Of Scurry and Flight
'American redstart?' Adelaide asked tentatively, in telepathic thought-speech. Looking, as quietly as she could, over to her husband, who was leaning against a thinner-than-not tree trunk, his paw-pads daintily pressing to the bark. Being just as quiet, if not quieter, than the bat. Quiet as a mouse. It was more than merely a saying, after all.
But, though quiet, he could never stay completely still. Never completely. No, his long, silky-pink tail wavered through the air in arc-like fashion, curving out from above his rump, where his spine ended. His whiskers twitched, too, as they were prone to do, and his dishy ears swivelled atop his head. Hearing, hearing, keenly hearing. His body weight slowly shifting, meanwhile, to the right hip. As his paws still held to the tree in front of him, almost hugging it, now. Not letting go. A very effeminate posture, to be sure. Eventually, after a few blinks, he turned his head and gave a simple nod to Adelaide's question.
'You seen this bird before?' she thought-asked. Knowing his mind as intimately as she did, she couldn't recall Field having any memories of seeing a redstart. She furrowed her brow, thinking harder. No, no red-starts. And he definitely knew his birds. Which meant, by extension, so did she. Adelaide being able to identify what an American redstart looked like without ever having seen one before had nothing to do with her being well-versed in birds (even though she was a winged thing herself!). No, rather: Field would memorize his bird books. And, when he'd breed with Adelaide, her fangs embedded in his neck, her mind would flow into his, and she'd end up absorbing the information. Whatever he knew, she'd end up knowing. And vice versa.
It wasn't always that crystal-clear. The sheer amount of sensory information you got when telepathically 'joined' was sometimes overwhelming. Even if a particular memory or feeling or piece of knowledge was in your head, that didn't mean you could access the details whenever you wanted. Sometimes, you'd forget. Your mind was still your mind. Not a computer. It wasn't perfect. Sometimes, the information blurred, faded, ran together over time. It was difficult to explain. But most of it remained in the background somewhere.
Whatever the case, when you married a bat, you entered into an extremely open, intimate exchange of self. There were no secrets. There couldn't be. Field and Adelaide couldn't even give each other surprise birthday or Christmas gifts. As soon as they'd breed, they'd know what the other was getting them. Because she had no choice but to bite him during love-making. It was her physiology. And the bite brought on the 'full union.' So, no secrets. No real secrets or surprises. Which, at times, could be a bit frustrating. It was hard to love your spouse spontaneously when they had a telepathic map of that spontaneity. But it was something you got used to. And eventually embraced. Viewing it as God's way, perhaps, through His design of nature and biology, to prompt loyalty and devotion. To make love stronger, not weaker. It certainly wasn't a hindrance.
It wasn't a coincidence that bats had the lowest divorce rate of any furry species. The intricacies of bats' sexual habits provided a sizzling amount of pleasure. You felt what you felt. And you felt, on top of that, what your partner was feeling. Field, therefore, knew what the femme climax felt like. Because every time he made love with Adelaide, he'd feel it from her perspective. As well as his own. Again, a dizzying, dreamy convergence of things, hard to explain to anyone who hadn't actually experienced it. And maybe a little embarrassing to explain, anyway. So, you hoped not to be asked. But some of Field's male friends (like Denali, for instance) would incessantly prod him to know what it felt like for femmes, knowing that the mouse knew. But Field would never say. He would always wriggle out of having to answer, his ears blushing hot all the while.
But the pleasure, yes. It was hard not to get addicted to it. And, once physically hooked by the pleasure, you were then emotionally wrapped up in the sharing of thoughts, feelings. One-ness. It brought you closer. Brought you to a greater knowing. Fostered a sort of symbiosis, to where both partners became such a part of the other, in some spiritual way, that they became almost dependent on each other.
Not to say that bats didn't have their odd quirks or problems. Being so dependent on each other, addicted to each other like a drug? Could make any long period of separation almost brutal to deal with. And if you happened to be married to a bat, and the bat died? The link severed? Well, Field knew, without it having to be said, that if Adelaide died before him, he'd probably follow in a few days. He'd become so telepathically stuck to her that he knew he'd not be able to live without her. Maybe a stronger fur could. Maybe a predator could. But he was a mouse. Fragile, emotional, shy. He wouldn't be able to survive the severing of his and Adelaide's link. And she probably wouldn't, either, if he went first. But those were morbid things to think about, right? They had decades left, didn't they? God willing?
Don't think about how complicated your love is, Field reminded himself. Don't think of it as 'complicated.' Think of it as 'rich.' You may not be rich in money, but you're rich in intimacy, and that matters so much more. Besides, you've been married for three years, now. Over three years. Going on four. You've become very, very comfortable with your relationship by this point. You don't have to explain things over and over. You don't have to offer reasons. You can just let it be. You can just feel it.
Even right now, in the depths of the moist, muddy woods, on this overcast day in middle-May, such things came into play. Such feelings of 'richness.' Such things simmering beneath the surface of Field and Adelaide's simplest interactions. Their love and the mysterious workings of it provided such a blanketing context for every waking moment.
Even birdwatching.
And, oh, yes, the mouse loved his winged things. Adelaide's wings, to him, were symbolic of so much, and he loved to run his fingertips and his nose, even, along the soft membranes, the soft-furred folds that made the 'wing' between her arms and sides. They weren't like bird wings. Bat wings weren't meant for gliding. Rather, short, sharp flaps. And, oh, it was ...
' ... Field?' Adelaide had to thought-nudge. She gestured with a pink paw. Her cotton candy, carnation, watermelon pinks. So many subtle shades of pink to her pelt and body.
A blink, looking to her. More blinks.
'You seen this bird before?' she repeated, directly into his head. Smiling, now. It was cute when he zoned out like that. When he lost himself in thought and she had to pull him out by the tail. She loved his mind. He had the mind of an artist. And, though she knew the answer to the bird question, she still asked. After all, communication was important. She never wanted them to become stagnant. To become lazy. To rely on her own telepathy to fuel their conversations, their exchanges. Their banter. She wanted to make sure they always communicated in as many ways as possible.
Besides, she may have been telepathic, but Field wasn't. Had they both been telepathic, then maybe spoken words wouldn't have been as vitally necessary. But, with the mouse, the shy, modest, emotional mouse? The writer-ly mouse? They were necessary. She didn't want him to fall back into a shell or a mousey ball. He'd been that way when they'd first met. So afraid, so broken and hurt. Used and discarded, no confidence. Constantly crying and apologizing for everything. She wouldn't let him fall back into himself like that again. She loved him too much. Had given too much of herself to fully heal him. Bats were toothy, with wings that basically begged to wrap around things. To protect things. She was more than his wife. She was his protector. The dominant partner in this mate-ship. She viewed herself as such. And she wanted to hear his thoughts, hear his voice. She wanted to hear him. Because she could never get enough of his squeaks, be them coherent or incoherent.
