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She twitched alert, with a squeaky, tail-flagging suddenness. Her bare, average breasts moving just a bit, with subtle gravity. With her change of position. As she raised her head and shoulders. Using her elbows as props. Her foot-paws stretching and knees bending. She was staring upward at the heavy shadow-dancing on the bedroom ceiling. Trying to think, trying to ...

... woken up.

I was asleep.

The key word being 'was.'

Woken, she realized, by reverberating thunder-booms, deep and tumbling, rumbling the very foundations of their old, rural house. Rattling at the window-panes. Vibrating the bed-frame. She could almost feel the storm. She swore she could. And the flashes that preceded and caused the thunder? In their snaky quickness, were already gone. Those jagged forks of pure power. The 'ghosts' of them remained, though, pale and threatening, liable to strike again. As rain wetly, without remorse, slanted and slap-slap-slapped on the shingles of the sloping roof. Not a gentle patter-patter, no. Actual slapping. A veritable downpour at three minutes past four in the morning. The sound of the rain became a steady, discordant accompaniment to the unsteady sound of the thunder.

Nature's version of banging on 'pots and pans.'

Ketchy, finally falling back to a flat, sighing lie-down, took a deep, groggy breath. Shook her head. Running only on half-focus. Awake, yes. Kind of. A little jarred. A little sleepy. And beginning to become anxious. That rodent anxiety welling, welling, beginning to simmer within her more primal recesses. As a squirrel, she definitely felt it. Mouses had it worse, maybe. But squirrels had it, too, no mistake. They just weren't as open about it. They kept it better-hidden. She swallowed, telling herself to calm down.

Calm down.

It's not that bad.

She nodded to herself, shifting, wriggling in her agile, effortless way, right up against her still-sleeping husband. Still on her back, though. Him on his side. She just stared at the ceiling through half-open eyes for a while, listening to him breathing. Feeling the warmth he radiated. The body heat.

Denali could sleep through a lot. Otters were like that, she'd come to notice. Not having her own family around anymore. All she had was Denali and Denali's parents/siblings/et cetera. A squirrel who spent a lot of time around otters. Did I ever imagine I would be so far removed from my own species, she wondered? Sometimes, she didn't even realize she was. Not until she ran into another squirrel and realized that, in some strange way, she felt uncomfortable around them. As if she'd become too different, through otter osmosis or something.

Otter osmosis.

A little smile. She tried to wipe it away with her paw, brushing her fingers across her lips. But it remained. For a bit. Before slowly fading.

It was a good thing she liked otters, she supposed. Enough to marry one, share a bed with one. They were solid, playful things. They didn't get overly-bothered by much. They could lose their temper, just like anyone. They could get upset or sad. But, generally, they had this happy-go-lucky air about them. Taking things as they came. Laid-back creatures. Maybe not the most organized or refined, but ...

... she liked that. All those things. Denali's personality, for one, had been such a calming influence on her. She'd always had obvious problems with her confidence. To the point of outright lacking it. Denali's gentle, easygoing insistence that she was beautiful, was special, was smart, was kind? That she was so many things she kept convincing herself she wasn't? His insistence had helped her greatly. She'd come to rely on him. Felt better when he was around. And felt, years after they'd married, both of them now twenty-four years old (they'd married at twenty-one), stronger, more mature. More stable. And a good deal of that was because of him.

There was no denying that. She often wondered if she needed him more than he needed her. And then came to realize: with love, 'need' has no structure or rationality. You can't rationalize who needs who more. Who loves who more. You just can't.

Her and Denali's romance wasn't like Field and Adelaide's. Field and Adelaide were all over each other. Almost all the time. Field was super-shy about it, but he didn't fight the bat off when she 'swooped' upon him. They were a swoon-ful tandem. Field with his mousey cuteness and shyness. Adelaide with her batty toothy-ness and such. They constantly, obviously sparked. If you'd never met them, you'd only need five seconds (or less) to tell they were married. It was so apparent. They stood close to each other. Field was very clingy. Adelaide loved to wrap her wings around things. They were like perfect puzzle pieces making a bigger picture. They had romance in their eyes. In their voices. They weren't prone to contemporary lust. They were like throwbacks or something, to some romantic ideal, some traditional rural sensibility that most of the world had forgotten.

Ketchy and Denali's romance had always been, to a large degree, less obvious. Quieter, less 'swoon-ful.' Maybe, on the outside, it came off as boring. Ketchy was a very serious squirrel. She found it hard, sometimes, to feel good about herself. To relax. And Denali, though playful, didn't play around with the squirrel in public, simply because he knew it made Ketchy uncomfortable. She didn't like others to look at her. She always wondered if they looked at her and thought 'why'd she marry outside her species, and not even another rodent?' Maybe they were judging her every time they saw Denali put a kiss on her cheek.

Too seriously.

You take yourself too seriously, she knew.

And she'd tried to change that. She felt like she was making progress. But it took time to make wholesale changes to your personality. And who was to say it was even entirely possible? Maybe you were who you were, and maybe nothing could change that. But, no, she had to believe otherwise: faith could move mountains, and love could change the world. Those were forces. They altered you. For the better. I'm better than I once was, she assured herself.

