Through the Dog-Paths and the Hazel
"Ayudame, mi novio," she breathed airily, her back to him (in a "come and get me" sort of way). The soft, snow-white fur of her back ... was to him (she on her belly in bed, her upper body propped up; elevated by her elbows). And she tilted her head, her neck, looking slightly over her shoulder. In that dreamy, ready way. At the mouse on his knees on the sheets. Watching her watching him. Aria. Her of the assuring soft-blue eyes. Her, the rabbit, in this dimness. In the pale moonlight coming through the weary, wintered window ...
... through which, earlier in the day, the sun had shone (during its rising, during its moment of initial apprising).
Field had left the house at (promptly) 8:30. It was a Saturday morning. Which meant cinnamon toast for breakfast. Which meant a smile given to one's rest-hued reflection in the bathroom mirror. Which meant Aria had work until 1 ... 7 to 1, on Saturdays. On Saturdays, the mouse would wake alone. And he would call her (at least once) on the phone. Usually around 11. Asking her what she wanted for lunch when she got back. He would cook for her. He loved cooking for her.
Today, he had the day off. Normally, they gave him Thursday off or Saturday off. One or the other. Having Thursdays left him with no weekend, but ... this week, it was Saturday. So he had half a weekend, anyway. For which he was grateful. Though he would've given anything to have his Sundays. Oh, to have Sunday. To have the Sabbath. To be able to rest on that day. To go to church. To watch the games, the races. To just be with his mate. Why did they take Sundays away from him? Why did they make him work on Sundays? It was so cruel. To the shy, spiritual mouse, it was so cruel ...
When he went back to school ... maybe he would have weekends again. Maybe. Maybe he would remember what Sundays were.
But today was Saturday. A January Saturday. Thought it felt like March, maybe. And the mouse's paws were chilled, numbed. Fingers and thumbs clutching his silver-grey digital camera. A Canon. It wasn't his. It was his mother's. But she never used it, so ...
The Farmers Bank (next to the Dairy Queen, where Field, as a young mouse ... had gotten butterscotch dipped-cones after his swimming lessons) didn't open until 9. Field was in town so he could go to the bank. To deposit/cash his latest (hard-earned, too-quickly spent) check. He could tell stories about food services. Mark his words ...
In the meantime, this rural mouse, this farm-mouse ... was wandering this farming small town. 8 miles from their house. This is where he'd grown up. Hoosier born and bred. Sheridan, Indiana. And the mouse was taking pictures. Black-and-white pictures. It was the kind of day that, lacking any sort of color, the pictures HAD to be black-and-white, and ... the scenery almost demanded it. Why hadn't he taken these pictures before? Why had he waited until now?
He twitch-sniffed his nose, crouching down in the middle of the near-empty main street. On top of the double-yellow line. Tilting his head. Trucks parked on the sides, near the sidewalks. Empty store-fronts. A grocery, though. The grocery was open. It was a small place. The sign on the bricked side said "hometown proud" ... and the 'o' in 'proud' was shaped like a heart.
Click!
Picture taken.
Field stood, sniffled, paws freezing, freezing still. And his body still. Still. Unable to move. He just looked down the street, and then he blinked, shook his head, and scurried for the sidewalk. Walking to the library. Which radiated of dust and rusty things. Of creaky floor-board sounds. Of books about pushcart wars.
It was a Carnegie-grant library. Had been there for decades. And the mouse, himself, hadn't been inside in ... years. A few years. He used to have a card there. He doubted it was still in effect. Doubted it was valid. The mouse wasn't one for reading. And when, by chance, he did want to read a book, he would rather buy it and own it ... rather than have it lent to him. Rather than borrow it. Was that stubborn?
Click!
He took a picture of the library. Turning round, walking back along the uneven sidewalk ... heading for the Quaker church. A street or so away. In direct sight of the shadow of the town's tall, white water-tower, which was on stilts. Which was painted with the words, "Black-hawk Country" ... He would take a picture of that, too. Of everything. The bank could wait.
Field normally took color photos. But black-and white looked like ... forever. If forever could look like anything. It all looked so right. Maybe too ideal. Maybe too isolated, though. Maybe a lot of things. Looked "old-time" ... this looked, through a veil, like something out of a silent film from the 20's. Where were the subtitles, the captions? The pantomime?
He didn't know.