Field just gave a quiet, little head-shake. A 'no' signal. Not thought-speaking back. He couldn't speak directly into someone else's mind like Adelaide could. And she couldn't directly read his thoughts without her fangs being in his neck. She could, however, indirectly sense those thoughts, and read his emotions, as well. But, as far as actual talking, neither of them could verbally-speak right now because, if they did, they would scare the birds away.
' ... that makes, what, sixty-six birds you've seen? Species, I mean? Rufous-sided towhee yesterday was sixty-five, so ... '
The honey-tan mouse nodded again, smiling lightly, biting his lip. Another nod. Sixty-six species. All here. At home, in the Hoosier countryside, in the wild. He didn't count birds at zoos or things. Only ones he'd seen himself in nature. And, for not having traveled all that much, and for only seeing them here? He thought that was an excellent number for his 'life list.' But he'd never seen an American redstart before today. Soot-black and sun-orange birds, black faces and backs, orange streaks on the wings, the underparts of the tail. Sizes of warblers. Never ceasing to flicker, flash, and twitch about the branches.
' ... they got scurry in 'em. Remind you of anything?' Adelaide continued, giving the beginnings of a pearly-white, sharp-toothed grin.
Field just continued biting his lip, dimples (yes, he actually had them) showing on his furry cheeks, whiskers all a-twitch, all a-twitch. Wanting to tell her that 'flittering' wasn't the same as 'scurrying.' That birds couldn't have 'scurry' in them. That winged things had 'flight' and 'flitter.' He raised his brow, opening his muzzle and mouthing back to her, 'Reminds me of you.'
Reading his lips, she chittered quietly, airily. With barely a sound, shaking her head. 'My flighty-ness is more practiced,' she told him, mentally.
Field tilted his head in playful allowance, mouthing back, in a demure, subtly-sensual way, 'I guess I should know. You do all that practicing on me.'
Giggle-chitters, and an echo-burst of mirth. The sounds bouncing off the trees and back to her.
And the American red-starts, like little candle-torches (indeed, their Latin American name, 'candelita,' meant 'little torch'), flittered and flew from the thorn and maple trees, up into a nearby sycamore.
The pink-furred bat, taking a deep breath, deep-pink eyes almost glowing, said, aloud, "Guess I blew our cover, huh?" A small sigh.
"A little," Field admitted, in his wispy, effeminate voice. Which almost got carried away by the slightly-chilly breeze. It had rained so much lately. Today was no different, with more rain coming this way. Field worked at the apple orchard and country market a mile east of their rural home, but the store didn't actually open until June. For the moment, it was mostly repair-jobs, painting, fixing up. As well as planting, weeding, things like that. But, because it was so wet and dreary, there was nothing much that could be done today. Planting and weeding didn't go so well in the mud. And you couldn't repaint the buildings of passenger-wagons if it was going to rain. And, with the inside of the store not being open yet, there was just nothing much to do today. So, the mouse had been given the day off.
It was a Thursday. Adelaide worked four days a week at the library in Sheridan. Usually having Saturdays and one other day off. This week, that day was Thursday. So, it worked out pretty well. She and Field were just staying at home. With gas prices what they were, and with their little family operating on a very tight budget, they couldn't afford to 'go out.' Not to eat, not to the movies. Not really. Not very often. All their money went to paying bills, utilities, groceries, et cetera. And saving for their daughter's future education and all that, as well as their own retirement days, which seemed a ways off. But you had to start planning, now. They didn't wanna be working in their seventies and eighties, did they? Their combined incomes equaled less than thirty thousand dollars per year. A few thousand dollars less, maybe. It depended on the year. They each had their modest jobs. Neither of them with a college education. And Field also got extra money in the summer from hay-baling for his family.
But they drove an old, paid-for truck. Their house was an old farm-house, not a big, new money-pit. And they watched what they spent. They got by. They didn't have high-speed internet, a flat-screen TV, or any of those 'modern trappings.' They lived as simply as they could. The only real problem was that they couldn't afford to have another baby right now. And they both desperately wanted to have another. The plan was never for Akira to be an only child. They didn't want that at all. They wanted her to absolutely have at least one sibling to grow up with, to have around later in life. Another child or two would mean a bigger family, more responsibility, true. But it was what they wanted. But, again, the finances weren't adding up. Were they to have more children now, one of them would have to quit their job, and they couldn't financially survive on that. So, they'd have to wait until they'd saved enough, or one of them got a better job.
They had to wait and hope that they'd get the chance before too long. Adelaide was almost twenty-four. So was Field. And the bat wanted to have all their children before they were thirty. So that they wouldn't be raising teenagers in their fifties or anything. But Adelaide was on a birth control pill right now, and would be for the foreseeable future.
Both of them tried not to think too far ahead. It would either depress or worry them. But neither did they want to live merely day-to-day. Not when God had given them eternity together. They had to somehow find a balance. So, they did that: balanced things, kept things together. They had their faith in God, as Christians. They had their salvation. They also had his parents and her parents living in the same county, for support and such. Should they need it. But they never liked to ask for that. Aside from using both sets of parents as sometimes-babysitters for Akira, their two-and-a-half year old, mauve-furred mouse-bat (legally a 'mouse-bat,' as with interspecies furs, the species of the father was listed first in all legal documentation; but that didn't stop Adelaide from teasing that Akira was actually a 'bat-mouse,' not a 'mouse-bat').
Once a year, though, as far as splurging went, they would try and do something different, something special. Last year, they'd gone to the Indy Car race in Kentucky during an August weekend, and had swung by Cincinnati on their way home. That had been their 'event' for the year. They probably wouldn't make that trip again this year. It would cost more than last year. They could always go to the race in Mid-Ohio. As always, though, Field was hoping to go to the Indianapolis 500-Mile Race, the 'Greatest Spectacle in Racing.'
" ... your relatives have extra tickets, you know," Adelaide said, reading his general thoughts. Not the specific details. But she could sense he was thinking about the race. And guessed he was still worried about being able to go. Now that they were done birdwatching, they could chat some. About whatever was on their minds. Grand things or small things. It didn't matter. Thoughts needn't be epic to be worth sharing.
Field nodded, squinting through the canopy of the woods, and sighing. Seeing the grey, swirling clouds. Seeing the grey catbirds and brown thrashers out of the corners of his eyes. And hearing the Northern mockingbirds changing their tunes. He looked down to the muddy ground. "Yeah, but they know we wanna go. They know how much I love Indy Car racing. I mean, we've been to all my little cousins' birthday parties recently, and the topic always comes up, but ... " A slight frown-face, looking to Adelaide. " ... they never offer. I mean, we'd pay for the tickets. But I'm not going to grovel for the opportunity to have them." A pause. "I'm very polite, right? I try to be."
"Mm-hmm."
" ... but I'm not a 'schmoozer'."
Adelaide let off another echo-burst. " ... that's not a word you normally use. It sounds odd coming from you."
"Does it?" An innocent blink, whiskers twitching. Eyes mousey-wide.
"You have a cute voice."
"I have a wispy voice ... " A whisker-twitch, biting his lip. "At work, when I answer the phone, they think I'm a femme, sometimes."
"Doesn't matter what they think. I like your voice. It's gentle. It's soothing to me ... alright?" A warm, unassuming wink. "Now, you were saying?"