As for how her marriage came off: oh, there were times when they both swooned. Her and Denali. But the swooning didn't show in public. The affection did, to certain degrees. But it was always, in public, reserved, polite. They never gave each other 'blatant' looks. Never draped over each other. Never were they epic or overflowing. Never were they writing sonnets and soliloquies with their whispers. You saw them in a crowded room, and you wouldn't necessarily guess they were sleeping with each other every night (unless you smelled one's scent on the other).

But they were, indeed, in love. They just showed and wore it in a different way, maybe. But it was no less fierce. No less viable. No less wonderful. It was more a 'settled' love, is how Ketchy liked to think about it. Somewhere in between Field and Adelaide's dreamy, whirling romance, and Rhine and Orinoco's ultra-playful, cheeky one. Ketchy and Denali were simply in love. Simply. Simple, straightforward, not laced with strings of adjectives. Perhaps the pleasure was. But the love itself? Was simply there. Simply evident.

Simply is.

End of story. Or maybe the beginning of it. Too much to think about. Especially right now.

The squirrel, descending sleepily into such thoughts, sniffed the bedroom air. The scent of Denali. Her focus turned to what wafted to her nose. Otters had that damp, muddy scent. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe she was just imagining that he smelled like cattails and earth. A slight musk, maybe, about him, but only slight. Scents were so hard to describe. How could you possibly describe the scent of the one you loved with any accuracy? Put your nose against their arm or neck, and try to describe how they smelled? Could you even do that?

He smells like an otter, she told herself. That's about as good as I can do.

This made her smile again, in spite of any underlying, storm-stoked anxiety. It felt good to smile. It really did. But, with her, they were never plastered on her muzzle. They tended to fade away. Not because she was never happy. She was happy with her life. But she was just, as stated, a serious squirrel. More so than not. Was there anything wrong with that?

As for being woken by storms, otters liked water. They liked wet. They liked rain. Storms weren't gonna wake them. Not all the time, anyway. Not unless the roof was being torn off, or they were plunged (or, more correctly: lifted) into a sepia re-enactment of the twister scene in 'The Wizard of Oz.' And, really, that twister scene was ten times scarier than the flying monkeys. Especially if you'd grown up in the Midwest. Ketchy had come eye-to-eye with tornadoes in real life. But never primate-furs. Tornadoes were, indeed, predators. If you thought otherwise ...

... Denali, throughout all this, slept like a log.

But storms always woke Ketchy. Any rodent, upon seeing a lightning strike, or upon hearing the ominous notes of rolling thunder, jerked and twitched. Had some kind of fearful response, even if it wasn't manic. Her mind knew that the storm wasn't an actual predator. It had no brain. No heart, no intent. It wasn't singling her out. Wasn't outside, in the sky, plotting to hunt her down and drag her bloody body off into the wilderness. It wasn't a predator. Repeat that, she told herself. It's not a predator. Wasn't. Isn't. Not in the traditional sense. But even though her mind knew this? Her body just plain couldn't accept it. Her body couldn't take the chance. She was prey. Honed, by God-designed nature, to evade death. Tornadoes were death. And her survival instinct was intense. It's just how it was. And, so, the adrenaline started to pump, the worry started to gnaw. The creeping thoughts of 'it's going to get me.'

The squirrel shook her head. Calm down, she told herself. Again and again. You knew it was going to storm. I mean, you looked at the weather forecast yesterday. She nodded quietly, clutching to her husband's strong, inert form. She could feel his breathing. The rising and falling of his bare, rich-furred sides. His long rudder-tail jutting across the bed. Sometimes, it steered in his sleep and took the sheets with it. And they'd wake up uncovered. But it seemed to be behaving right now. The sheets were still on the bed. Still over their bodies. The comforter, too. The comforter with lots of shed fur-strands on it.

Fur-strands.

Making her think of how utterly hot it'd been today. When your body was covered with fur in this kind of moist, sticky heat? You felt like you were gonna wilt before lunch came around. You just had to deal with it. But it could sap your energy real quick. When you came home, you rested, drank plenty of water. Got that energy back. Only to know that the heat would steal it again tomorrow. Not that she had anything against summer. Or hot weather. Summer was, in fact, the squirrel's favorite season. When life was at fruition. When everything flowered, everything existed all at once. Every season had its ups and downs, its conveniences and its trials. You shouldn't complain, she told herself.

I'm not.

I just wanna get back to sleep.

Ketchy breathed deeply through her black nose, whiskers twitching some. It was, indeed, early-June, getting hotter, upper 80's. Supposed to be in the lower 90's toward the end of the week. And it wasn't technically summer yet. It was late-spring. Summer didn't 'officially' begin for another few weeks. Regardless, both she and Denali were starting to shed a lot because of the heat. Which, at times, could be a nuisance. The shedding, that is. But what could you do? When you had pelts, you had to constantly deal with things like shedding and hot, muggy days, and fleas and ticks and all that. It was second-nature. You got used to it. You wouldn't trade your fur and your tail for anything, she knew. Oh, there were distinct advantages and pleasures to being a fur, as well, and you ...

... need to focus.

Need to sleep!

The squirrel, stretching, was still groggy. Wanted to fall back into slumber. Really did. Her mind, though, was scampering, segueing from one topic to the next, one observation to the next. Thoughts blurred, blurred, but never ran out of steam. Just kept going. Instead of a dreamy stopping point, they plodded on and on. And on. The adrenaline of her prey-like anxiety wouldn't let it end yet. Not while the storm was still going on, and ...

