Decorum of a Swoon
The mouse tilted his grey, rain-furred neck, lolling, then lazing forward, feeling a familiar presence of rodent buckteeth descending hungrily on his nape. The sheer, tactile contact causing him to draw air, causing him to arch his naked belly, further loosening the unbuttoned (though not yet unzipped) pants from his trim, rural hips, which began to slant to the side. Oh, the tiniest of squeaky sighs! Eyes closing, as his tail, long and silky-pink, trailed out from it's customary place at the base of his spine, the back of his uniform, just above his pert rump. Waver-waving across and above the carpet in his office.
They'd started with simple conversation at the desk, and had moved, somehow. He didn't remember moving. Only that they were suddenly speaking a lot less, and were standing very close to the couch, which was against the wall that was parallel to the big, oval window that looked out into space, out to the planet below, as well as to the surrounding stars.
Petra, ever the brisk, simple rat, had already intoned, several minutes ago, for the computer to 'tint the windows black; oh, an' lock the doors.' So that no one in Ops could see. Only God, and only him and her, would be privy to the coming union, the coming fusion. For it was inevitable. This being very clear, the rat gave a not-so-little grin as, fully nibbling and gnawing on his left shoulder, she whispered, " ... you an' your mousey modesty. When you gonna take all that stuff off."
" ... take off the, uh ... m-modesty? What?" was the hazy, innocent whisper, with that trademark 'effeminate' nature that male mouses were born with. He sounded a little confused, as if his mind was spinning. Or more appropriately: scurrying. His tail snaked around, a little aimlessly, bumping into her legs, dragging on the carpet, and then raising into the air, only to fall back down again.
"The clothes. Your clothes," she repeated, with a breathy giggle-squeak, giving a sighing chitter, mouthing wetly, warmly to the right, back to his nape again. Up, up the neck, to the back of his head. She was a few inches taller than him, as rats tended to be bigger and less delicate than mouses. Her tail, thicker and less silky, curled and snaked around the mouse's thigh. And squeezed lightly, just so that he could feel the holding, tender pressure. Which distracted him. He wasn't able, then, to tilt his head away before she, muzzle to his right ear, blew a directed jet of moist, warm breath to the exposed skin of the lobe. Oh, she blew hot, focused breaths right onto his ear-flesh.
" ... ah," was the resulting breath. More like a barely-heard gape. His belly arched again. And, keeping her paws there, his wife pulled him back. Kept him from falling over.
" ... mm-hmm," went the rat, her tongue touching the rim of his right ear, now. The perimeter of that big, dishy appendage. That exposed swiveling sensory thing of cuteness! She couldn't get enough. Licking round it, then mouthing the back. Mouthing, sucking. Just for a moment. Enough to leave a little pink spot there as she pulled away. A spot that, after a few seconds, began to fade. The whole of the ear was flushing, now, the capillaries beginning to show as it gorged with blood. Both his ears, in fact, gorged with helpless arousal and need, becoming rosy, rosy pink and extremely sensitive to touches and sounds. Every sound seeming to pulse, seeming to magnify itself.
Peregrine's breath shook. He trembled helplessly in her grasp.
"Always liked your ears. Lookin' at 'em flush. Lookin' how it makes your paws grab at the air." A deep breath on her part. "Sweetest, little things," she cooed, still behind him, leaning into him with a full-out hug, her bare belly and hanging, exposed breasts to his bare back. For he didn't have a shirt on. And she didn't have anything on save some panties. Both of them half-undressed, which was her doing.
"P-petra ... "
" ... yeah, hun?" Her lips grazed the back of one of his ears. The opposite ear, this time. Little, tender pecking kisses. "Mm?"
Another shiver, drawing in air. His pink, sniffy nose angling upward, flaring some. Whiskers all a-twitch!
"Perry?" A giggle-squeak, and when he didn't respond, she playfully used his rank. "Commander?"
"Uh ... uh, I was, uh ... "
" ... mm?" She turned her head, glancing back at his desk. And chuckled. "Survey report?" She turned her head back to him. Nipping, once more, at his neck. " ... look at that later. Planet's not goin' anywhere."
They were routinely scanning and surveying the planet they orbited, locating usable resources, searching for new ruins they might have missed. Redwing Station, since becoming an independent entity, had also begun to draw some traffic along the outermost trade routes. They got a few ships a week stopping in for rest and supplies. To the point where they always had at least one visiting ship hovering at the docking pylons.
Maybe, in a few more months, they'd get new furs to stay here permanently, to join the crew or open up shops on the Promenade. It was certainly a time of growth. Thus far, the local space pirates had stayed away, knowing they were outnumbered. But the temptation a more active and prosperous station represented? Would probably be too much for them to resist. So the crew was always on the look-out. Petra, especially, being the tactical and first officer. But, right now, danger was far from her mind. No, she was only worried about pleasure.
"How do ya feel?" the rat continued, turning the focus back to the mouse. She knew very well, of course, how he was feeling. His reactions so familiar and comforting to her. But she liked to hear him say it. She liked to hear him talk when he got like this, cause when he got all ear-flushed and hazy-headed? It made him all flustered. And it was the cutest.
" ... uh, like ... I got a cloud in my head."