"Uh ... um," he went, whiskers twitching more, trying to regain his thought process.
Adelaide's eyes darted over him. His trim, rural form. Field was about five feet, eleven inches tall, a hundred fifty-five pounds. Very healthy and handsome to her. The bat drank him in, breathing of the chilly, eddying air. Hearing the woods move about them. A woodpecker cackled somewhere.
"It's, like, you know ... " He twitched a bit, finally continuing, " ... they play mind-games. My relatives? I love them, okay, but they do. They play mind games. Uh, no offense. Not, like, uh ... you know what I mean."
"I know," Adelaide assured, gently, with a smile. "I know what you mean."
"They don't communicate. They leave everything to assumption and guessing, and then at the last minute, they finally say what they've been thinking, but by that time, it's ... you already got other things going on, or you know ... they never make their intentions clear, I guess. Which is odd."
"Not so odd," Adelaide said, quietly, extending a blunt-clawed, pink-furred paw.
Field took the paw, knowing that's what she wanted him to do.
And she, grasping it, brought him forward, away from the tree-trunk he'd been leaning against. And closer to her. Standing, as they were, beneath the waving, rustling limbs and leaves, beneath the dense, green-growing trees. The greenery wasn't at its full peak yet. Last year, it'd peaked much earlier. Cause the drought and early warmth (and early cold snaps) had rushed everything up by a few weeks. Last year, May acted like June. This year, May was acting like May: a bit of an uncooperative tease, flashing you enough promise to make you salivate. But never giving you all of it. Cheeky May.
" ... it is odd," Field insisted, quietly, his pink, sniffy nose to his wife's cheek. "They're mouses. Mouses are supposed to be organized. Have everything planned out. Not announce their minds at last minute. Not, like, act so roundabout, so ... you know, like ... " He trailed, and then closed his eyes. " ... it's cause I married you."
Adelaide nodded, not refuting that. But not bothered by it, either. She wasn't going to let things like that get to her. "That's why my parents didn't want to spend Easter with your family. They're nice. I mean, your family is. They're, uh ... well, cute. They're just not extremely open to non-mouses, or even non-rodents."
"Mouses used to be hunted." A twitch. "Sometimes, they still are." He didn't like to read the newspapers or watch the news. To see about how some unknown predator had hurt some mouse or rodent. Mouses were easy targets. They were often the victims of rape or abuse. Field was glad to be in the countryside, away from urban problems and suburban sprawl. He felt safer out here. More free.
"I know they are. But so are bats. For different reasons ... "
A sigh. "I know. I didn't mean ... I'm not saying bats have it easier. And I'm not trying to defend my family's stubbornness, either." A pause, whiskers twitching. "But, you know, 'mousey stubbornness?' We have that a lot. It can be cute ... "
" ... practically edible," Adelaide breathed, sultrily, nodding.
A flush, taking a breath, continuing, " ... but it can also become a little annoying if it's taken too far. Sometimes, my family takes it too far. My dad's side, anyway. My mom's side's all in New England. That's ... that's basically another universe, as far as I'm concerned. They're just the opposite. They're incredibly direct. I mean, they don't hold anything back. You know, maybe we can, uh ... you and me, maybe we can find a middle ground to all that. I like to think we have," he admitted.
A chuckle, nodding, agreeing with that. " ... mm. Different universe, though? I was born in Australia. Does that make an alien?" was the smiling question.
"No. I mean, you grew up here, though."
"True, but ... Hoosier-land isn't it's own universe, too? With its own quirky locals?"
"The Heartland. Hoosier Country. Yeah, it is, but it's ... down-to-earth, rural, of the ... you know, we don't have all those crazy ocean currents bringing ill winds to us like the coasts. We don't have metropolises being all ... all towering. We have more sensibility here," the mouse declared, spreading his arms at the nature that surrounded them. His whiskers twitched, and he began to stammer his words. Cutely so.
"Ah, I see. I see." A nod. "This is actually mousey stubbornness right now, isn't it? You were talking about it, and it triggered some unconscious command to engage in it?" The bat grinned, her short, little rudder-ish tail steering about, and her angular, swept-back ears perking some.
A momentary pause, eyes darting. " ... no. Maybe ... yes." He blinked, and then insisted, " ... but I'm just saying! I'm saying ... " A sigh, trailing. He didn't know what he was saying. His whiskers twitched, twitched, and his tail wavered like a silky rope. A pause and a swallow, getting back on the original topic. "Anyway, my mom and dad like you, though. A lot."
"Your mom and dad are different," Adelaide observed. "They're closer to us. We spend time with them several times a week. Akira's their grandchild. Your aunts and uncles, though? They don't have the same emotional stake in us and Akira, and ... so, they're always gonna be leery. You're the first mouse in your family in, like, what? Three generations? To marry a non-mouse?"
"Yeah," the mouse echoed, sighing. " ... yeah, I was. So, my dad's family thinks I'm a bad influence, now, and am gonna corrupt all my cousins into marrying wacky species or something?" A breath. "But, come on, how many years has it been? Do they think you're a vampire or something? I mean, they need to get over it." He sounded a bit upset. And why shouldn't he be? He loved Adelaide very much. It bothered him that, around some of his relatives, he had to be on some silent, subtle defensive.
" ... it doesn't bother me, darling," Adelaide insisted, with her toothy kind of confidence. Bats were bold things. Not as shy or anxious as mouses. "They can think what they want. If they think I'm secretly plotting to suck their blood or brainwash them into my secret army?" Uncontrollable giggle-chitters, tilting her head and trailing off. " ... well, it's kind of amusing. I can have fun with that ... " She could. And, often, she did. She'd teased Dandy, one of Field's little brothers, for years about that stuff. Until Dandy had figured out that she wasn't really a vampire.
Field, arms hugging round Adelaide's back, nodded against her shoulder and neck. He smiled lightly. The bat had always been stronger, more dominant than him. She was always looking to nudge someone. And he was always looking to be nudged. They played off each other so well. "Maybe. But that means they're going to give their extra 500 tickets to other mouse-relatives ... and not us."
"We'll find other tickets. It's the world's largest single-day sporting event, remember? There are 300,000 seats. I'm sure we can find two spare ones. Race isn't for another week. We can look around, some ticket site, or something. We'll go, okay? I know how much it means to you ... "
A quiet nod, eyes closed. "I know that'd be our 'event' for the summer, though, and summer doesn't even technically start 'til June ... you know, I just don't wanna waste our only 'trip' on something so early on, and so close to home."
"Speedway's thirty miles away. That's kind of a trip," Adelaide went, grinning easily, allowing her fangs to rake through the mouse's honey-tan neck-fur. "We can stop at Long's Bakery before."
" ... if you can get in the door. The line there on race day? I bet it makes the lines at the restaurant I used to work in, like, pale in comparison." He was glad he wasn't working in restaurants or eateries anymore. He loved farming. Had grown up on a farm. His family still lived on it. And, so, he enjoyed working at the orchard, outside, and tending crops and such.
"Don't worry about it."