... the air conditioner was off? Is it?

What?

The squirrel, blinking, pushed herself to a hazy, tired sit. A fuller sit, this time. Propping herself up long enough to listen. To make sure. Sighing, and then flopping back down. Making the mattress to bounce once, twice. Yeah, it was off. That buzzing, mechanical 'hum-hum-hum?' Wasn't there right now. It should be. She'd turned the thing on before they'd fallen asleep. The conditioner sat, boxy and grey, in the window. There were two windows in their bedroom. The air conditioner in one of them, and the other with a screen in it. But that window was closed. The screen was for cooler nights. Tonight had been an air conditioning night.

Ketchy sighed.

Just shut up about the air conditioner.

Go back to sleep!

She gritted her white buck-teeth. Telling herself: I. Can't. Okay? You think I want to be awake right now?

Calm down, was the refrain. You're tired. Don't get cranky. Just ...

... calm.

Down.

Deep breaths, and she nodded, nodded, hearing more thunder. Her head sinking into the pillow. Oh, pillows were soft. Pillows were nice. Go back to sleep.

Sleep, sleep ...

... sleep ... after you sleep, you need to gnaw on some wood-blocks. In the morning. Your buck-teeth are getting sharp again. And you need to use conditioner on your tail next time you wash.

A sigh! Eyes popping open.

Her mind just wouldn't quit. It brought up a new, inane topic of thought every time she was close to drifting off. I know how to take care of my buck-teeth. I've never had a dental problem in my life. And my tail's still my pride and joy. I may be swimmin' in otters, but I'm still a squirrel. I know how to keep a beautiful tail. Leave me alone.

How can you leave yourself alone, she asked herself? Maybe you're crazy.

Maybe, she thought back to herself, with dripping sarcasm. Rolling her eyes and sighing heavily, wearily. Eyes closing again, though, as she snuggled into the pillows. Beneath the sheets, beside Denali, and ...

... just then, another lightning bolt went slanting menacingly across the sky, through the whipping, waving trees in their yard. Shining through the windows. Making the squirrel to twitch and curl up, making her to blink, and then squint. And, as she squinted, she saw that ...

... the bedside radio-clock.

It was off, too.

The neon-green numbers weren't showing. Power's out, she told herself. Already having guessed this, of course, but now having it confirmed for her half-awake mind. That means we're gonna have no alarm in the morning. We might be late for work.

If you are, you are. Anyway, don't you have backup batteries in that thing?

Battery. Singular. It only takes one.

Well, there's one in there, right?

Should be, she told herself, in her head. Sighing through the nose. Whiskers twitching, twitching. I think it just doesn't show the numbers. It's still working. It's just not displaying anything. Or, uh ...

... whatever.

Not gonna deal with it right now.

Don't let it bother you.

She bit her lip, tossing. Turning. Blinking in the very-dark. Countryside dark, especially during a nighttime storm, was like a cloak. An inky veil. It was everywhere, covering everything. It was, truth be told, rather scary. Even if you'd grown up with it. Which she had.

F-flash!

FLASH!

The squirrel's eyes squeezed shut, as she rolled onto her left side, facing Denali, who was lying on his right side. Keep your eyes closed, keep 'em closed, she told herself. But she could see the lightning's brightness through her eyelids. And could hear the thunder with her angular, cocked ears. Her bushy, luxurious tail poking off the side of the bed, bobbing with the squirrel's little breaths and twitches. There was no way to escape this storm. She was at its mercy.

... ba-ba ... ba-BOOM!

BOOM!

Twitches, chittering. Deep breaths. Take deep breaths.

Think good thoughts.

Dear God, please, she prayed, quietly. Dear Jesus ...

... she asked for protection, hearing the wind pick up. The rain still slanting, maybe at a slightly different angle than before. Maybe it was just a strong storm. Every storm didn't necessarily produce tornadoes. No, maybe not, she admitted. But it's June, it's Indiana, and it's the middle of the night. I don't trust the weather enough to relax.

But you trust God, right?

You trust Denali, too?

Yes, was the obvious answer to that. Yes, I do.

Then you'll be fine. Maybe you can't escape the storm. Maybe you shouldn't even try. You don't need escape. What you need is shelter. And you have that, don't you? Physically, in this house? Emotionally, in your love? Spiritually, through your faith? Aren't you sheltered from all sides in all possible ways?

She swallowed, and thought to herself, 'I guess so.' A few seconds of non-thinking, before she resumed with, 'Well, let's get back to sleep, at least. Just try. But counting sheep isn't gonna work. Just remember what he did to you, then. Before you went to sleep? Just remember how he made you feel. Think good thoughts,' she repeated to herself. 'Just remember ... '

... his blunt-clawed, brown-furred fingers. Webbed fingers (she loved those webs). A little rough. They weren't smooth or soft paws. They were outdoor paws. And they strayed across her lightly sweat-matted forehead, through the soft, rich-brown fur. Hours before. Seven hours before, maybe. The squirrel's fur also brown. Just like the otter's. Different shades. Different degrees of softness. But still brown. Making it seem, in the nine-o'clock sun-setting light, as if they were melting into each other.