"A nice, warm cloud? A moist, hazy cloud?" she whispered, swaying with him, hips tilting one way and then the other, swaying from left to right. Her tail, uncoiling from his thigh, went to his own tail. Mouse-tail and rat-tail, threading together. Sway, sway.
Pause.
Swaying right to left. "Mm?" she prodded, nosing him.
" ... uh, foggy cloud." A breath, whiskers twitching. "I can't think ... "
" ... wanna know how come that is," she said, grinning, tightening her hug.
His cheeks, if possible, seemed to get hotter beneath the fur. "I know why it is," he managed, swallowing, breathing deeply in.
"Most male furs, they get 'roused, their blood only goes to their ... "
" ... I know," he repeated, whispering over the word.
" ... heh, but a male mouse like you? Your blood goes to two places. Heh ... well, three, cause you got one penis and two ears. Makes your mind extra, extra hazy. Y'feel dizzy, don't ya ... "
"I, uh ... f-feel swoon-ful," he breathed, sighing as he said it. "Mm." He sank back against her, weakly, feeling both erotic and romantic. Like he was swimming in a mixture of the two. Like it was all soaking into his very sense of being.
"Swoon-ful. I know what y'mean. I'm gettin' a bit o' that, myself, now. That'd be more than just the blood an' stuff, though. More than the beating hearts of it. I think the 'swoon-ful' stage is when the love starts to flower. When it starts to get t'be," she breathed, "too much to where ... like, it washes over ya."
"Tidal love?"
"Passion-love. Amorous ... physical," she breathed, "passion. Blooming forth like a wildflower, lapping at our shores like a sea. You can't stop it."
"I ... I don't want to," he whispered.
"Not even for your survey report?" she teased.
"J-just ... just ... "
" ... relax. I'll take the lead, hun," she said, grinning quietly, arms releasing him from the hug he'd been snugged into. So that her paws could slip down, down, down. His pants were easy to unzip. She'd already started a few minutes ago. Took only a few seconds to finish, and she was pulling them down. Fingers curling beneath the white band of his cotton briefs, and peeling his uniform off.
The mouse actually sighed, almost unconsciously, as he felt his mouse-hood uncovered and exposed to the air. It was, unsurprisingly, erect. The cute, little head all blunted and swollen pink, drooling at the tip. The mouse had no sheath.
"No wonder y'can't think," she teased again, peeking down at him, pupils dilating, muzzle salivating. "There's enough flushed skin between that an' your ears ... you could paint a whole field o' roses with that color."
Peregrine gave an airy squeak at this.
And Petra chittered warmly in return, helping her husband to step fully out of any trace of clothing, and then pulling her arms back to quickly get out of her panties. Entirely naked, now, just like him, and melting with him onto the couch. Heatedly melting, but not like ice. Not like something that gave off steam. But, rather, something like chocolate or cheese, something that melted in a slow, rich, velvety way. Their bodies felt like that: rich, velvety. Oh, melting, melting into each other, fur meshing with fur, fur against the fabric of the cushions.
The rat on top, her solid, scruffy rump to the air, her thick tail hanging off to the side. She pushed up off the couch-cushions with her arms, panting a little bit. Wanting to get to a straddle of him, but needing her legs to be in a comfortable position. Needing to get to her shins and knees. Doing so, doing so quickly, almost fumbling, hips rising up. Further foreplay and pleasures involving muzzles and such would have to wait for next time. Or hold reservations, at least, for the cool-down kisses that always followed satisfying intercourse. Cause that, right now, was what they needed: all-out union.
Her slick, furnace-like tunnel, aching for presence, angled down, slipping, sliding down atop his erect member. Her petal-lips spreading. She'd had plenty of practice mounting him like this. By now, she wasn't going to miss. She wriggled her hips in that uniquely rodent way, and sank down, further down, sighing like a balloon that had just been untied, the air whooshing out.
Peregrine just whimper-squeaked, paws weakly going to her hips, knees bending, legs raising a bit. So that the pads of his foot-paws were on the cushions, and his knees were straight up. While she straddled him, her arms like stilts, paws on his chest. One paw above his heart, even, picking up every beat as her head hung. She hunched over for a moment. " ... gosh," was all she could say, eyes shut. The throbbing, needy ache was gone, replaced with a sure-rising sense of satisfaction. Of presence. Of being filled. But, oh, it wasn't quite enough. She needed friction, too. Needed to be played like a violin. She the strings.
And him the bow.
So, she took a breath and rose up, and lowered. Hips finding an up and down, humping rhythm. Nothing crude about it. Simple and sweet. So utterly pure in execution. That such pleasure and intimate knowing could come from mere movements of the hips! She savored it, the rising heat, the rising everything. One of her paws reaching down to play with her cherished clitoris while the other clutched at her husband's chest fur, her hips stopping, going to a hilt for a few moments. Smelling, she realized, like mouse. That earthy scent rubbing off on her as they bred.
Peregrine panted, eyes half-open, lips parted. His whiskers weakly twitching.