A slow, slow sigh, the air slipping out of him like out of a balloon. He loved the barely-there feeling of her fangs when they 'grazed' him. It was a shivery feeling. It was nice. The natural surroundings they were standing in seemed to fade away when placed next to her. She was that beautiful and captivating to him. " ... I guess. Just, uh, tickets, food, and ... "
" ... you're gonna have to get your toy cars and your program. For your collection," was the little tease. Nosing, nosing. Nudging. Field liked to collect things. And, for fun, on rainy days, he liked to organize those collections in the most tidy ways possible. It made the bat chitter and grin. Field always wanted to know why she found it funny. But she could never express it in words.
His ears flushed just a bit. " ... well ... well, anyway, that's gonna be two, three hundred dollars, when the day's said and done? Just saying, if you don't wanna do that ... "
" ... I do. I wanna go with you. Besides, it's THE race, isn't it? It'll be worth it." This year's running was the 92nd. The track had been built in 1909, and the first '500' run in 1911, but they hadn't run during the World Wars. Still, it was such a rich, history-laden, innovation-laced event. A Hoosier tradition, in the Crossroads of America, at the Racing Capital of the World! Anyone who said that the greatest race in America was that stock car race down in Florida? Obviously didn't know anything, in Field's opinion. How any event in Florida be considered either 'great' or 'American' was beyond the mouse's knowing. No, Indy was unparalleled. There was no question. Not just here, but in the world.
Field loved Indy Car racing, even more than college basketball and professional football. Which were things he really got passionate about. But, with racing, it was something extra that he couldn't explain. Many things extra. The mouse, though, was quietly competitive. One might not think it, but he really was. He always paced and squeaked at the television during sporting events, and he would never back down from a game of basketball with his brothers (and he would play only to win, which made his brothers insist that he went all 'spastic' when playing). Which was why he enjoyed sports so much. Plus, the sense of community it forged, the home-town/home-state pride, all that. The thrill of endurance, of the furry body pushed to the limits, against time, against itself. Against machine, even.
Cause, oh, the sheer sensuality of auto racing was unmatched by other sports. The glinting, shimmering colors of the cars, the curves, the smoothness of the chassis, the visual texture of the asphalt, the slick tires. The shimmering movements of the massive crowd, the heat rippling off the track. The smell of the food in the air, along with the faint smell of ethanol and rubber. The roar, the purr, the zip, the zoom, the buzz, the vibration of the engines. So loud you had to wear earplugs. And, even then, it was all over. The sound! And the sheer sight of speed. The blur, the dodging, weaving. Things that could be touched and tasted. And things that couldn't be contained. Things searing and visceral. Such palpable danger in the back of the mind. Two hundred thirty miles per hour? It was captivating to watch. To hear. To feel. It was truly a sensual experience. One you got no true sense of via a screen. You had to see it for real to understand. Basketball and football may have been fun. And he liked them a lot. Basketball was his favorite sport to play, and his favorite sports team (the Indianapolis Colts) was a football team. But those sports weren't necessarily sensual. Auto racing was.
And that sensuality elevated it, somehow. After all, he may have been a mouse, but mouses were still furs. And sensuality was something that always caught his attention. It was an ingredient in swooning. You didn't swoon over sports with sticks and balls. No, you swooned over sports with fast, fast cars.
If Field got to go this year, though, it'd be his 9th Indy 500, his 21st Indy Car race overall (he'd gone to his first race at six years old). If he couldn't go, he and Adelaide would listen at home, on the radio. The race was 'blacked out' in Indiana during its running. If you lived in the state, you could only watch it on tape-delay at 8 PM, after the race was run. It had always been that way. Which was nice, the mouse thought, because you could go to the race, come home, have a big dinner party, and watch it from an entirely new perspective. It was much different when you were there, as opposed to seeing it on TV. But it was an all-day event. Balloons, Taps, Back Home Again in Indiana, the B-2 flyover, the world's fastest rolling start, thirty-three cars, eleven rows of three, driving five hundred miles to drink a glass of milk!
How great was that?
" ... you still here? Field?" Adelaide asked, pulling back a bit. Smiling as she waved a paw in front of Field's eyes. "You're getting all swoon-ful today. That's, like, the fourth time this morning I've had to snap you out of a dreamy daze ... "
A few blinks, swallowing, blushing some. To where his ears, big and dishy, looked a little rosier than normal. "Well, uh ... maybe."
"Like I said: swoon-ful. Something I like in a mouse. In spades," she insisted, "in a mouse. Mm ... my dreamy, rural, apple-working ... race-liking ... mm, scurry-mouse," she breathed, nonsensically romantic. The bat, giving a throaty sound, leaned forward, lips brushing his. " ... the swoon-ful ones are always more real. More 'there.' Give you the most passionate kisses ... "
The mouse stayed very still, being the submissive one, taking her kiss, paws holding to her sides as she tilted her muzzle and sucked his lower lip, her dextrous, more-versatile bat-tongue, meant for catching insects, 'catching' his own tongue. His very modest mouse-tongue, which he couldn't stick that far out of his muzzle. She tongue-tied him up, stole his breath, forced his eyes to a melting shut. And, after a few seconds, he tilted his muzzle and pressed back to her, sucking, sucking in return, nose flaring and sniffing, paws sliding up her back. Returning the simple, simple gesture. A pleasure that was soft and foreshadowing. Like dipping your finger into the icing on the cake. But not actually eating the cake yet. Kisses were, yes, the fingertips in the icing before you actually got to eat your slice.
And then it all broke with hot, heavy sighs and a 'smack' sound. Noses flaring, whiskers tangling deftly.
Field cleared his throat and squeaked quietly.
" ... mm," the pink-furred bat went again, giving a swallow. And a chitter of her own. Wrapping her winged arms around him. Wrapping him all up. A deep breath, and another sigh. "If your dreaminess and innocence has a taste, though, I swear I can ... taste it," she managed, with another breath, "on you."
" ... what does it taste like?" was the shy whisper, meeting her eyes from mere inches away.
"Like something sweet," was her obvious reply. Obvious, maybe, but it was spoken with true steam and desire. And she couldn't help but give him another kiss, this time to his cheek, breathing his earthy, mousey scent, the breeze swirling around them, all moist and grey-chilled. Was the temperature at sixty degrees? Fifty-five? Somewhere in the fifties, maybe. They were both in bare foot-paws, though. Which prompted her to note, her wing-armed hug slipping away, "Our foot-paws are totally covered in mud." A giggle-chitter. "I, uh, got it between my toes." She wriggled her blunt-clawed toes in emphasis.
A soft, shy smile. "I know."
"Yeah, but you're such a tidy mouse. You don't like getting dirty."
"I don't mind getting a little dirty. I'm a farm boy," was the insistence. "I like rollin' in the dirt now and then. I, uh, just don't like to stay that way all day. Just for a bit ... I mean, when I bale hay with my family, don't I got alfalfa dust and bits all over me, even in my ears?"