In the half-shadowed bedroom, it would've been hard to tell them apart. Pressed together as they'd been, limbs tangling. Straddles, hugs, a 'blob' of fur and form. Unless you gave more than a glance. Unless you looked closer, unless you stared. Then you'd see that they were two furs. But, for all intents and purposes, in the name of love? They really were one fur. Or, at least, more correctly, they were aiming to be. They hadn't technically gotten that far yet. Not, uh ...

... not yet.

Not quite.

But, oh, it was only a matter of time!

They'd properly be 'one fur' soon enough. In the religious sense. Their desire was a pulsing, pounding, tangible thing. Shared thing, ringing all about. Like a cry from within. It had to be heeded.

Ketchy, bare as anything, was on her back atop the navy-blue sheets. Sighing audibly. Letting herself get swept away by her husband's romantic riparian-ness. If that was even a phrase. She felt it should be. In her haziness, she felt that 'romantic riparian-ness' described her otter very, very much. It made her giggle-chitter. And, were her tail free to move about, it would've flagged and flittered like a glorious, furry banner.

Denali heard his wife's mirth, and felt her gently shake from it, and he otter-purred, smiling, just as naked. Glad to be. And glad, also, to see her happy. To make her happy. Their clothes haphazardly spread out on the carpeted floor. The otter was somewhat upright, strongly straddling her waist. Oh, the otter had a fine, handsome figure. He was a swimmer. Had one of those rural 'builds' to him. That came from working outside every day. He worked at a greenhouse. Flowers, tomatoes, cabbages. Green things. Greenhouse and garden center. Which was a few miles from the orchard that Field worked at. And, having only come home from work a few hours ago, not having showered yet, he still smelled of that healthy, edible freshness. And lightly of sweat.

She wanted to suck on him.

Wanted his taste.

I wanna be kissed, she realized, panting, swallowing, looking up at her husband from so short a distance, through half-open eyes. Looking, with no demands. Other than the kissing. She really wanted the kissing. But he already knew that. He'd anticipated this, and it would happen soon enough. So, knowing this, she relaxed, letting him do as he pleased. Letting him lead her, twirl her through these motions, this 'flow.' Otters knew about steering steady courses through currents, through streams. They knew about pacing. They knew how to tack into the wind. And how to sail with it. Denali knew how to chart the passionate seas of their love. He knew how to please his squirrel.

And Ketchy, sighing again, her hardening nipples thumbed, thumbed, and her breasts gently groped, was growing more and more pleased. Like she could float away. Like she was zoning into a 'touch me, take me' frame of mind, where every stroke sizzled. Made her ache. Made her want him more. Their romance may not have been a very public, obvious one, but in private, at the end of a long, summery day? It was practically a four-alarm fire. Or whatever number that highest alarm was. Three-alarm? Four. Whatever. We're burning up.

Burning with desire.

And they had to put the desire out.

By satisfying it.

His fingers, moving in their slow, purposely-teasing trail, were now to his wife's black, sniffy nose. Then changing course, going to the whiskers, off to the tips. And then pulling his paw back entirely. And using his arms as 'stilts' so that he could lean forward over her. Hunched over, breathing things that may have been whispered words. Maybe. Probably just sounds of rising, sighing excitement, little muffled mumbles. A kind of breathlessness.

Ketchy, lips parted, sucked air. It had been one of those days. Hot, warm, but mostly hazy. Never really crystal-clear and sunny. The sun had been there. Playing cat-and-mouse with the strung-out clouds. Was still there, that ball of burning fire, slowly sinking to the west, almost set. Almost, but still hanging by a thread, just above the forever-ness of the verdant Hoosier fields. The pastures. The natural confines out there. In here, meanwhile, this sizzling, this natural act, born of natural need, framed by mutual love. Mutual everything. Things that were too intangible in scale to think about right now. Right now wasn't for thinking. Right now was for making the intangible tangible. Oh, right now ...

... Denali's webbed paws, fingers coming together, slid, slid down his wife's body. Off her breasts. Up a bit, and then back down. Shoulders, sides, up and over to her belly. Those paws roved as if searching for water in a desert. Stopping, reversing course, moving back up, up the squirrel's form. There was just something about squirrels. The otter couldn't define it. They were agile, acrobatic. That gave them a gracefulness. In the way that they turned, walked, sat down. In the simple way they fell into bed. Giving you a silent, knowing look. A steamy look as they hit the pillows. And that tail. That bushy, luxurious tail. To bury your nose in, run your paws through. To hug and stroke. So puffy, arched in its proud way. It almost had a personality of its own. It framed a squirrel's body. Almost defined it.

As hers, in many ways, defined her physicality. Her sensuality. Her postures. Her moods. The way she held that tail. The way it stood tall or slightly lax. The way it flagged and rippled or swayed. The way, right now, it was pressed between Ketchy's back and the sheets. Completely helpless. Half-hidden. Making the squirrel seem almost more demure than usual. Making Denali to think again, through a hot, heavy haze: there's just something about squirrels. There's just something about her. I love her. Even if I have to remind her that she's just as graceful as other squirrels, if not more so? I love her crazily.

That crazy, hazy love communicated as the otter lowered from his straddle. From his hunched-over, hungry position, to a flatter, more horizontal one. Wrapping his bare arms around his wife's back. Drawing her close to him. Belly-to-belly, their pelts meshing, and their muzzles tilting. He knew she'd wanted kisses. And, so, he gave them. His muzzle taking the lead. As he initiated the first kiss. Something wet and slippery, something that slid to the side, leaving them both gaping and moving their heads. To bring their lips back together a second time, with tongue-tips worming, touching. Lips suckling. Back into contact, with much sweet, eyes-closed sighs. The sheer heat and taste of each other. The way a kiss could make your heart beat faster. The way it could heighten everything.