He was just taking the pictures, trying to capture this forgotten town. This dismissed town. Trying to save it from fading memory. Trying to share its stories. These things. These ... he would save this place. Single-pawed, if necessary. He would save his home.
He kept walking, kept twitching. Moving cautiously, constantly looking in every direction (as mouses were prone to do; an instinctual fear of being watched ... being hunted).
Oh, it was cold! And why was he out here? Why was he doing this? It was so early, and no one was about. And maybe that's why he was doing it. And maybe because he had no other time in which to do it. When he got off work, it was dark. Very dark. It was only upon waking that he had any time. Those few hours in the morning.
Silence. Everything around, right now, was of silence. As if tempting you to forget ...
Field, still moving, still in divinely-guided artistic fever (such a fervor), he vowed he would have a better job someday. Doing something he enjoyed. DOING something. Anything. And work, when that day came, wouldn't be "just work." But that was a ways off (some days off), and ... for now, he was making the best of it. Of this situation. Of things.
And he thought, ultimately, of Aria. His mate. Thought of love and better things. Thought of her in her dress-up things. The dresses she would wear in the spring. For Easter. Thought of her effortless elegance. Thought of how he'd been before he'd met her. And how he'd been ever since ...
He loved her so. He loved her dear. Losing her ... was, perhaps, his sharpest fear. And one that he dared not entertain.
Walking through this nippy winter morn, the mouse thought of how, when furs asked him how he was doing, he would strive to go beyond the one-word "fine" or "okay" or "great" ... he would look them in the eye (as hard as it was for him to do, being so horribly shy, having the anxiety problems he had). He would try to look them in the eye (cause, honestly, he often couldn't do it), and would reply ...
... that he was in the green hour of his life. That hour that straddled the twilight and the dawn. The night and the day. That hour. The hour of calm ... where ships, healed and patched from their past (and furious) storms, where those same ships were in dock. Waiting to be let loose. Waiting to try again. To try and sail the world again. And this time, they might just make it. All the way around, they would go. In the green hour that housed redemption. That housed renewal. The minutes ticking down ... and then that great ship would churn into deeper waters. To the silent lapping of the water. To the quiet pastels. To the stray seagulls.
They would look at him, these furs, and just nod, as if listening (though, often, they were not). Would say, "Okay."
Field would prattle on ... telling them how, despite the darkness he'd suffered through, he regretted none of it. That he was stronger now. That he was better now. That it had all been necessary. And why didn't they believe him? That he'd been tested. That he'd faced great loss, great temptation, great desire ... for the first time in his life. That he UNDERSTOOD it now. And why did they dismiss this? Why did they lament their struggles when he celebrated his? Instead, why did they not see that such darkness, it NEEDED to be endured? Why did they limit themselves to replies of one word?
They would bury their pain. Would use distraction. Would eye the mouse ... trying to figure him out. Was he crazy or sane? Or just boring and plain? Why did this mouse, why was he so eager to share himself, to connect? Why couldn't he act like the mouse he was and just burrow away? Fade away? Why couldn't he take his over-eagerness, his ever-present innocence ... and leave them be? Why did he try to glow? Oh, didn't he know? Didn't he know that the world was for realists? And not dizzy-eyed dreamers?
Field would insist that it was this, that it was these ... struggles! Struggles that prompted, that forced growth ... that life was a learning curve. An adventure. That struggles prompted development. Without the struggle, without the pain, there was no learning, no forward progression. That, through the mouse's darkest hours, there had been purpose. And that, now, in the end of it all, his faith was stronger. Stronger than before. And he had come to find that he now had the capacity, the perspective ... the tools needed to endure.
And when he tried to break away from all his restraints ... this time, when he tried to break away, he would succeed. He'd failed the first time. He'd been young. Unprepared. Had been different. And hadn't been tested. But, now, he had been. He'd passed those tests. And, next time, he would not fail. Because he would have the experience to make it. Because he would know what it would take to break from heavy things. He would know himself better. Would know. Oh, he would know. Oh, he knew!
So, when furs asked him how he was doing, he would say, "I'm in the green hour of my life. I've never seen such a hopeful light."
And they would always blink at him and ask no more. For they were, maybe, afraid to open up. As the mouse strove to do. Maybe they didn't trust anyone. Field, used to ... he hadn't trusted, either. Not even his own family. Before he realized that the quickest way to suffocation ... was to barricade yourself. To wall yourself in.