She, meanwhile, switching rhythms, moving to a clockwise grind. Grind, grinding down at him, then switching to counter-clockwise, steering his five-inch mouse-hood like a joy-stick, making sure it brushed every part of her slick, muscular walls. And making sure those same walls enveloped every fraction of his stiffness before she resumed her riding, up and down, ride, ride, riding her mouse. Feeling, each time she sank down, his tufted, furry sac, with those swelling orbs. Feeling it nestling so intimately and closely to her vulva. It felt damp. And she realized, after a moment, that it was her wetness. Soaking into his fur. Dripping onto him like honey.
Bare and somewhat pinned beneath her, paws roving hazily up and down her warm, furry sides, those supple sides, the mouse gave weak, squeaky counter-humps, almost bucking back up at her. Bucking up, up.
She allowed it, rising a few inches each time he arched his hips. Only to sink down, down with all her weight.
Upon which he'd buck upward yet again.
And she'd grind back down. Until, after a minute of this, the rat thumbed at one of his little, male nipples, her non-verbal cue to go still.
So, he did, content to be ridden, and, oh, to watch her. Her soft, supple breasts. He stared at them through half-open, barely-blinking eyes, watching them jiggle and move with gravity and the weight of her little bounces. How many times he'd suckled on those, he didn't know. He knew the taste of them. The taste of her. Oh, the taste of her femininity, when he'd get her on her back, part her thighs with his paws, and make a meal of her. He wanted to do everything to her. Every conceivable, pleasurable thing. It didn't matter how long it took.
But, as the seconds ticked by, and as his penis was endlessly, thoroughly massaged by her rising, rippling vaginal walls, so wet, so hot, so, so good! Oh, he was content. Nothing, oh, nothing as good as this, hip-to-hip, him inside her, friction, such friction, such mutual friction! His paws, as he reveled in the sensations, left her sides, ventured to her breasts. Might as well play with them, fondle them, thumb at her hardened nipples. Because they were there, and because he could, and because it felt plain good.
" ... mm ... mm," were the rat's throaty, grunting moans, a squelching sound coming from their wet, fusing genitals, the friction increasing, the pleasure climbing up, up, up to such familiar and welcome heights. They'd felt this before. But, oh, it felt brand new every time. Just as good. Just as satisfying. Oh, love never got old.
And, after a few more minutes, more succulent minutes, the mouse squeaked in high, writhing pitches, mouse-hood tingling, tingling so pleasurably. The head of his penis, five inches deep in her sopping vagina, became shockingly sensitive. " ... oh, oh!" His arms fell from her breasts and back to her hips, trying to hold her still. Don't move, don't move, his clutching paws seemed to insist! So, so sensitive, as he always got during orgasm.
Petra, chitter-whining, sank to a hilt, ceasing her rising, moaning unabashedly beneath her quick, sharp breaths.
And, sure enough, his member immediately jerked, jerked, sowing mouse-seed in his wife's womb (though she was not in heat). Each ejaculation a firework, a burst of so-good sensation, so, so good. "Oh! Oh ... mm," he went, whimpering. " ... oh." His eyes watered shut, ears throbbing, tail and whiskers going limp at this pinnacle of pleasure, as he finished breeding his dear, dear mate, her scent in his nose, her nectar all over his groin, his mouse-hood marinating in her body in the midst of this welcome release.
A release that Petra felt. Feeling, subtly, the twitches, the extra wetness. And, with some final massages of her clitoris, the release was shared, finally shared. Oh, she shared it, walls going into pure spasms, milking, milking her male for all he was worth, for every drop. The tremors like little earthquakes in her lower half, pleasure flung, pleasure rippling like circles in a pond, the effects felt in her furthest reaches. Pleasure everywhere, warm and overwhelming, beyond immediate, verbal description. Only exclamatory sounds of ... " ... ah, ah! Uh ... " She sucked air, hanging her head and whimpering. "Oh, g-gosh ... uh," she called, a squirt of clear, hot fluid dribbling from her sex. She shivered, rat-paws feeling up and down her husband's chest, almost desperately, desperately so.
Peregrine, panting and squeaking softly, clutched at her fur in return, at her bare, furry hips, eyes shut, unable to move. He was faintly aware that his tail was still tangled with hers, like two different ropes caught in a knot.
She just hunched over him, before leaning, leaning, and laying on him, hugging him from on top, their fur a little sweat-matted, but their swoon-ful-ness fulfilled!
" ... I love you ... s-so much," Peregrine said, simply, without pretense and need for elaboration. Simple as the phrase was, there was nothing cliche in its utterance. The emotion in his voice almost broke up the whispered words.
And she, feeling the warm breeze of beautiful, sexual afterglow, whispered back, "Oh, I l-love ya, too. Oh ... oh, hun." She didn't need to say, verbally, how good that had felt. They both knew. Oh, they both knew. She gave, instead, kisses to his cheek. Which turned to lip-grazing, muzzle-tilting, all-out sucking, suckling of maws, sharing of tastes, touches of tongues. Kisses. Oh, lovely, lasting kisses, going on for a half a minute. They paused to breathe, and then kissed some more. Finally stopping, finally tapering off, the rat lifting her naked, feminine hips.