" ... mm-hmm. It takes half an hour to clean those ears out after you bale. Mm ... " The bat sighed, remembering such things. " ... and then you get all ... "
" ... well, yeah. I, uh ... I do," he admitted, swallowing, interrupting her sentence. He knew where that was going. Cause he'd been there when it'd 'gone.' Oh, that'd been good. But, uh ... concentrate, Field. Please. "Eventually, though," he continued, gesturing with his paws before placing them back on her body, trying to drive his point home, "one has to be organized. I mean, we may be animals, kind of, but we're sentient animals, and we're, like ... you know, we need structure. Structure provides meaning, and, uh ... well, things just need to be clean at the end of the day," he said, sighing heavily.
"Squeaky clean, huh?"
" ... yeah." He whispered it, shyly. Even though they knew each other so well. Even though she was the mother of his child. Even though. He still got shy. It was just in his nature. It wasn't something that could be smoothed completely over. And it wasn't something Adelaide wanted to rid him of. She liked it.
"Scrubbing my mouse with bubbly suds in a big, warm tub. Mm ... ears, tail. Rump and belly and ... don't give me ideas."
A giggle-squeak, whiskers twitching. He bashfully lowered his head, and then raised it again. "I think you're giving yourself ideas." A pause. "Also, I don't think I'm the only one that's 'swoon-ful' this morning."
"Yeah, but yours is a different kind of swoon."
"More delicate?"
"You swoon with finesse. I swoon with ... teeth," she said, licking her sharp, pearly-white fangs. "You swoon softly. I swoon sharply."
"Very true. And I, uh, don't have a problem with that," was the honest, immediate whisper. " ... not at all."
"I know you don't," was the eye-glinting reply. A deep, deep breath, and then repeating, "We got muddy foot-paws." Most furs didn't wear shoes at all, unless it was, like, the dead of winter or something. Shoes were just too uncomfortable for foot-paws. And each species had a different kind of foot-paw, so making shoes for every species would've been a logistical nightmare. So, most didn't ever wear any.
" ... well, at least your wings are clean. And my whiskers. A little damp, but, uh ... we're not that messy. You're just trying to play the whole thing up," Field knew, with a restrained smile, his ropy tail swaying behind him, this way and that, "cause you wanna strip me and 'clean' me."
"Do I? What?" A bright grin.
Giggle-squeaks. And a soft, ear-swiveling sigh. " ... you, uh, do. Yes. I'd say so. Scrubbing me with soapy bubbles?"
"You don't think that'd be fun?"
A shy giggle-squeak. "That's not the point."
"No?"
"You gonna keep answering me with questions?"
" ... maybe. And, as for me looking for excuses to get you in the fur? Well, you know we can't lie to each other, so I'd have to say ... that, yes, that's what I'm doing." An admitting nod. "And I'm not gonna stop."
Field smiled, looking away, whiskers twitching. Out through the woods, all the trees, the clearings. Everything. "We can, uh, walk through the creek ... across the creek? Before going back to the house. Then we won't track mud into the porch or anything."
"Creek's flooded. It's probably four foot deep in the middle, at least. Moving pretty fast. Don't want you to get swept away." They had come out here by going around the creek, which meant taking a path over a bridge on their gravel road, around the pond, through some fields. They'd been observing some cardinal eggs that had hatched last week. After a few minutes of looking, they'd slowly filtered through the woods, where Field had stopped, blinking with wide, curious eyes, insisting he'd just seen a bird he'd never seen before. And, of course, he had. Many birds. A few pairs of American red-starts. But, all being told, he and Adelaide had been outside for over an hour, now, in the moist, May chill. It was time to head back to the house. " ... then we can get in the tub. It's big enough for the both of us." She let the implications of that hang. She definitely wasn't going to let that idea go. "Let's go back the way we came, okay? It'll give us more time to talk."
The mouse gave a trusting nod. "Okay," was the whisper, whiskers twitching, tail snaking about. The red-starts had flitted off to another part of the woods, now. "Was Akira still sleeping when mom picked her up?" the mouse asked. Thursday was Field's mother's 'grocery day,' and Akira liked to go with 'grandma' to the store. Akira was the only grandchild Field's parents had, so his mother, especially, offered to spend time with her a lot.
"No, I woke her. Got her ready. When you went over to the orchard to check if they needed you today ... " Akira had stayed up past her bedtime. Because, "Last night, she kept grabbing at those cookies you made. She kept nibbling on them when I wasn't looking? All that sugar ... "
A slight giggle-squeak from the mouse. "Well ... "
" ... are you taking official credit for that?"
"I made the cookies mostly for you, not for her. I only had, like, two of them myself. I put them in a plastic bag. By the microwave." The cookies had been a meld of things. Three-fourths chocolate chips to one-fourth butterscotch chips, with oatmeal sprinkled in. Field liked to cook. He was, truth be told, a much better cook than Adelaide. But mouses, having so much scurry and energy, had to watch their sugar intake. Give a soda or lots of cookies to a mouse, and they'd literally try and scurry up walls. Sugar highs. Which led, eventually, to the inevitable 'crash' that occurred when the energy was spent. It was a frantic experience that most rodents accidentally got themselves into now and then. But they tried to avoid it. It certainly wasn't healthy to have that happen on a regular basis.
"Well, she found them. I think she stood on the popcorn boxes to reach the bag. You should've put them away, instead of leaving them on the counter," the bat gently chided.
"I'll remember next time." A continued smile.
"They were good cookies, though."
"Thank you." A squeak-sound.
" ... yeah, but she's fine. I told your mom not to give her anything sweet for lunch." Akira's telepathic abilities weren't nearly as well-defined as Adelaide's. Not yet. But they were still there. And the little mouse-bat would sometimes use them to innocently 'manipulate' others into wanting to give her, say, ice cream, for instance. More than once, Field's mother had remarked how she'd felt a strong urge to give Akira ice cream. Field had insisted, 'she's playing with your mind.' Field's mother, a bit unnerved at first, had grown to find this a little bit cute. And it became a game between her and her granddaughter. Who could out-persuade who. And Field's mother didn't like to lose. Maybe that's where Field had gotten his competitiveness from.
"Well, mom can be pretty fixed in her ways, so ... now that she knows that Akira was 'persuading' her to give her desserts, I think Akira's gonna find it a lot harder to successfully pull off any tricks."
Some giggle-chitters. "Yeah, that's true. But, keep in mind that Akira's abilities are gonna get more advanced ... your mom's gonna have to adapt to that. I'm still betting on Akira, in the end. After all, I'm teaching her, aren't I?" A deep breath, slowing her pace, until the bat stopped completely. Allowing Field to move a few steps past her, but then grabbing his tail to stop him. " ... darling," was all she whispered, suddenly.
" ... mm?" An innocent look, turning around, pink nose all a-sniff. Whiskers twitching, twitching, and blue-grey eyes a bit wide.
"Let's do it out here." She licked her lips, staying hushed. Paws moving up and down the mouse's sides, wrinkling his shirt.
"What?"
"We both know we're gonna have sex as soon as we get into the shower. Back at the house. Let's just do it out here."