Field often wondered how other furs saw him. What they thought of them. How they perceived him. Then, upon wondering, realized it was better that he didn't know. He didn't wish to be crushed.
Anyway, regardless, the mouse was trying to tear down his walls. Daily.
And it was hard. Oh, it was hard. It was an up-and-down struggle, but he had a love. Had a mate. Love! And she was providing a counterpoint. She was helping him to be better. Love, the mouse believed, could truly heal all. Could truly provide all. Love was love was ...
Field was a romantic. Field was ...
... at home, now. Later in the day. This Saturday. In bed with his mate. Her sensual attempt at Spanish still stuck in his ears.
"Por favor, Field?" she prodded. Raising her brow a bit.
"I didn't know," he replied, finally obliging (or, rather, finally understanding what it was she wanted him to do). Leaning down, paws quietly undoing her bra. Letting the straps of it loosen. "Didn't know you spoke Spanish." His voice was at an equal hush. Was equally airy.
She gave a smile. Framed by lunar light. "Un poco ... "
He, already bare, breathing of her (and this rarified indoor air), settled to a lie-down. On his side beside her, and she turned so that her back was to his honey-tan belly. And he wrapped his arms and paws around her front. Both of them in the fur now. Laying prostrate in bed. And it was only 9:19.
The night was young. As were they.
Off the bed, on the dresser, the alarm clock/radio was quietly on. Playing AM radio. Complete with the little crackles and pops of the ever-so-slight static that one found on such stations. The Hoosiers were playing the Hawk-eyes. The game was in Iowa.
"You ever take other languages?" she asked quietly. Eyes closed. Breathing out and in. "I know you're exposed to Spanish at your work." The mouse worked in a cafeteria. Nine hours a day, six days a week. The weary, wide-eyed mouse would do two things in his free time: write ... and breathe of her. Be with her. "I'm sure you could pick it up ... " She trailed. "When you go back to school in the fall, you should take it. You should try and learn it."
"Took Spanish ... way back when," was the mouse's eventual reply. "And ... "
"Way back when?" She smiled, arching her back ... so that her back-fur slid through his chest and belly-fur. So her bob-tail pressed to his sheath. Drawing the mouse's breath. "You make yourself," she breathed, "sound so old." He was only 21. As was she.
"I don't know," was all he said to that, swallowing. "But it was five or so years ago, and I view that, you know, as ... you know, being way back when. Took French, too, and I ... failed at that. Took Portuguese, and ... " He trailed. Not wishing to restate the familiar refrain. That of failure. "I like English ... but no one taught me to write. No one ... encouraged me. I just found I could use the English language. I don't know the technicalities of it. The terminology. I just use it. In my own way. I just ... "
" ... you don't have to justify yourself, darling," she said. And she let out a slow, slow breath. Wishing he wouldn't be so quietly, quietly defensive.
"Didn't know I was."
But he'd been so during lunch, too ... after his photographic sojourn. After the bank. At 1:45, in the kitchen, making their lunch. Their late lunch.
"Grilled cheese?" Her nose sniffed the air. She came up behind him, standing on the tips of her foot-paws. Her rabbit nose twitched cutely. She was ever-inquisitive. "You always make grilled cheese."
"I like it. I like cheese," he defended.
She gave an exhale to his neck. "And what proper mouse doesn't?" she teased, nibbling on the edge of his ear. The lobe of his dishy, thin ear. His swiveling, satellite-like ear. Nibbling on one. A paw on the other.
He sighed, flushing. The blood rushing upward, upward.
"All ears now, huh?" she said, seeing she'd gotten his complete attention. And, seeing that, letting go. She could be a tease when she wanted to. She loved to tease him ... especially in this way. She loved to see Field when he got flushed and flustered. Loved to reel him in. Loved to peel away his layers. Loved how, in the end, he would thank her for it. Loved how much she was needed. No one had ever needed her like Field did. No one had ever told her, "I need you." But Field had. He told her all the time. Sometimes, it would make her cry.
She moved to stand in front of him. In front of the stove.
"I'm ... I'm making our lunch," he stammered. Looking past her shoulder and to the frying pan. Whiskers twitched. He chittered.
"You still have your camera?"
"Of course. Of course ... I have my camera. I didn't lose it between now and this morning."