His mouse-hood, limp and glistening with her wetness (and his own seed) flopped out. Leaving the excess semen to drip out of her sex like molasses. Not caring, and knowing they could clean both themselves and the couch in a few minutes, she slipped beside him, sinking with him into the cushions, nuzzling and snuggling and whispering, "You may be all modest lots o' the time, but it makes for the greatest decorum during swoons."
Peregrine just squeaked happily and buried his nose in her fur. And breathed in as deeply as he could.
"I do not understand," Amelie commented, primly and properly, paws clasped behind her back, "why I am having to do this."
"You're an ambassador, aren't you?" Seldovia asked, casually leaning against a bulkhead.
" ... technically," was the delayed response, the snow rabbit looking straight ahead.
"You either are, or you aren't."
Her long, slender ears waggled. "I am." They were in upper docking pylon two, where a ship had just docked. And, as was always the case, the newcomers would need to be greeted personally. "Still, it is common knowledge that snow rabbits are ... " She tried to word this. " ... we are very formal. It is often mistaken for rudeness."
"That's why I'm here. To bail you out."
Amelie gave the skunk a brow-raised, icy-eyed look.
" ... teasing. Teasing," Seldovia insisted, smiling, raising both paws in a 'surrender' gesture. "Anyway, it's not like you do this all the time. When's the last time you were in charge of greeting visitors? Peregrine and Petra normally do that."
"They are not doing it now." Amelie crossed her arms, looking ahead again, waiting, patiently waiting.
"No ... " A slight pause. But unable to resist finishing with, " ... they're doing each other!" Cheeky giggles.
Amelie, as was her nature, gave the skunk another look. Asking, seriously, "So, when the visitors ask why they aren't being greeted by either the station's commander or first officer, as is normal protocol, what am I to tell them? That they are having sex?"
"Well ... no, you can't tell them that. Just ...
" ... they could have waited ten minutes." Her bobtail flickered like a holy-white flame.
"That's pretty rich, coming from a rabbit. When you get in the mood, I've seen you, like, literally drag Wheldon into rooms. Lots of hopping, and ... hoppy-ness." A pause, nodding. "Full of hop."
A sigh. "You make it sound like I have no self-control."
"Well, what's good for the goose ... "
" ... I am not a goose. I am a snow rabbit."
"I know, but ... you know, that's ... " Seldovia scrunched her features, thinking for a moment. "Okay, what I'm trying to say," she said, gesturing with her paws, "is that give our resident rodents a break. They just so happened to start breeding when this ship arrived. We weren't expecting the ship for another hour. So, you have to be in charge of greeting, and ... hey, don't worry about it. I'm here to help. I'm sociable. I'm charming."
"And I am not?"
"I smell really good," was all Seldovia said, with another bold, playful grin.
Amelie couldn't help but eye-smile, though she tried to fight it. Bringing her paws to her front, she nodded. "Anyway, I am not worried."
"You seem like you are."
"Have you ever met sugar gliders?" was all Amelie asked.
"No."
"If you had, you would understand why I 'seem' to be worried."
"What do you mean?"
"Their diet consists heavily of sweetened foods."
Seldovia opened her muzzle to respond to that, but the docking hatch rolled open before she could. And the visitors, the sugar gliders, buoyantly emerged, bounding out with flighty exuberance, with thick, soft-grey fur, black stripes running down the length of their bodies, presumably down the spine (hidden by their clothing, but clearly visible on their bushy tails). Dramatic, black markings were also on their muzzles and cheeks.
Seldovia blinked, almost bowled over. She stepped back, holding her paws out (just in case she needed to fend off any random hugs; the skunk was fine with hugs, but not from furs she'd only known for two seconds; and the sugar gliders looked like manic huggers).
"Hello!" one of the sugar gliders said. Very excitedly.
Amelie, taking a breath, nodded politely, stepping between Seldovia and the first sugar glider. "Welcome to Redwing Station. I am Ambassador Amelie, and this is ... "
" ... Ambassador!" The sugar glider's already wide eyes widened further.
Amelie squinted. "Is that a question," she asked honestly, politely, "or a statement?"
" ... you are a captain and ambassador?"
"No."
"You are a captain?"
"No, I am ... "
" ... Ambassador?"
"I am Ambassador Amelie, yes." She absently smoothed at her snow-white fur. Her ears twiddling at the loud, chirpy voices of the newcomers.
"So," asked a second sugar glider, bobbing up and down on his bare foot-paws, up and down on his blunt-clawed toes. "So, she is the captain?" He pointed at Seldovia.
"No, I'm, uh ... I'm just here for the party."
"There's a party!"
Amelie sighed, wanting to rub her temples, but not doing so. Keeping her charcoal-padded paws in front of her, clasping them, and saying, "No, there is not. You must forgive my friend. She thinks she has a sharp sense of humor." The snow rabbit, raising a brow, gave Seldovia a glance. "She is mistaken."
"Like she'd know," Seldovia replied. "She doesn't know anything about 'funny'."
"A funny skunk!" said the first sugar glider, looking brightly to Seldovia. And the other snow gliders giggle-squeaked and bobbed and spread their membrane-winged arms. "Tell us a joke!"
"Really, she does not know any jokes," Amelie tried to insist.
