toward her clitoris, massaging the feminine flesh around it, around it. Then on it. Then directly pressing it.
The bat tensed, drawing a breath.
Field continued the pressure, then eased up, eased up, paw going back down. Along with the rest of him. His head was going down, his paws. All of him. A much-familiar sight to her eyes. He loved doing this. She never had to ask. Never had to telepathically lure him into doing it. He just went down, paws to her thighs, gently prying her legs apart. And she opened them the rest of the way, sprawling back into the middle of the bed, spreading her winged arms and allowing her head to roll to the side. A smile on her muzzle. "Go on," she pleaded, speaking with simmering sultriness.
And the mouse, indeed, went on. And on, on, on. With gentle lip-nibbling, tongue-slurping. Sucking sounds. Wetting her vulva, her labia, muzzle angling this way and that, pushing forward and then easing back, pushing forward again. Tasting, tongue-humping (as best he could with such a modest tongue) her moistening vagina. That getting-hotter honey-pot. With such finesse, he worked her, stimulated her. Went over her femininity. His big, dishy ears so hot, swiveling, listening to her sounds.
And she started to fidget. The wet stimulation was building, building, and she spread her legs a bit more. Raised them involuntarily, feeling Field bring them back down. Feeling him hook his arms around her legs, now, thrusting his muzzle forward, back, pressing. His tongue licking broadly up her vulva, back to the clitoris. He began working on that once more. And Adelaide, chittering, going chitter-chitter-chit, closed her legs. And tried to hold Field's head there. But, with his arms around them, she found it hard to do that. So, she simply fidgeted more, more, and ...
" ... oh," Field panted, drawing back. Drawing a breath. His pupils were fully-dilated, his whiskers glistening with droplets of femme-nectar. He panted, panted, and he swallowed.
Adelaide weakly met his eyes.
"You were close."
A nod. Also weak. As her whole body was.
"Well, we've, uh ... " The mouse licked his lips. "We've both gotten each other close with our muzzles. And we both backed off." A breath. "I think our bodies are thoroughly tested. I think we can, uh ... go for an all-out ride, now, don't you ... "
" ... think?" A panting giggle-chitter. "Darling, if I try to think right now, I'm gonna blow a fuse. I can't think. I just ... gotta," she breathed, "gotta, come on ... " She was grabbing for him, trying to pull him in with her winged arms. "Field," she begged.
And he, squeaking, was sliding between her legs. His hips. His erect mouse-hood. "We, uh ... bowl of fruit's still on the bed. We shouldn't, uh ... if it spills, that'll, uh, stain ... "
" ... details, details," she went, twisting, reaching. She grabbed at the fruit bowl. And picked it up just enough to move it to the bed-side stand. And a heavy sigh, turning her full attention back to him. "All this sugar and sweetness. I am feeling very," she panted, locking eyes with him, "fruitful."
"Fruitful. A good," he commended, "way to ... "
" ... don't describe it. Do it."
"Mm ... mm," he went, "hmm." A shiver, whisker twitching. "Oh ... " He was in. He was peeking, poking in. The tip of his five-inch, circumcised mouse-hood. It was in, and he sank further. His hips moving. Like a knife through butter. Like a melting, pin-wheeling, fire-working fuse was being lit. Oh, his fuse was lit.
And hers. Hers, as well. Her biting instinct welling, welling, her fangs beginning to throb hotly, beginning to leak that white 'mating milk.' The fluid that she would inject into his blood. The fluid that would electrically sizzle and link their minds, bringing about a full telepathic union.
"Mm," were his light, airy sounds. He pulled himself back. And then sank in. Only traveling a few inches each time. But that few inches packed a wallop of pleasure like he could barely comprehend. It forced his eyes shut. It made his ears tingle. It was a perfect fit. Her sheath-like tunnel accommodating him, smothering every bit of his sensitive, hard shaft. Smothering his flesh with furnace-hot body temperature, with natural, slick fluid. Beautifully soft and velvety vagina. It was like silk. It was steamy. It was beyond his control. He couldn't stop pulling back and pushing in. Pulling back so he could push in. Pushing in so he could pull back. Friction. What friction!
The same friction that bedazzled him was rewarding her, as well. But, first, she needed to bite. Before she could focus on that, she needed to bite. And she lick-lapped at his neck, lick, licking. Numbing a spot for the bite. Meticulous in her ritual. Seriously following through on every detail, until she could open wide and put the sharp ends of her fangs on his fur, and ...
... bite!
A tiny jerk on the mouse's part.
A heavy sigh from the bat as her fangs sank, sank into his flesh, his muscle. Right into his neck. Any pain numbed and subverted with pleasure. And the bite never left a mark, either. No, this didn't hurt. During the first second of penetration, it was always a bit of a shock to the one being bitten (that being Field, of course). He always jerked or wriggled. But she would always wrap her wings around him, hold to him. And he would always quickly settle, going still. And the mating milk did its work quickly.
It worked.
They were joined.
Emotionally, mentally, physically joined.
Spiritually so.
And such was their prayer.
Oh, dear God, thank You for this. For salvation, redemption. Sweet redemption, dear Jesus, that delivered us from turbulence, into maturity. Salvation that makes this possible. That makes this day full of hope. Death is no more! With purpose, we live, knowing our love shall never die. Like our souls, everlasting. And, oh, thank You for Your righteousness, and for all else, for things we forget to mention. But, oh, for love! Most of all! Through sacrifice, through faith, love is tested and worn, molded into something sturdier, something that will never break. Just as you have worked in our hearts, Lord, work in all facets of us. That we may love purely, rightly.
That we may never stop loving.
That it may glow.
And the outside world began to fade. The Sunday afternoon became a mere backdrop, with their bedroom the stage. And them the players. Oh, this was the show. This was the main act. This was the story of their love told without words. This was a vulnerable, naked song of 'show me.' And, oh, they were showing each other. Mouse and bat, husband and wife. They were performing an act as old as time itself. But it felt brand new. Each and every time, it felt brand new. It felt divine.
For their love was fruitful.
And now was a time to harvest that fruit.
And, oh, the joy of it.
Oh, the joy.