She giggled, tilting her head. "I know ... "
He squinted. Trying to move past her. To flip the grilled cheese sandwiches with a spatula. But she moved to stop him. She moved to block him.
"You really that hungry?" she teased.
His whiskers twitched. "Aria ... "
"I'm just ... " She bobbed. She was a rabbit. She, in everything, had a bigger appetite than the mouse. In food, in ... everything. The mouse was thinner, more slender than she was. She was slender enough, but ... a bit stockier. Anyway, Field thought she was gorgeous. She was perfect. She was ...
"I'm not in the mood," the mouse replied.
She nodded quietly. Frustrated. She could see that. But, still, she'd ... wanted to try. She always tried. "Maybe later," she said, tugging on the neck of his shirt. "We can ... play around." Her eyes were serious. Her eyes were needy. As much as Field needed her, she needed him equally. The innocence he projected. The shy warmth. It was like fresh air. So far from the cynicism and frivolity of many she'd met. Field wasn't afraid to feel. To think it through. To commit. He made her feel special. "I thought," she said quietly, shrugging, feeling suddenly silly, "we could take pictures ... might be arousing." Her blood burned.
He flushed. He nodded quietly. The loving lust in her eyes, it was contagious.
She smiled, standing on tips of her foot-paws (for he was taller), and she kissed his cheek.
"Well, uh," Field stammered. "I just ... I wanna eat lunch right now. I'm making us lunch."
"I know," she whispered, nuzzling his shoulder. "I know, darling. You just ... need to let go of some things."
"Things? Like ... "
"Like regimens. Routines. Your feverish need to fill every ounce of every day with something deep and spiritual. Sometimes, you just need to let go ... and be." She took a breath, eyes meeting his. "And I want you to be," she emphasized, "with me. I want you to spend more time with me ... and less time in your own head."
He bit his lip, reaching for the spatula. Flipping the sandwiches on the black frying pan.
"Field ... " She stood beside him. Watched him.
"I'm ... I try," he offered.
"I know," she whispered. And she went round behind him again. Hugging him from behind, leaning her head on his upper back. Cheek on his back. Closing her eyes. Breathing of her mouse. "I know, but ... keep trying, okay? Don't ever let yourself feel stuck. Our love is free-wheeling. Don't ever let yourself think you're stuck, cause ... I can get you out of it. That's why I'm here. And I know that ... you'll do the same for me. We gotta look out for each other. Alright? We gotta fight tooth and paw ... "
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be saying to this. He wasn't sure why they had to be talking about this ... when he was trying to make grilled cheeses. But he nodded. And he nodded again. All the same. And ...
... the radio, this night, went to commercial. The game was 46 to 38. Advantage: Iowa. 7 minutes and 12 seconds left in the second half. The Hoosiers were losing ...
... and Aria was elaborating on the mouse's need for justification.
"You were. You always do that ..." Her paw fished for his ... and her fingers traced his. Tapped, tapped his. Lightly. "Instead of just saying, 'I like English. I like writing,' you ... go on and on about the why's and the ... it doesn't matter to me," she said simply. "Is all. It just ... you don't have to have a reason, Field, to be, you know, who you are. To like what you do. It's just ... " She trailed. Fingers slipping between his. So that their paws could clasp. "It's just you. You needn't ever have to rationalize yourself to me."
His whiskers twitched against the fur of her neck. The back of her neck. The air in the bedroom was lukewarm. Not hot. Not cold. Though the wind outside was howling. Though the clouds were encroaching on the moon's territory. Seemed about to hide it from view.
"How come," she asked lazily, taking a deep breath and shifting a bit ... nestling closer to him. Exposed, soft rump to his hips. One of her legs slipping between one of his. "How come you took Portuguese?"
The announcer on the radio peaked with excitement ... IU making two straight threes. The lead was down to 5. Field, only half-listening, felt a glimmer of hope ... maybe they would pull it off ...
"I know you told me you took French," Aria said, "cause you thought it sounded pretty."
"My mother is ... half-Portuguese. Makes me, I guess, one-fourth. I can't make sense of those blood-line things. I mean, I'm a Hoosier. I'm American. I'm ... a mouse. I'm ... a Christian. I'm ... too many, so many things ... you know? But, all the same, I thought I sort of owed it to myself, or something. I don't know. To take that language. I thought that it was part of my heritage or something ... "
She nodded quietly. Long, slender ears ... waggling slimly.