"Um, okay, you heard the one about, uh ... okay, okay, a dog walks into a saloon, right? Old West, okay? And, like, he goes up to the bartender and asks, in a voice so that everyone can hear: 'I'm lookin' for the fur who shot my paw' ... "
Amelie just shook her head, closing her eyes at the badness of the pun. If it could even be called that.
"Get it? Like, uh ... paw," Seldovia said, holding up her paw. "Or, like, 'pa' ... like, dad?"
The sugar gliders giggled. "His paw was shot!"
"Well ... well, okay, it sounds kind of morbid when you say it like that," the skunk said, frowning.
"Indeed, it is a gruesome joke. For more than thematic reasons," Amelie insisted, being a connoisseur of wit and reason. "Now, about your visit ... "
" ... we must meet the captain!" said one sugar glider. "We would be honored!"
Seldovia winced a bit. It was almost like these furs were breathing exclamation marks.
A small sigh. "We do not have a captain."
"No captain! Who is running the station!" The sugar gliders bumped into each other, wide-eyed, looking around, blinking, tails flagging about. As if in some kind of sudden, comical panic.
"What I mean," Amelie emphasized, raising her paws in a 'calm down' motion, "is that we have a commander, not a captain. And he is otherwise occupied. We did not expect your arrival for another hour."
"We are full of scamper! We got here faster than we thought!"
"Full of scamper, huh?" Seldovia went, smiling. "I thought it was scurry."
"'Scurry'," Amelie corrected, academically, bobtail flickering, "is for mouses. And rats. But generally confined to those two. 'Scamper' is for squirrels, chipmunks, and certain squirrel-like marsupials, while 'scuttling' is for things with talons. 'Hopping,' of course, is for ... "
" ... thank you, teacher," Seldovia interrupted, nodding and mouthing 'muzzle it.'
Amelie, ignoring the skunk's quiet remark, simply returned her attention forward and told the sugar gliders, "Our commander, Peregrine, is busy. As I was originally saying. He will meet with you this evening. You are invited to dinner in the ward room."
"Dinner!"
"Yes."
"Is your commander okay! Is he sick!"
"If you must know, he is caught in a 'mousetrap'," was the snow rabbit's diplomatic response, referring to between Petra's legs.
"That sounds painful!" the sugar gliders squeaked, almost in unison, not getting the connotation.
"He is a mouse, and therefore, prone to squeaking. Oftentimes, such sounds carry through bulkheads. And I can safely say that, of all the times I've overheard our commander caught in a 'mousetrap,' his squeaks have never indicated pain," was Amelie's definite response.
Seldovia, smiling in spite of herself, had to admit, staving off giggles, "That was good. That was ... heh. You know, maybe you do have a better sense of humor."
"You never should have doubted it," the snow rabbit responded, with an ice-blue eye-smile.
The sugar gliders, confused, looked from Amelie to Seldovia, and back again. Saying, after a moment, "We are here for rest! We are on a long journey!"
"Where to?" Seldovia asked, her luxurious, striped tail wafting lazily behind her. Her fur was clearly silky and soft. And bold in patterning. Skunks, like squirrels, had rich pelts with very notable tails. And, therefore, spent lots of time on personal grooming.
"We are traders! We run a trade route between our world and the fruit bat colony! It is two weeks in either direction! Month round-trip!"
"Fruit bats? You trade them, like, for fruit? Like, sugary, sweet ... juicy fruit?"
"Yes! We give them wood and furniture we make from our trees! They give us rare fruit! We put it in stasis, to keep it fresh! We like to suck the juice!"
"How intriguing," Amelie said, in her calm, level tone. "However, being that you have come a long way, perhaps you would like to be shown to your guest quarters?" Her ears twiddled as she said this.
The sugar gliders, all six of them, chittered and bounced and scampered down the corridor. "Guest quarters! Yes!"
Amelie sighed, standing still for a moment, and then gesturing with a paw for Seldovia to follow first. "I insist."
"But I'm not an ambassador. I'm not trained for this," was Seldovia's playful, mock resistance, giggling to herself.
"Well, as you called me 'teacher' a short while ago, I suppose I shall have to teach you. You can begin by showing the sugar gliders their guest quarters and then giving them a tour of the station."
"And you're just gonna watch or something, is that it?"
The sugar gliders, at the end of the corridor, chirped back, "We are lost!"
Amelie, at this, whispered to Seldovia, as they both started padding forward in their bare foot-paws, "I may watch ... from a distance."
"They're not that bad, Amelie. They're very friendly."
"They are also very loud. And I have very big ears. I require some degree of calmness and decorum." A pause, still whispering. "I also require some breeding. So, I shall leave them in your capable ... "
" ... what? Hey, wait a minute. You're not skipping out on me to ... hoppity-hump in some corridor somewhere. No way." She said it with a scrunch-face.
"I outrank you." A pause. And, as an addendum, "And it is not physically feasible to hop and hump at the same time."
"So?" was the head-shaking response. "Anyway, you can't leave me alone with six rodents. And these aren't regular rodents, either. They act like they're on perpetual sugar highs. You're more authoritative than me. I mean, all you gotta do is raise your brow, and ... and furs behave," the skunk stammered. "If you leave, they'll be climbing up walls, vaulting off railings."
"Wheldon will be needing me soon."