"Uh ... Adelaide ... " The mouse's eyes shyly darted. Whiskers twitching. " ... don't say that," he whispered, as if God was eavesdropping on this.
"Say what?" More lip-licking.
" ... we ... that ... " Slightly-flustered. A deep breath. " ... we were gonna make love when we got back to the house. Make love." Mouses tended to be on the modest side.
"Make love," she repeated, nodding. "Mm-hmm. Well, so, uh ... out here, then?"
"Well ... "
" ... darling, we do it outside all the time. I mean, like, I can't even count. On wagon-tops, in alfalfa fields ... by the creek. We've done it in the woods before, too. Why so bashful now ... "
"Just, sometimes, I feel extra-bashful," was all he could offer. It was true that they'd 'done it' out here more times than they could count. And he normally didn't get shy about it. Sometimes, he felt looser, more mellow. Other times, shyer. Emotions weren't always able to be predicted. " ... also, you, uh, built up all those images in my head about us in bubbles and bath-water," he admitted, nodding quietly. "I kinda had my mind fixed on that."
"Aw ... caught your fantasies off-guard with new fantasies?" was the whispered, gentle question.
A quiet nod.
"Well, we can do it in the tub, too. I mean, it's our day off. Afternoon, we can ... "
" ... yeah. Yeah, we can, uh, do that," he said, nodding. Nodding, taking a deep breath. Feeling hot beneath the honey-tan cheek-fur, whiskers twitching.
" ... so cute. Oh, my gosh. Field ... over against that tree, okay? Standing up? Who's gonna see?" She turned, paws to his sides, now, shuffling him back, back. Heart hammering and throat a bit dry. "The red-starts?"
A bewildered squeak, eyes wide, almost tumbling back. His mousey responses eventually melting into something calmer, something very, very willing. He relaxed by the second, going where nudged.
Adelaide's nudges became little grips, firm and secure. Until she had his back to a broad sycamore trunk. And her paw expertly (after how many seconds, the mouse didn't know) in his pants, in his jeans. In his white, cotton briefs. She had his limp mouse-hood in her paw. Just like that. And, every five seconds or so, gave a light, little squeeze.
Field swallowed, saying nothing. Eyes shut. Feeling his shaft tick-tick-tick with blood, making it a little bit bigger, a little bit harder.
Adelaide squeezed again.
It ticked again.
Squeeze, squeeze.
" ... A-adelaide," Field managed, exhaling.
"Mm?" was the sultry sound, close to one of his ears.
"N-nothing. I just, uh ... wanted to breathe your name ... "
" ... darling, that's so ... sweet," she whispered, totally hooked by it. Oh, that 'mousey cuteness.' Huffing, pupils fully-dilated. She couldn't get enough of it, now or ever. Wagging her thumb along the back 'ridge' of his circumcised head. That was his 'sweet' spot. And the harder his mouse-hood got, the sweeter that spot felt. Her thumb not stopping, continuing to slide over that little ridge of flesh, where the head ended and the shaft begin. Slide, slide, slide. Slowly, slowly, the fur of her thumb against the bare, pink flesh of his male essence.
The mouse, eyes half-open, slumped to the tree-trunk, panting so airily. Knees wobbling just a bit. That spot really did feel good. In a 'hot-cold' kind of way, a 'shivery' way. He didn't know why. But it did. Which is why he didn't object (indeed, he hardly noticed) when the bat undid his jeans outright, and had his pants and underwear down, down to his ankles. Leaving him basically naked from the hips down.
Adelaide, huffing more, having no real degree of patience this morning (just one of those days, really) dropped to her knees in the wet, tall grass, paws going to her husband's naked, furry hips. Clutching at them, leaning her head forward. Bats had good tongues. She put hers to use. Not wildly so, but with spot-on precision, using her tongue-tip to touch only the head of Field's mouse-hood. Particularly the back of the head, the most sensitive part. And, then, eventually, that back ridge.
Oh, Field was very relaxed, now, sighing, slumping more. Paws reaching out to hold to his wife's shoulders as his trim, rural form hunched forward a bit. He watched through those barely-open eyes, giving more sighs, and even a sharp, little squeak, as her lips, in a loose, wet circle, slipped right over the head of his mouse-hood. And down, down the length. The entire length. Oh, gosh.
Eyes shut, she twisted her head to the right, and then slowly, slowly to the left, suckling her way upward. With tantalizing slowness.
The mouse, quietly squeaking, raised his muzzle up, up. Drawing air. Chest heaving a little.
Adelaide, having suckled her way back to the head, suckled there. Just there. Sweetly, fully, and then slipped off, saliva stringing, after a few seconds.
He didn't say anything for a minute. Just breathed, breathed.
And she looked up at him, paws on his bare hips, scratching affectionately through his fur, around to the back of him, to his rump. Paws on his rump-cheeks, rubbing, squeezing. Making him, as he always did when his rump was gripped, to rise up to the tips of his foot-paws. She giggle-chittered, sliding her paws down the backs of his thighs, whispering, " ... you're so gentle, you know that? You even taste gentle. You feel," she insisted, "gentle. And it really calms me. I mean ... " Giggle-chitters. " ... well, it works me up, okay. But, uh ... obviously. But after? After, it makes me ... when we're glowing, and it's after?" she told him. "That's when it rubs off on me the most."
" ... Adelaide. You, uh ... "
" ... mm?" Her paws back on his hips, still looking up at him. She was still on her knees.
" ... I love you."
"I love you, too." A bright smile. "You chilly?"
"Uh, maybe my, uh ... fleshy parts, a little."
"You need your ears worked on, don't you."
"Well, I'm not gonna say no if you offer," he told her, grinning.
"I'm offering."
Giggle-squeaks, and a few nods, and he looked around. "I should sit down, too. Uh, how do you wanna do this?"
"I'll sit against the tree trunk. Lean back against it. You sit in front of me, between my legs. I can work your ears from behind."
"What about you?" An innocent blink.
" ... you want to return all these favors?"
A sweet, little nod.
" ... you always do. And you will. Maybe now, or later today. Let's not plan this too much. Let's just let it happen. You'll get your fair share of me, regardless," was the promise, pulling him down to the ground. To where, a minute later, they were both 'in the fur,' in the sixty-degree air, warming each other through bodily contact, fur meshing. Her pink to his honey-tan. The bat, with knees bent and legs apart, sitting back against the sycamore tree. And Field sitting between those legs, leaning his head back against her breasts. Letting her play with his ears.
"G-good thing," Field went, "we took new doses of flea and tick medicine the other day."
A chuckle. "Mm-hmm. Though I doubt there's many of 'em out right now. Not for another few weeks ... " Her fingers trailed along the rims of his big, dishy ears. Trailing, trailing, and then slipping into the interiors. Where they strayed very close to his ear-holes. Where the short, invisible hairs were. The sensitivity was. Where, oh, she had him squirming just a bit. " ... relax, relax," she breathed, whispering it into the right ear. " ... just relax. I know you want your muzzle between my legs, but ... like I said: later. Right now, I'm taking care of you." Again, she thought about how she'd taken on the role of his protector. How, if anyone, predator or otherwise, dared to threaten him, she'd bare her fangs and put her body between them and him. Her fangs weren't meant for drawing blood at all. But, if she was forced to, she would use them as weapons. Only as a last resort. But no one was going to hurt her mouse. No one.