Ketchy gave a slight chitter from the throat. Chitter. Shifting beneath the otter, arching up, up, hips pressing. Desperately pressing to his. And his, in turn, pushing hers back down, as if to say 'hold on a minute.' Her arms hugging round his back, paws clutching at his fur. A sighing sound, and a lip-parting, smacking, breath-taking moment. Where anything was possible. Where you reeled, drunk on the flavor of each other, in the knowledge of what you were about to do. Not a light, easy thing, not a casual thing. But something requiring such trust and faith. Something of mutual pleasure that two could make. Something that ever-forged a young but getting-slightly-older romance like theirs. Oh, that moment, on the cusp of making love? When intent was on the verge of becoming reality? Was like teetering on the very edge of pin-wheeling promise.

Life became a whirling dervish.

There was no slowing down now. It was a chain reaction, having begun ...

... in the kitchen, over supper, as they sat across from each other, foot-paws bumping under the table. Toes touching toes in delicate, 'accidental' ways. Looks, glances. Continually. As they spoke of their days. Him at the greenhouse and garden. Her at the library in the nearest town. Their modest jobs. Neither of them with a college education. But, even so, they didn't have it quite as 'meager' as Field and Adelaide did, not having any children to support or plan a future for. Partially because they couldn't have children. Not naturally, anyway. Otters and squirrels couldn't reproduce. She was going to have be artificially inseminated.

They'd decided on that over adoption, though, because Denali was strongly set on their someday-baby coming from them. He felt a little self-conscious, in terms of his masculinity, about not being able to be the father. No feelings of frustration or remorse, necessarily. They'd obviously known, upon first getting together, that inter-species couples often couldn't reproduce. It just depended on how closely the species were related to each other. Mouses and bats? Yes. Squirrels and otters? No. And it didn't upset him. He would love their child no matter where it came from. It was simply that he wanted a family very badly, and he loved Ketchy more than anything. And part of him felt a little wistful at not being able to give her a child. To give her that ultimate 'gift' of love and live. She deserved everything he could give. And that was, wasn't it, the most precious thing he could bestow to her? That anyone could bestow upon anyone? The greatest work of art was creating a new life. But genetic differences, for the two of them, made it impossible.

It made him wistful, sometimes, was all. And perhaps that was the reason he was always giving her things. Little gifts. Flowers from the greenhouse, candied acorns from the gas station. Little, simple things. Like making her breakfast in bed. Always giving her little 'gifts,' be them actions or foods or whatever. Maybe, subconsciously, to make up for the fact that he couldn't give her a baby. Or maybe because he just loved her that much, and never tired of reminding her that he was here for her. That he would, daily, take care of her, even when she might not realize how much she truly needed it.

But, in the absence of him getting her pregnant, he wanted Ketchy to at least be the mother. So that their child would at least have the squirrel in her. Or him. Girl or boy. Which meant a whole process of using a squirrel donor's seed and so on. It was going to be a complicated situation when they finally got down to doing it. He'd told her that she didn't have to, though. They could adopt. Or, if Ketchy really felt that hesitant about being a mother (which, for as long as she could remember, she did; going back to the confidence issue; but, also, she was a little afraid of how a baby might change her and Denali's relationship; like, maybe the stress would outweigh the joy), that they could just 'not have children.' Denali kept insisting, gently, that Ketchy's happiness was 'more important than mine.' He was willing to sacrifice what he wanted to make her happy.

No one had ever taken this approach to the squirrel. In the past, before meeting him, she'd had a few relationships. All of them broken, born of desperation. She'd been lonely. So lonely. Would've done anything to be loved. Which had blinded her into getting involved with some less-than-noble furs. Who'd used her. Maybe not with any malicious intent. But they'd used her, all the same. Her flawed neediness, in the midst of this, had driven them away. Each time. They'd not wanted to get 'that involved.' Denali was different. And that difference, even after these past few years, was sometimes hard to believe.

She kept expecting this was a dream. Like it was too good to be true. But it wasn't. It was real. And she was so grateful, feeling that the Lord had truly blessed her. And even though she'd made so many mistakes when she'd been younger? Those mistakes had, in retrospect, helped her to mature and grow. Learning experiences. Even if painful ones. So that, now, her perspective was such that she could finally be at peace. Maybe not all the time. She was still a rodent. Still had her flaws. But she didn't hate herself like she had before. And that was such a relief.

As for the child issue, they'd agreed, after much conversation and lots of worrying on her part, that they would, indeed, do it (she couldn't possibly deny him a child, knowing how much it meant to him, and loving him as she did; and maybe she'd feel better about being a mother as she got older). But they'd wait a few years. Two or three years down the road, at least.

Right now, it was just them.

Just them.

Otter and squirrel.

Husband and wife.