"I don't wanna talk about school right now," he finally said.
"It's okay ... "
He frowned. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"We don't have to," she assured, giving his paw a squeeze. "But let's talk," she whispered. "I love when we talk."
"About what?"
"About ... how strange the weather's been. About how the big Reese's peanut butter cups taste better than the small ones. About how your tail goes all snaky-snake ... all the time."
Field smiled and giggled a breath into her fur. Exhaling onto her neck. Whispering, "Snake ... I had this professor at school ... "
"Thought you didn't wanna talk about school ... "
"I didn't, but ... I'm crazy, so ... "
" ... not crazy ... "
"I just wanna tell this one anecdote ... "
"Anecdote? What a stiff word, Field ... anecdote? I'm not gonna let you watch PBS anymore ... "
"I don't watch it anymore, anyway," he defended, as if his paw had just been caught in a cookie jar.
"Uh-huh." She grinned, but he couldn't see it ... being his eyes were closed. And him behind her head.
"Anyway," he stressed, trying to regain control of the ebb and flow of this. "Anyway, I had this professor, you know. His name was ... well, he was Doctor Rhodes, and his first name was Olin. But everyone called him Gene. The graduate students called him Gene. And ... anyway, I took to referring to him as Doctor/Professor Olin/Gene Rhodes, Junior ... a.k.a: the Gene Machine. So ... "
Aria giggled. "Field ... "
"Look, I ... "
"This has a point, right?"
"Yes, it has a point."
She nodded and giggled. Going quiet. Waiting for it. Breathing in and out. Her body was warm. Fur was soft. Her form nestled with the mouse's. She could feel his heat. Almost hear his heartbeat. And his voice, like hers, was quiet and tinted with sleep ... they were speaking entirely in whispers. And low tones. And slowly. Nothing rushing them.
"Anyway, one day, during class ... this was a wildlife class. He said, out of nowhere, he says, 'If I had to be bitten by a poisonous snake, I would choose the copperhead.' You know, saying it, like, you know ... it's ... destined to happen. Like he's ... I mean, who has a snake-bite preference?"
"Field ... " Aria shook with quiet mirth. "Field, I don't understand ... what that had to do with anything."
"You said my tail went snaky-snake?"
"It does," she whispered dreamily. "It's cute ... " She closed her eyes and saw the way he walked. The quiet, self-conscious way he walked, and that silky, string-like tail, through the hole in the back of his jeans, how, when he walked, it would snake about behind him. Out of that pert rump. As if beckoning. As if it were a downed electrical wire. His tail moved to his moods. When he was at peace, his tail was limp. Right now, his tail was limp.
"Well, snakes," Field continued. "I thought of snakes, and I thought of that ... it's always stuck in my mind."
"Okay ... "
"Aria ... "
"I said 'okay'," she repeated, giggling. And then trailing. "Mm ... " It was always a sort of wondrous thing, this. To lay with each other. Bare, in bed, in the dark, and ... not to make a move on each other. To want each other so badly, but to just lay there. Resting. And just talking. About memories. About wants. About the day. About everything. The things, the words, the images that came to the fore during such quiet, intimate moments ...
"Anyway ... "
"I bet you sat in the back of your classes," she started, smiling.
"No, I didn't. No, I ... "
" ... and came up with conspiracy theories and wacky tales of ... you know, intrigue."
"Look, was it MY fault that my high school chemistry teacher had a tropical spider farm beneath the school? In the caverns beneath the school?"
"There were NOT," she said, laughing, "caverns beneath your high school."
"There SO were. I have witnesses!"
She giggled, shaking her head.
Field, almost giggling himself, continued, "No, but there WERE, and he grew illegal tropical spiders down there. Venezuelan blues. And he sold their venom on the black market ... "
"That's absurd!" She laughed again.
"There was this WHOLE conspiracy going on, Aria. I know it. You know? Sheridan, Indiana ... General Sheridan, you know?"
"I grew up in Ohio, Field ... "
"Well, the town was named after him. General Sheridan's in cryogenic stasis in Sheridan, Wyoming, under heavy guard by sentient mechanical trolleys who ... "
"Stop it, stop it ... " Giggles. "Stop ... Field ... " She shook, wriggling around, the navy-blue sheets ruffling beneath her naked, furry form. She, beaming, putting her nose to his cheek, to his ear, whispering, "Your imagination's gonna pull us out to sea ... if you don't reign it in."