"Well, maybe Mortimer needs me. Maybe I should go, and ... and maybe," she insisted, "you should be in charge of the sugar gliders."
"You speak as if they're children in need of a sitter."
"Ambassadors!" the sugar gliders squeaked, waving, as the snow rabbit and skunk came up to them. "Which way do we go?"
"Take a left," Amelie said, in normal, out-loud tone. "And, at the first junction, a right. We shall take a lift to the Promenade, and from there, to the Habitat Ring. You will settle in your quarters until dinnertime, upon which we will fetch you."
"Most hospitable!" They scampered where told.
Seldovia sighed. "How long are they here for?"
"Two days. Today and tomorrow. In all likelihood, they will become regular visitors. Which is not a negative. We are on our own. And we have sought to give this station a new sense of purpose. To make it a welcome residence, and not just for us. The more visitors we get, the closer we come toward realizing that goal. And the more secure we find ourselves."
"Safety in numbers?"
"Strength in mass solidarity," was how Amelie wished to put it. "In the absence of war and mystery, we are able to focus on mere living. And that includes creating and maintaining and being a part of a community."
"What about exploring the planet. Wouldn't you rather be doing that than ... like, than trying to become a rest stop?" They rounded a corner, turning right. The sugar gliders chattering ahead of them.
"It is difficult to chart an entire planet with only a dozen furs. Only some of which have any scientific background whatsoever. Besides, it is of no urgency."
Padding along through the corridor, with the white and slightly blue-hued lights, Seldovia nodded. "I bet there's more secrets down there. Artifacts. Maybe under the oceans, or deep somewhere."
"It wouldn't be surprising. But, again, my priorities have changed."
"Well, not all of them." A mirthful roll of the eyes.
"Meaning?" Her ears twiddled, her big, loping foot-paws shuffling on the carpeted floors. Her legs were strong, built for loping.
"You'd still rather skip out on your duties for a quick 'canoodle' with your husband. Even though you're an ambassador. I mean, why make a career out of interspecies relations if you'd rather be having relations of a different sort?"
"Regardless of my daily tasks, I am still a rabbit. Instinct can get the best of me, just like it often gets the best of you. I enjoy ambassadorial functions. I enjoy diplomacy, order, structure, formality." A pause. "If you must know, the sugar gliders grate me not because I dislike them. I admit they are fetching, in a sweet sort of way. But, despite that, I find them ... slightly intimidating."
"Intimidating?"
"I can feel. But it's restrained. They are feeling all over the place. Their feelings are fireworks."
"Yeah, but ... don't be jealous of that. I mean, you don't wanna be that hyper."
"No. But I wish I could taste that kind of ... abandonment," Amelie admitted, "at least once."
"You can't, though, cause if your freeze melts ... "
" ... I will turn feral, yes."
"Well, you know what? You've got a husband that loves you, and friends that care for you. Including me. And if you ever think you're not feeling things strongly enough, then we'll feel them for you. Or better yet: we'll share them with you. As best we can."
Amelie, eye-smiling, nodded her genuine appreciation.
"We are at the lift!" the sugar gliders chirped, interrupting the two femmes' heartfelt, little conversation.
"So I see," Amelie told them, patiently. Deciding to stick around, after all. She didn't need to breed just yet. Besides, it was a little bit refreshing to have something so tame to be doing. Something that didn't involve true tension or danger. And she cleared her throat as she and Seldovia stepped into the lift with the sugar gliders and the door swished shut. "Promenade," Amelie told the computer.
And, as they were whisked away, the sugar gliders cheered as if they were on an amusement park ride.
Seldovia giggled.
Amelie just closed her eyes and thought of Wheldon, and how, when she was done with her diplomatic duties, and before tonight's dinner in the ward room, she was going to soak with him in a nice, warm bath. With bubbles, maybe. And steaminess. To outright swoon in love. Oh, love! A much healthier and sweeter substitute to sugar. And a respite, too, from overeager (and, admittedly, rather cute) sugar gliders.
The soft 'beep-beep-hums' of a grey-encased medical scanner, and the little, whirring lights, too, green and blue, running so close to her body, up and down, up, up, and down her half-exposed, cinnamon-furred pelt. While she sat there on one of the bio-beds, back against the far wall, her bare foot-paws not quite touching the carpeted floor, and her bushy squirrel-tail poised and arched so prettily behind her.
Ninilchik, his sharp, numerous quills all in their flat, locked 'resting' positions, knelt down, taking the scanner lower, lower. A little bit lower, squinting at the read-outs.
" ... just where do you think you're going with that thing?" Prancer asked after a moment, voice warm and quiet, eyes closing. Not really objecting to anything at all. Just feeling like she ought to tease him.
"Just scanning you," was the easy response.
"Between my legs?" Her eyes opened, sparkling with knowing mirth.
" ... scanning all," he emphasized, "of you. I'm just being thorough. You said to give you a complete physical, yeah? Anyway, you got pants on." He looked up at her, on his shins and knees, now, one paw resting gently on her left leg. The other holding the aforementioned scanner between her barely-parted thighs, which were only opened by about four or five inches. Not all that widely. But enough to be tempting. And maybe that's what she was trying to do: tempt him. Though, as he'd noted, she was still dressed from the waist down. Her shirt was gone. On the floor a few feet away. Her bra still on, too.