Talking in the kitchen, randomly. About the weather, Denali's family, the cook-out they were going to have in a few weeks (or thereabouts) with Field and Adelaide. They talked about the Indy Car race in Milwaukee yesterday, how those last thirty laps had been the most exciting of the season. About how Ketchy had seen an indigo bunting this morning. About gas prices. About lots of little things that had absolutely nothing to do with sex. Knowing, all the while, that it was dominating both their minds. But it needn't be said. They knew each other too well. They were too deep in married passion. Desire, nowadays, could be intuited. Smelled, felt, heard. Let all your worries and intricacies fall aside, the squirrel told herself. And just breathe. Listen. Wait. Want.

It'll happen.

Ketchy, their meal finished (a simple, quickly-made meal, nothing fancy; just salad, pasta), got up from the table. Scooting her wooden chair back on the linoleum. Slowly, casually. She was in no rush. She licked her lips, breathing in deeply through the nose, and stood, pushing her chair back under the little, round table, and padding in her bare foot-paws to the sink. To turn on the cold faucet. To start to do the dishes.

Denali remained seated, leaning back, his sturdy, steering rudder-tail sticking through the 'tail-gap' in the back of his chair. The tip of his tail skimming across the floor. Making the slightest of 'rustle' sounds. And the softest of swishes.

Ketchy, paws resting, now, on the cool, silver surface of the sink, facing away from him, felt his eyes on her back. Maybe down to her rump, even. Her tail. She couldn't be certain what he was looking at, specifically. But she knew he was looking. Her angular ears cocked atop her head. She'd heard him shift positions in his chair. Turn slightly in her direction. And the squirrel, having no dishes to wash at this very moment, and not having bothered to turn on the water yet, swung her head around.

Seeing the otter's trademark 'playful' smile.

Ketchy tried to bite her own smile back. Just to hold the upper paw in this. But she failed, and turned her head forward, back to the sink. Looking down for a moment, closing her eyes. And then opening them and looking out the little window above the sink and counter. The window faced north. A big pasture was there. On the far end, a fence. Unable to be seen. But the trees that lined it were visible. And the clouds in the distance, puffier than before, like weary whales floating through an inverted sea. But the sky wasn't the squirrel's main interest. It was those far-off trees. She imagined their details: the textures of the bark, the shapes of the leaves. The sounds they made in the breeze. The thickness and flexibility of the branches.

She imagined, eyes closing again, climbing each of them. Halfway up, hugging to the trunk, peering out above the ground. And then swinging off with a perfectly-executed flip, like a gymnast from high bars. They had trees in their yard. And a little woods nearby. One of her favorite ways to make love was with her back pressed to a tree-trunk, Denali all over her. Or beneath the shade of a big, leafy tree. A sycamore. The chalky bark got on her fur, sometimes, but she liked that. Denali, meanwhile, enjoyed making love in the water. Creeks. Ponds. Even the bathtub. It didn't matter. He loved the feel of his limbs in the water, of the liquid dribbling, puddling, dropping. Stirring. Covering. All while their bodies bumped and writhed, and ...

... Denali was getting up. His chair scooted back. Made a sound as it did so.

Ketchy caught her breath, eyes opening. She almost turned her head again, but didn't. The anticipation would be stronger if she didn't look. If she just used her senses. He would come to her. He would put his paws on her sides, his arms around her front. He would cup her breasts through her shirt, like he always did. And keep them there, and then slide them down her belly. To where her shirt ended. To where he could just get his paws under it. So he could lift it up. That's normally how it started in the kitchen, in June, when things were sparking with sultry, spiritual life. Maybe if it'd been another month, maybe cooler, maybe both of them less worked up, it would've gone differently. Maybe some wine, more conversation. Maybe soft shyness from her, and reliable tenderness from him. Maybe something less instinctual. Done less in pleasured pantomime.

But Ketchy didn't mind at all. She stood there, waiting for him to 'show her' what he wanted. To take initiative. To take off her shirt. To say nothing. To just do what he needed to do to get this finally started. To take her to the bedroom. The dishes could wait ...

... and were still waiting. Still in the sink.

Husband and wife having stumbled into bed, needing release, a room or so away from where they'd been, melting. They felt like they were melting, now. With a heat that could melt anything: resolve, stubbornness. Chocolate.

A kiss tastes sweeter.

Sweeter than chocolate.

Was the thought, as her cheek was being wetted with Denali's saliva. Eyes peeking open, lightly, and happening to catch his. From a mere inch or so away. His eyes were glazed, pupils fully-dilated. She, shivering hotly, looked into those pupils. Aware that her own were probably just an enlarged. And her eyes, after a few seconds, had to close. Oh, lost in the closeness. Lost, and yet found, too. For how could she be lost when she was in his arms? There was a poetic brilliance there. But she hadn't the focus to pursue it. Sometimes, poetry was better when not analyzed. When simply read. Simply written. Simply lived.

Right now, they made poetry.

The otter couldn't keep from doing so, couldn't slow himself down. Couldn't stop for savoring, for further foreplay. He needed it now. He would give anything in the world to be inside her now. And, in bestowing his love, his trust, his body, he was giving her as many things as he could. Otter-hood irrefutably included. Slipping out of its sheath, growing, stiffening, the blunted, swollen head, blood-pink and fleshy-smooth, prodding between his wife's silky vulva, her pouting petal-lips. A meeting of sensitive parts in a prelude to highest art.