Field sighed. A whoosh of air. An exhale, and then a sucking of air. Inhaling. Sighing again. Very audible, notable breaths. Worked up breaths. The heat from his blood-gorged ears was seeping down into his head. Making his forehead-fur mat with sweat. Making his cheeks to burn. The heat spreading through all of him. And, the hotter his ears got, the more they tingled. Tingled all over. All because of what Adelaide's fingers were doing. And her muzzle, now, too, taking the daintiest of nips and lip-suckles at his ear-rims. Tilting his head aside, and going to a bodily shimmy, to better get her muzzle around, from the back of his lobes to the front. She had to lay him down in the grass and damp soil, the soft floor of the woods. And lean over him, almost draped, as her muzzle went into his left ear. As she blew directed jets of air right into his ear-hole.
The mouse's toes curled. Muzzle gaping quietly, quietly, no sounds coming out. Until, eventually, a weak, sustained squeak. Like a moan. It was a moan. No mistaking that. A little louder, as the gape became a gasp, feeling his wife's tongue lathering all about the inside of his lobe. Where his flesh sizzled. You could almost imagine a sizzling sound, like eggs on a frying pan, as her tongue smoothed over his earlobe. It was so hot and so, so rosy-pink, the capillaries showing. It throbbed. And, with her paws, she massaged the backs of them. Paw-pads to the backs of his ears, rubbing in lazy, light circles, while her tongue flickered about, to the ear-hole, back out, out, to the perimeters.
" ... u-uh," was all he could manage, writhing.
The bat was fixated on her task. Almost running on instinct, now, feeling his desire, his emotions. Sensing everything. Sensing, sensing, sliding her tongue into the other ear, working it in a gradual circle to the other ear-hole, taking the rims of his ears between her thumbs and forefingers, and dragging the thumbs and fingers across, across the ...
" ... ah, ah!" Weak, effeminate sounds. Wispy pleasure-pants. " ... ah ... o-oh." The mouse trembled. Literally. Paws shaking. The heated tingling in his ears flooded through him entirely, as if water had broken through a dam. His ears pulsed, pulsed. Pulsed! He could hear his heartbeat so clearly, and his eyes watered. His tail sparked with the most pleasant prickles. Little goose-bumps of pleasure that raced all across his skin, making his honey-tan fur to stand on end. Little, little squeaks. Squeak. Chitter-chitter-squeak.
That was an ear-gasm.
And, Adelaide, taking a deep breath, held it. And then released it, swallowing, knowing he'd just had one. Knowing she'd given it to him. Knowing that mouses were very proud of their ears. And that fiddling with those ears was a special thing. Knowing this, and asking, " ... you alright?"
A weak nod. His breath shaking as he tried to slow and stabilize it. His mouse-hood, at its modest five inches, was as hard as it could get. Dribbling from the tip. A vein was showing on the underside of the shaft. Another weak nod on his part. " ... t-that ... was so good." It almost came out as a whimper.
A smile, leaning back against the sycamore trunk. She stroked his head and chest-fur. " ... I'm glad. I know I don't do that often enough." They had intercourse every day. And he gave her muzzle pretty much every day, too. She gave him muzzle every other day, maybe. But she only gave him 'ear-sex' about once a week, perhaps. It was a delicate procedure. You worked the ears too hard, and the sensitivity would turn to pain. You worked them too lightly, and you'd never get anywhere. Adelaide credited her telepathy on helping her to gage his reactions. To get the stimulation just right. " ... you always put my pleasure before yours. Sometimes, I just wanna give it to you. I want it, too, but ... more for you than for me."
The mouse swallowed, having his breath back, and his ears still hot. But not nearly as fire-hot as they'd been. Cooling some. He thought about countering her point. About trying to insist that she deserved pleasure more than he did. But he didn't debate it. This was what romance was about. Taking two singular things and making a new whole. Changing, sacrificing. It was about mutual give and take, done in equal measure. If she wanted to do more giving than taking right now, he was going to take that for what it was: the purest form of expressed affection. Romance exemplified through selflessness.
He was going to be grateful.
He said, " ... thank you."
'You're so welcome, darling,' Adelaide thought-said, into his head.
They sat/laid there for a while, for a few minutes. Neither saying anything. Until Field, feeling his erection begin to shrink, whispered, unable to contain his desire for her, " ... even if you wanted more for me, I, uh ... I still wanna use it." A pause, and a swallow. " ... really bad."
"Use what?" the bat asked, stroking his chest. Playing coy. Wanting to hear him say it. Just cause it was so cute when he got flustered.
" ... you know what," was the evasive response. "It's shrinking. I don't want it to ... I want to swim in desire. I want to roll around with you in pools of bliss. I want to share it. I want to be one with you. I want to show you how much I love you." He was speaking dreamily, now.
"I know how much you love me."
" ... then let me remind you. I know you were doing the giving. But let me do some, now? Please?"
"Standing up?" she asked. "Can you stand?"
" ... y-yeah. I, uh, think so." His eyes, fully open again, darted.
"We can do it laying down. We just haven't done it standing up in a while." They were honestly limited in the amount of 'positions' they could get into. They couldn't do 'doggy-style' at all. Because Adelaide couldn't bite him with her fangs from that position. No, they could only have intercourse in ways that allowed her to comfortably bite his neck. But the telepathic link and all the trappings involved, and the purity of their love, more than made up for the supposed 'lack of variety.'
"I can stand," the mouse insisted, sitting up, looking to her with such devoted innocence, blue-grey eyes mousey-wide. And, oh, those pupils cutely dilated. His whiskers twitched. Even cuter!
The bat sighed, almost melting. As they both sat, she put a paw to his cheek, fingers brushing through his whiskers. "You're adorable," she breathed, quietly. As if she didn't want the breeze to find out, lest it turn into a wind and try and take him from her. " ... you alright?" She noticed he was staring at her breasts. Not that him staring at her breasts was unusual, but ...
" ... I just ... " His eyes closed. " ... wanna have another baby with you. I just wish ... the choice would come down to our love for each other. And not how much money we have." His eyes opened, a bit pained. "It just doesn't seem right."
" ... we'll have another baby someday, okay?" she assured, paw still on his cheek. She smiled reassuringly. "We've got plenty of time."
"I just love you so much, though." His light voice was breaking just a bit. So emotional. "I just ... "
" ... I know. I know," she breathed, paws going behind his head. And she guided his head forward, so that his muzzle was on her shoulder. His eyes closing. And hers, as well. The breeze running its slightly-chilly fingers through their pelts. But not making them cold. No, they were too warm to deter. Their passion was too hot to put out. " ... now," the bat breathed. "You were gonna 'give' me something?" She smiled, showing her fangs.
And the mouse shyly met her gaze.