"I know. A 'routine' physical, is what I actually said." A subtle smile on her muzzle, whiskers twitching and angular ears cocked atop her head. She looked down to him. It was time for the crew's monthly physicals. Overall health-check, flea and tick dosage, et cetera. Once a month. She, being the station's doctor, had done everyone else's. Either yesterday or today. The only fur she hadn't gotten to yet was herself. And her husband, knowing this, had insisted that he be the one to 'give it to her.'
'Give me what, exactly?' she'd asked during breakfast, flushing, reading his tone.
' ... your physical. You need one, right?' A pause. 'What else would I be giving you?' he'd posed, knowing full well that they both knew the answer.
"You don't know the first thing about how to read a medical scanner," she told him, stretching her arms in the present, arching her foot-paws, looking around the infirmary a bit. So empty and quiet today. There were guests on the station, though, apparently. The sugar gliders. They'd just arrived. Redwing Station was becoming a popular spot, more and more, and that could only signify good things.
The squirrel imagined that, someday, this would be a bustling place. But, while that was a welcome thought, there was also something to be said about having such a big station all to yourself. Or relatively so, anyway. That kind of privacy was very, very nice. Were there hundreds of furs on the station, she and her husband wouldn't be able to just sit here, taking sweet, lazy time scanning each other under 'academic' pretenses. There was nothing academic about their intentions, and they both knew it. And that was why this was so fun.
"Nin, if you need help reading it ... "
" ... I do, too, know how to read," he insisted, stubbornly, "a scanner." His dormant quills rustled some beneath his fur. His club-like tail rising up and falling down onto the carpet.
"A regular scanner, yeah. This is a bio-scanner. It's a whole different layout. You're not used to it."
"I know how to use computers."
"What's it say, then?" she demanded, with a smile, drawing her thighs together. And wafting her squirrel-tail so luxuriously, in such an alluring, drifting fashion that he couldn't help but notice.
" ... hey," was the objection, blinking as he looked away from her trance-making tail, and trying to re-open her thighs with his free paw. Gently so, never using any degree of force.
"The scanner?"
"Uh ... oh. Well," the porcupine said, clearing his throat, straightening on his knees. Trying to pretend like he was actually focused on the scientific side of studying her body, and not the recreational side. He squinted at the little read-outs, the tiny screens and bars. All the blinking, signifying lights. "Well, you're doing, uh ... well, you're ... " He frowned, and looked from the scanner to her hips. And put his nose forward.
She blushed, her cheeks getting hot beneath her fur as he sniffed around her groin. Sniff-sniffing, nose bumping to her bare belly. And pulling his head back, he made a 'hmm' sound. "This ... this has your, uh, 'feminine regions'," he offered, trying to use appropriate terminology, "all in warm colors."
"Yeah ... ?"
A nod. "But I sniffed you, and ... if you were ovulating, I'd smell it," he said, confidently. "It, uh ... I really would." That particular scent smelled very, very good. Drove him wild. That was the whole point, though. Her body's way of ensuring she got his seed. And he could, indeed, get her pregnant. They were both rodents. But she took an injection just before her heat, every month. They didn't want a baby right now.
"Well, I'm not in heat for another thirteen days."
"So, why's it have your, uh ... why's it all red here? In the middle? Doesn't red mean heat?"
"It does. But not the kind you're thinking. That's a body-heat index," she said, hunching over to see the scanner, and pointing with a blunt-clawed finger. Tapping a tiny button, changing the read-out. "You were taking my current body temperature and heartbeat, blood pressure. All that. You had it on the wrong setting."
"Oh." He flushed beneath his grey-brown fur. "I knew that." A pause. And, then, "So, why's it hotter there?" A lip-biting blink.
"Guess?" was the squirrel's simple response. The arousal obvious in her voice. She was getting a little more than wet between her legs. And a little more than warm. During the course of the past few minutes, she'd been getting quite worked up.
"Oh. It's ... oh."
"I'm not in heat, darling, but ... you make me hot, nonetheless. That's the simple explanation of it. You shouldn't need a scanner to tell you that." Prancer had to giggle-squeak.
"I don't," he insisted, adamantly. "I knew that. But how am I supposed to know the scanner knows that? I was just ... this thing has too many blinking lights." His muzzle scrunched. "I'm just, uh ... hmm ... little light-headed, is all." A deep breath, his throat a bit dry. "Now who's making who hot?" he asked, feeling like he'd be shown as 'red' if he turned the scanner on himself.
" ... oh, you're cute. You're cute, you know, when you're all speechless like that? Mm," was her squeaky sigh-sound. She swallowed. "Look, I can give myself a physical. I'm a doctor."
"I wanna help," he insisted, looking up at her. And the look on his muzzle was one of tender sincerity. He wasn't being silly. He really wanted to help her. Not just cause it meant flirting and all that. But also because it meant spending time with her, sharing in her interests, her job. Just because it meant keeping their relationship strong.