Ketchy's breaths were deep, staggered, rushed. As she hitched to him like she'd hitch to a tree. Arms and legs, with thighs spread. Warmly, easily spread, wrapped around the backs of his own legs. And her paws near his shoulder-blades, holding. Holding on as her very sex was speared in a simple, sliding movement. Not sharp. But simple. The otter pushing forward, pushing in, and the eager moistness of her vagina making it easy. His penis burying to a willing hilt and staying there.

Denali swallowed, sniffing. Black, diamond-shaped nose against his wife's cheek. Her rodent whiskers. Which were lightly-twitching. He sniffed her forest-y scent. Her familiar, comforting scent. Giving the slightest of tail-steering chirps. Otter-chirps, eyes shut, sucking on her cheek, now, relishing the pleasure he got from her slick walls, which snugged and hugged his essence like a living velvet sheath. It was divine. And every time he penetrated her, it felt like a continuation of a firework show. Each time, a new fuse lit. A firework, an explosion of passion. Lights, colors, spectacle! Heavy breathing! 'Ooh's' and 'ah's.' Finales of grand, wet pleasure, juicier than watermelons. Sweeter than strawberries. Like something cold and sugary on a lightning-bug night.

A new fuse now lit, now burning, now sizzling. His otter-hood playing its part, pulling back. His small, roundish ears hearing the slightest of 'squelch' sounds. Their genitals wet, slurping together. Small 'slick-slick' sounds. The otter loved those sounds. It made this feel even more visceral. And, breathing deep, he slipped back in. All the way, and then pulled back. Again. Keeping the head inside. He never brought the head out. Just the shaft. Out, and in. Reappearing, the flesh glistening wet with her juices. A vein showing on the underside of his so-stiff organ, which was swallowed up again, back into her. Each soft, slow 'hump' made him tremble a little, made his breath to wash over his wife's cheeks and chin. Lips. Suckling on her lips as he pulled back and plunged in. Finding a comfortable, unbroken rhythm, now. To where he was properly, fully breeding her.

Ketchy, walls brushed, brushed, played so expertly, like strings played by a bow. Like a violin. Like music. Or was it still poetry? It was art of some kind. Had to be. Oh, it felt like something was being made. Created. Expressed. That was art, right? That was ... this ... was. Is. Art. The squirrel's thoughts began to blur, her loins filled, filled. And she just stayed on her back, hugging the otter from below, letting him dip, dip into her. Letting him do it. That simple Like dipping into a honey-pot. Her walls tingling, feeling full. So full, driven, driven upward. She was being driven into a pool of joy. Her clitoris feeling so sensitive, so stunningly alive. Denali hadn't forgotten about it. He never did. Made sure, with his pressing, his grinding. Made sure to bump his hips to hers. Made sure to use his groin and pelvis to graze her special spot with his weight, his fur. Indirectly, directly. All while filling and refilling her vagina.

" ... uh! H-huh ... " Ketchy's airy moans rang out, almost muffled in the muggy-ness of the hot bedroom. A hot, hazy day giving way to hot, hazy sex. The squirrel's blunt-clawed toes curled. Her breath catching. " ... o-oh ... " A whimper beneath him. The sounds were almost involuntarily. She couldn't stop them.

The otter, chest heaving for breath, kept humping. Rocking his wife into the sheets, now. Gently, gently. Forward, into the sheets.

" ... uh!" was the breath-taking cry. Not sharp or loud yet. A little squeaky, though.

Denali eased up, pulled back. In an unstopping, piston-like movement. Feeling Ketchy's bare, beautiful body wrap more tightly, more desperately. She wanted more. She wanted him more. Was hugging him for dear life, fur matted with sweat. Tail still trapped between her and the sheets. Sinking into those sheets. The mattress creaking a bit. Creak. Creak-a ... creak.

Hump, hump. " ... mn. Nnh." Little grunts from him, soft, soft.

" ... h-huh ... uh ... "

His tail casting itself aside. Unable to stay lifted. Unable to steer any longer. As he moved, moved into his squirrel, and eased out, back in. Out. Oh, back in, deeply, grinding in a clockwise fashion, almost steering his hips around, around. Before pulling back once more, huffing, lightly growling from the throat in that playful, otter way. In that overwhelmed, so-good way. She was sopping wet, now. He was moving through her like a knife through butter.

Ketchy, paws re-fixing their positions, re-grabbing his pelt, his back, was rocked. Beneath him. So full, so hot, so close. The headboard tap-tapping against the wall in a small, drum-like beating. Like the beating of her heart in her ears. As she careened with him in a bed-sinking, heart-tangling, body-fusing blur. Until, u-until the ... the ...

... firework went off.

Ketchy, the more complicated, the more emotional, the more vulnerable. Under her husband's care, and under the watchful eyes of God. Way out here in the Indiana countryside. Safe, simmering Ketchy, so steamy, feeling such sweet, sweet ... spasms. Her walls in sheer, quaking spasms. Tremors like an earthquake. Her vagina flutter-fluttering, the waves of pleasure moving like ripples moved in a pond. In a full circle, out from the source, out, out through the rest of her, her breasts. Nipples so, so hard. Feeling brilliantly raw against Denali's furry chest. Through her limbs, making her paws and foot-paws to weaken. Her whiskers went numb. Her grip on her husband's sweat-matted, rural body weakened. She went a bit lax, sucking air. Sucking. Air. " ... a-ah ... ahn ... " The sounds were whispered, almost. Voice momentarily frozen, and coming back. With a deep breath. With, " ... ah! Ahnn ... n-nahh, ah-o-oh, oh, oh ... " The moaning wasn't very civil. Wasn't very controlled. She sounded like a feral animal, or like she was in heat (which she wasn't). But she didn't care. Couldn't help it. Couldn't ... stop ... m-moaning ... " ... mm, mm ... m-hmm, nhh," Ketchy went, eyes watered, screwed shut, body so hot, so flushed. So much heat. The tremors. A longer climax than usual, maybe. She swore she'd just had multiple orgasms, too. R-right in a row there. At least two. It ... she didn't ... it didn't. She didn't know. B-but ...