"I can't help it," he said in warm defense.
"Mm," she went, kissing his cheek. Her belly to his. Breasts to his chest. He couldn't help it. And that was part of why she loved him so. He was so genuine.
"Aria," he whispered, clambering slightly onto her. Working a leg between her legs. An arm under her arm. Tangling his furry limbs with hers. Belly nestled to hers. His nose was on her cheek, and he felt hot. He felt so warm. He felt he was burning ... for her. With her. "Aria ... " A paw cupped one of her breasts, and his thumb went in wayward rubs over a nipple.
"Yes?" Her whisper was dainty. As if, suddenly, she felt this moment would break. Speak any louder, and it would all break. And she felt wet between her legs ... wet and wanting. She knew he could smell it. Smell her sex. Mice had keen noses ...
They quietly pounded for each other ... trying to finish their words.
The radio, however, didn't realize this, and was lamenting on the Hoosiers' losing effort.
"Turn that ... damn thing off," she panted.
Field strained, reached his tail for the cord ... and yanked it from the wall. The clock went dull. The radio went quiet. And he, turning his attention back to her, said what he'd been meaning to. What he'd been wanting to. What had been burning in him all day long. Words that, were he more talented, he would put into song. He whispered to her, from an inch away, that, "Darling ... "
She hugged him for dear life. Listening ... waiting ...
"Darling, I ... " He faltered. Swallowed.
She caressed his fur. His lower back. "It's okay ... " She was barely audible.
He, eyes closed, lips in the fur of her cheek (so that, with every word he would speak, she would feel the heat), Field told her, "Oh, I've ... gone through ... so much. Through the dog-paths and the hazel, through every place I've entered," he said to her. "I've looked for you to come. Years ago," he whispered, "or sooner. It was always too early to say, but now ... I've ... " His eyes watered. He sniffled. "I don't have to wander anymore. I ... you're my rest. I would've worked myself to death, you know, if you hadn't come along. I don't think I would've ... would be here."
She felt a lump in her throat. She bit her lip.
"I just ... you need to know," he whispered, "how grateful I am. How much I love you. How I would ... "
She nodded quietly. Sniffling. Keeping her eyes closed, but the stray tears leaking quietly out. Oh, so quietly out.
And the mouse, his own voice breaking, went quiet with an exhale.
And the rabbit clung to him. As if afraid to let go.
Field suckled on her cheek. Wetting, matting her fur. Tasting of her. For years, for his entire life, she had been some distant dream. Had been someone waiting in the wings. She had been the imaginary femme on his left. The one he dare not approach. The one who, when she entered rooms, she could speak of anything: rain, porches, car trips to the sea. The one who, when she was around, furs felt loved. Furs felt right. For so long, the mouse had been afraid to look down the road much further. Afraid to count on anyone. For fear that they would, when they got to know him, when they saw his flaws ... for the desperate fear that they would fly away. Oh, they would fly away from him.
But she didn't. She hadn't. And she wouldn't.
And he need look no farther than now. And he need have nothing more than her. Her and her sparking mind. Her and her velvet-soft fur. Her and ...
She turned her muzzle to where it could meet with his. To where their lips could touch. And all their failures that had, in the past, been ringing out, been shining like lighthouses, they were dim ... so dim. And so far away. Only warmth, only love, only success. Only flight was greeting them now, at the end of this day.
And the miles hitherto ... were now inches.
The mouse she loved, she latched to him. As she stole his breath. As her kiss, wet, wanting, wild ... went wonderfully. Waning ... only to let him pant. Pant. Pant.
Field, eyes barely open, tilted his head and kissed her back. Licking at her sweet luscious lips. While he massaged between her furry folds with a paw ...
Her nose flared. Her whiskers brushed his. Their noses twitching. Their ears flushed to the sensitive tips. Aria moving her tongue between Field's lips. He parted them for her. She wormed inside. To his mouth. To his tongue. The soft, soggy heat. The taste.
Field loosed a whimper-squeak. From his throat.
It seemed to vibrate back along her tongue, and she moaned in response, and she rolled him over, aside, so that he was atop of her. And she broke the kiss, huffing, raising her chin so he could ravish her neck with little nibbles and kisses. So his paws could run from her hips upward. And down again. So he could suck her neck and rub her all over. So she could arch beneath him.