The next few minutes becoming a flow of images, moments. Sensations and seconds. Of him fondling her breasts. Each one, lifting the hanging, furred mounds, lifting. Letting them hang. Mouthing at the nipples a bit, and then feeling his wife's rump, around, around, massaging around. Until they were into position. He had notions of 'eating her out.' But he'd do that later today. Right now, he was too far gone. He couldn't wait for the main course. He needed it now.
The bat was upright, one leg lifted. The other. Back to the tree-trunk, legs around her husband's fit, rural waist. Heels digging into his rump. She felt his tail coiling around an ankle. Her winged arms around his neck and back. The kisses, the light grinding of hips, and he wasted no time slipping in, into such sheer, succulent warmth, fitting him like a natural sheath, a glove, wet, rippling around his stiff, sensitive flesh, which moved, moved, back. Back. And then in. A rhythm that tumbled like their thoughts.
Her fangs welled with liquid. Biting instinct triggered, dripping a milky fluid, and lapping his neck. The side of his neck. A numbing enzyme suddenly appearing in her saliva. So she could numb the spot. So she could bite and leave no mark and no pain. Oh, she bit, and sank, sank those fangs in. Inches into his neck. Making an art of it. An exact spot. An exact effect.
Her mind to his mind. Her thoughts with his thoughts.
His pleasure swirling with hers.
The mouse bumping her to the tree-trunk, standing, hugging her tight, raising to the tips of his foot-paws each time he slipped into her, to a hilt, and then sinking down to his paw-pads as he drew back, panting, head to the side. Her fangs there. Her mind there. In his, with his, her walls played like violin strings. Him with the bow, making music with her. A poetic analogy that was ever the truth. The wetness, the squelching, the dripping nectar. The sharp, scintillating details, the succulence. The heat of her body. Her femininity was sopping ecstasy. Searing silkiness. It was, right now, the best thing in the world. Where he belonged. Where he wanted to be.
And where she, wings tightly, tightly hugging him, wanted him to stay. The firmness of his mouse-hood as it brushed, brushed her walls. As it stroked them and stoked the 'earthquake' within her. As her walls began to flutter and clench, milking him, milking him for it. Anything for his seed. She felt so full, so complete, driven, driven into. He made her feel, with his motions, his tender ministrations, like such a pure female. Her vagina began to ripple around him, now. Anything to get it.
And, oh, anything to give it. He drove in erratically, whimpering, hugging. Knees wobbling, forcing him to slump forward. To lean his weight and hers to the tree-trunk, foot-paws spaced a little bit apart, toes digging into the damp soil. Taking extra care to grind his hips to hers, grind, grind, bump, to both indirectly and directly rub and touch to her erect, little clitoris. To stimulate it again, again. Bump, bump, with each squeaky, holding hump.
And then, everything careening and cartwheeling together, as if they were fused together in body and soul, her trembling started. Started. In the slick, smooth walls, the muscles. Spasms, shakes, quaking of her femininity, followed by sustained after-shocks. Pleasure flung to her extremities. Her cries muffled against the mouse's neck.
For him, feeling her climax, he was free-falling off the edge of things. It was, for those twitching seconds, like lightning flashing, sparking, shooting out, as his male's milk, that steamy-white seed, spurted to her womb. Her cervix painted with semen. Each ejaculation a shiver-shock that forced a squeak. Made his knees and paws deliciously weak.
She chittered, sounds still muffled to his damp-furred (with breath and sweat) neck. Feeling those 'sparks.'
Sparks and tremors.
Chitters and squeaks.
The pinnacle of scurry and flight!
The messy, earthy explosion of fulfilled romance.
And, then, mutual sighs. Oh, sighs! Oh, as it blissfully tapered off, leaving them awash in 'afterglow.' A minute or two, unmoving. Leaving him to pull, with an actual shiver of over-sensitivity, his shrinking mouse-hood out of her. Leaving semen to drip out like molasses, some of it clinging to her thigh-fur. Her vulva, at a quick glance, was very 'full.' Pouting with blood. And she, feeling a little dizzy, drew her sharp, smooth fangs out of his neck, letting her legs gradually unwrap from his waist. Going to the ground. Toes into the cool mud and grass, gaining initial balance. Standing for a moment, and then sinking and flopping into the grass.
The mouse joined her, panting, squeaking slightly.
The bat staring upward through half-open eyes. A paw fishing, fishing out, her winged arms damp with sweat. Sweat that was soon cooled by the breeze, making her to shiver. Making her eyes to close as she found her mouse's paw and held it, meshing her fingers through his, squeezing.
The mouse soon turning, squirming in that uniquely rodent way, to get on top of her and put his pink, ever-sniffing nose to hers. " ... maybe we won't have to take a shower or bath, cause ... I feel like I'm just soaking in your love right now. I don't care if that's cheesy. It just ... it's what I wanna say. It's what I feel." He was whispering this. Whispering.
" ... keep feeling it, darling. Don't ever stop," Adelaide whispered back, eyes fully open. She hugged him dearly from beneath, smelling of sweat, of nature, of fluid, of mouse. Of many things. Smelling so, so satisfied. "But I know how tidy you are. Soon as this afterglow wears off, you're gonna wanna get very clean. Soap and all."
"I know ... maybe we can soak in the tub? Then have lunch? By that time, mom should bring Akira back. I can take Akira to look for birds in the yard. Then make supper later and listen to the racing programs on the radio ... help her color. Read to her." Field, before they'd had Akira, had been worried that any child they had would pick up his worst flaws, his mousey faults. But he no longer feared that. Because, every time he saw their child, he saw his wife, too. And, in the bat's mind, the mouse made a good father. Just as he made a good husband. A good lover. It had taken time to get to this point. Years of growth and struggle. But they were finally, the both of them, in a more mature state of being.
Maybe they had to work hard, and as hard as they worked, were still closer to poor than not. But moments like this, here in the woods, having done what they'd just done? Moments like this trumped all that. Moments like this transcended circumstance. Gave proper perspective.
Adelaide, for her part, reveled in it. This perspective. Their rapport, their affection, the facets of their relationship. Emotional feelers tracing her husband's mind, she smiled, nose to the mouse's cheek. " ... sounds good. But let's just lay for a few more minutes. Let's just listen to the wind in the trees. And the birds. Maybe our heartbeats, if they haven't slowed yet," she said, romantically. "Let's just hold to each other ... " It was spoken vulnerably. With more vulnerability than the toothy bat normally allowed herself to show. But she knew Field was gentle. And she craved to be the recipient of that gentility. As she had been in the throes of passion. And in the after-images, now. She wanted to be wrapped in it. In him. Always.
And, oh, she was. As Field went quiet, nodding, hugging her tight, nuzzling, nose-nuzzling. Cuddling to her in the wild grass beneath the trees. Tiny squeaks, tiny kisses to her cheeks, fingers splaying and running up and down the membranes of her wings.
Her winged arms, as they were rubbed, very loosely wrapped around his bare back, beginning to slide off as she slowly sighed, her head rolling aside.
Both of them spent (for the moment) of scurry and flight. And enjoying the fruits of their shared, rural life, melting into each other in the middle of May.