Shyly flushing beneath her fur, she put her paws on his cheeks, tilting his chin up a little, to look down into his eyes. "Thank you." A little breath, weakly clearing her throat. "But, uh, let's just dispense with the 'giving me a physical' stuff, and just get plain ... physical?" she managed, almost making it a question.
Nin, nodding quietly, had already folded up the scanner and set it aside, sliding his paws up her legs, up to her waist. Leaning forward against her legs, while kissing her bare, furry belly, his comm-badge unwittingly pressing to her and, when her knees instinctively came forward, it was activated with a chirrup, opening a channel to Ops (by default, with no verbal command being given). Neither rodent fully realizing this until ...
" ... I don't know if I should ask this," came Hyacinth's voice, from the badge on Nin's uniform. " ... uh, but who's doing the heavy breathing?"
Prancer, whiskers twitching on her hot cheeks, closed her eyes and said, "Uh ... Hyacinth?"
"Prancer?"
"Yeah?"
"Oh," was all the cow said. A few seconds of relative quiet, except for the brown Swiss chewing her cud. "You two okay?"
" ... uh, yeah. Yeah, Nin was just giving me, uh, my ... monthly physical," she offered lamely, swallowing. "I must've hit his comm-badge by accident. Sorry. I, uh ... lost control of my limbs."
"Heh. No worse than that time Seldovia and Mortimer made love in that access tube above the Promenade. The one that had much better acoustics than they thought?"
"Yeah, I, uh ... remember that," the squirrel said, smiling slightly. The racoon, afterward, had insisted that they were only 'making repairs,' and that those noises had come from 'the tools we were using to make them.' Of course, no one believed that. And Seldovia's darting eyes had given the rest away.
"Well, while I'm on the line with you, I might as well warn you that the sugar gliders are here."
"I know," Prancer responded, bushy tail flagging about some. "I was monitoring the sensor grid."
"Well, you got the doors locked and windows tinted? Cause sugar gliders don't knock. They just sorta ... glide on in, if you know what I mean. I hear they have a reputation for random hugging."
"Thought cows liked hugs?"
"We do. We're very mellow. Just warning you, is all. Also," she added, "Nin's in charge of putting together the meal in the ward room tonight? For our guests and, uh, the rest of us? Milka and Benji said they'd help. And me and Desmond, too, so ... with you two, that makes six. But I still think we should start at least an hour and a half before, right?"
"Uh ... " The squirrel just looked to the porcupine between her legs.
" ... sure," was Nin's simple response, nodding (though Hyacinth couldn't see the gesture, of course). "Sure, uh, we'll meet up there. Uh, before."
A slight, amused moo-sound from the cow. "Alright. Well, I hope you pass your physicals. The both of you."
"Thanks. Infirmary out." Prancer, blushing, tapped her husband's comm-badge, closing the channel. And, with a heavy sigh, told him, "Get that shirt off? And make sure your comm-badge isn't anywhere we can accidentally activate it?"
He nodded fervently, arms raised, shirt pulled up, up, over his head, tossed aside to join her own. "Door ... lights?"
"Computer," the squirrel panted, as she watched the porcupine take his pants off, his underwear going with it. " ... c-computer, lock doors. Tint windows. Dim ... lights," she managed, and with a little, soothing whir, the computer did all those things, and Nin, fully naked, in the fur, nudged the squirrel to her back. Panting, she raised her legs. Almost on instinct. And her pants and panties were fumbled with, tugged, and eventually removed. Her bra being the last thing to go. That only took a few extra seconds.
And, oh, they were both on the bio-bed, now, her toward the head of it, and him closer to the foot. The squirrel raising her legs again, more widely, now, and the porcupine holding them apart, pushing his muzzle down, down, into the wet, moist dimness, so that his tongue dragged up her pouting, petal-like sex before veering off to her warm, cinnamon thigh, simultaneously sniffing her familiar scent and mouthing on her leg-fur. So warm. She was so warm. Suckling, savoring not just her body, but her apparent anticipation as she squirmed in that rodent way.
He didn't need to be asked to continue the ministrations he'd begun, to take it further, to put his lips back on her vulva, and to tilt his muzzle and gently suck, suckle on it, nibbling on her labia, lapping between the folds, pressing his muzzle so, so close to her, and then easing up. And then pressing again. Settling into some sort of 'muzzle-humping,' letting his tongue, with each forward press, to graze through the entrance of her vagina, which was unmistakably wet. His tongue licking up, up, up across it all, to her clitoris. He sucked it into his muzzle, turning his head the opposite direction, his member stiff between his legs. But he paid it no attention. This, right now, was for her. Not that he didn't enjoy it as well! But the focus was on her.
" ... hmm! Mm ... " The squirrel contorted in pleasure, being the agile, aerial acrobat she was. And Nin felt her foot-paws on his back, his upper back. She could, truth be told, get into the most unique positions when they made love. But just because she could didn't mean she always wanted to. There was something to be said about romantic simplicity, about being face to face, belly to belly. And, oh, that would come. That was next.
After the porcupine was finished eating. Sure, they were both going to be preparing, as well as attending, a big dinner in a few hours time, but love had never before spoiled his appetite. Or hers. If anything, it only increased it. With that being the case, the husband and wife proceeded with their early desserts, in the dark of the infirmary. Simply lit by the heat of their hearts.