Field's nose twitch-sniffed through her fur. Through that snow-white, holy fur. The color of purity. The color of certainty.
And as their flames escalated, danced, coalesced ... as their arms and paws caressed ... it felt as if the night were trembling. Tonight, tonight, it was trembling! Through the trees!
"Oh ... " Field panted out, feeling hot, feeling weak. Throat going a bit dry. He couldn't stop his panting, and he couldn't stop his shiver-squeaks as she, knowing what made him weak, stroked the length of his tail. Tugging it. Making his mouse-hood, proudly pink and stiff, poke into her waist, where it left beads of pre like dew-drops. Like the promise of a rain.
She, eyes meeting his in the dark, haphazardly spread her legs. On her back, she opened for him. Her breasts heaved. Wanting this union. Needing it. And, legs wrapping round his lower back, foot-paws digging into his rump, she tried to pull him in ... in the most animal-like way, she pawed at his body.
... and he went. Without hesitation, he swallowed, feeling the sweat form beneath his fur. He went, mouse-hood ready for this. Peeking, poking shyly at her velvet femininity. The head slipping in. The mouse sagging. Huffing. And overcoming the fluttering pleasure ... and sinking through. Doing what it was designed to do ...
She breathed deeply!
He exhaled freely!
Aria swallowed. Her white bob-tail wagging (unsuccessfully) beneath the weight of them both.
Field stayed in her, unmoving ... as if hypnotized by the sensation. As if unable to fathom that he was breeding this rabbit.
She nibbled on his neck. Huffing. Whispering (when she could) encouragement. "Oh ... c-come on ... F-field ... "
And he pulled back. The slick, sliding motion, the stiffness of him ... in the looseness of her warm, wet muscle. He pulled back, stopped ... and plunged back in.
She huffed.
He repeated the motion. Slowly, he repeated it, whimpering as he did so. And she hugged him down against her body. Wanting to feel his chest-fur running over her breasts, her nipples ... wanting that friction. Wanting to be pushed, be gently rocked into the bed.
He kept going, her paws on the back-side of him ... gripping his furry rump. Squeezing his rump-cheeks.
He went faster ... his penis marinated in her hot, clear fluid, pumping into her for purchase, and for ... pleasure, pleasure, pleasure!
Each inward thrust ... she pulled his rump forward, and with each pull-back on his part, she loosened her grip. "Oh ... oh," she huffed, feeling dizzy. "Oh ... g-good mouse. Oh, good mouse ... c-come on, boy ... "
Her words fueled him to feverish, frantic heights. He, with abandon, mated her. Hit her every spot. Squeaking, panting out as he did so ... "huhhn ... uh, uh! Uh!"
Their wet, saliva-strung lips met and fell apart ... in repeated, messy kisses.
The pleasure rising, rising ...
... and the mouse's paws all over her. Stroking all over her. Through her fur. And his rhythm slowing, slowing ... and then picking up again. His erratic motions, and his squeaks turning to high-pitch ... oh, he was near. She felt him tense! The beautiful tension of the male body in pre-release. The tension of her mouse. The build-up she felt in him. Heard from him. It brought her along for the ride ...
... as he, humping helplessly, needing it, needing her, wanting it, wanting her ...
... wilted! Squeaker-squeak! Chitter-squeak! Every mousey, rodent sound he could make seemed to punch out from his lungs. Whooshing out with the last of his air. As he, in shivering wonder, made it there. As his steaming white semen rushed forth. As he sowed the evidence of his love ... deep inside of her. Where it could echo, where it could fade into her blood. Imprint, somewhere, on her soul. The memory of this. The intimacy of this. The ...
... mouse's orgasm brought about her own, and she quivered and gave a rabbit-bark, another, another, huffing as they held to each other. As they dripped of fluid from the spot of their joining. As her lower body endured quaking spasms of bliss. As they, their hearts racing, felt this pleasure tracing through their every nerve and strand of fur.
They quietly, for minutes, breathed and recovered.
In the end, the two furs were left breathless. Were left in a drunken, pleasured haze. They lay in silence, in each other's arms, and when the mouse pulled out of her, she latched to him. Burying her face in his chest. And he hugged her protectively.
In the dark, they slept and dreamt together. Dreaming of forever. Blanketed by fur and love.