... Denali, while she lost it, lost it, too. Hearing her sounds. Feeling her small writhes, her gentle limpness. Her pants for breath. Her ripples, her shakes. Her molten heat. Her quakes. Feeling, faintly, hot, clear juice seeping from her vagina. In a small, little dribbles, tiny squirts as she came. It ran down his penis, to the base, and soaked his already-damp sac-fur. Tight, swollen sac, nestling to her vulva. S-staying there as he held her tight and bit at her pelt. Not to hurt her. But a little, overly-playful love-bite. As the otter chirped from the throat, tensing, groaning a little as he arched his back. " ... ah!" Sucking air, holding it. Tingling all over. His otter-hood tingled. W-wait ... for ... w-wait for it. A twitch. Nothing. Another twitch, and a full-out jerk, jerk. Spurt, spurt, searing-hot otter-semen pelted out. The force of the ejaculations shooting the seed back, back to her womb. The white release coating the squirrel's cervix.

The otter, milked for every drop, called out, " ... o-oh. Uh, n-nuh, nuh ... uh ... " Shivering ecstatically, hit with steady, electrical pulses of pleasure, he sighed. " ... oh. Oh." Falling flat on top of her with an utterly relieved sigh. Still at a hilt, though a sloppy one, now. Body going limp, hugging her, forehead-fur matted with sweat, breath still out of control. His orgasm not as long as hers. But no less pleasurable. Another shiver, actually whimpering this time. " ... h-hmm." A final ejaculation before he was spent.

Ketchy didn't move. Couldn't. Sweaty, fur-matted, panting. Smelling like otter, just like he smelled like squirrel. She just stayed beneath him, holding on. Weakly so, licking her dry lips. Whiskers glistening with sweat-droplets. She could already feel, faintly, the excess semen trickling out of her, down her folds, through her fur. To her tail-base. The sheets. It was pooling there. Even with his otter-hood still inside. Shrinking a little, but not pulling out. Not until the after-sensitivity went away. Besides, he wanted to be as close to her as he could. For as long as he could.

The sheer intimacy they'd shared. The force of it. The meaning behind it. The love inherent, the passion shared, the feeling and devotion on display. And the otter kissing her lips. In a loose, sweetened 'suckle-suckle,' as if to tell her, without words, that he cared for her more than he cared for anything. That she meant the world to him. That what they'd done was extremely pleasurable, yes. But it wasn't the pleasure that made it so memorable: it was her. Being with her, touching her, breathing her. Sharing her. Closer to her. Showing his love to her in a way that words could never properly do.

She suckled on his lower lip, nose flaring, paws weakly roving up and down Denali's bare back.

Until he broke the kiss to breathe again. To lean his forehead to hers, nose to nose, sinking into the June evening. For it was darker than before. Than when they'd left to kitchen to come here. The sun had set as their hearts had risen. The stars were beginning to appear. Just as their thoughts were beginning to un-blur, to shine fully, so that they could speak again unhindered, unburdened, with a lightness heaven-sent. A redemption and life everlasting. They were, each time they came together like this, more a part of each other than before. More able to whisper their hearts.

So that Ketchy could break the all-of-a-sudden silence and delicately mouth to him, with eyes peeking open and a smile on her muzzle, " ... t-thank you." A pause, to take more air. " ... I l-love you." She sounded as if she was giving him words made of glass. Trusting that he wouldn't drop them.

"I love you, too. So much ... you're always w-welcome, darling," he whispered back, nodding. "Always." Kissing her cheek and smiling, too. Maybe a bit goofily. But it was allowed. That's what true love did to furs, every time, and ...

... she cuddled up to him, in the present, in the dark. After 4 AM, feeling flushed with remembrance. Feeling ripe with the desire to relive that experience. As soon as the sun rose. After breakfast and before work. They'd do it again. Love would be made. Not simply for its own sake, but for such deep, emotion-drenched reasons. And, through it all, fear would be overcome. Darker forces kept at bay. Bad things would still happen. Such was life. But with love and faith, you had a shield and sword. You had an excellent chance.

You don't have to be afraid of the storms.

The squirrel registered this. And, after a moment, the thunder didn't seem so scary. Not anymore. It seemed duller, now. The rain seemed to pat instead of slap. The lightning seemed to be far away. Maybe it really was. She didn't know. But she welcomed the change, all the same. She knew it was because of Denali. And what God had given the both of them.

And she remembered, in the back of her mind, all the nights she'd slept alone. Back before she'd met and married the otter. Years before. Sleep had been, back then, a terrifying abyss. An emptiness. A possible pit of no escape. Now, it was a cradle. Now, it was sheer, shared rest. Now, she could close her eyes and smile. And fully surrender to slumber's pull.

Whether there were storms or not.