Swoon
((AUTHOR'S NOTE -- This isn't a 'hard-core' yiff story, but ... it contains enough sensual foreplay, and enough romantic notions that ... I thought it fit better, thematically, in 'M/F' than 'no yiff'.))
In the dim of eight-o'clock (and nearing nine), Field and Adelaide (mouse and bat) were inside. Lying on the bed (him on his back, her sitting on her knees). They were drinking. They were talking.
"You play with toy cars. Come on. It's okay to admit it." She nudged him. Grinning. Showing her sharp, white teeth. Showing her smile (the hope of all these years).
"So, I ... I collect them. I collect ... "
"Play. You play with them." She nudged him with a paw. With a winged arm.
"So ... I mean, what if I do?" His whiskers twitched. Nose going ... sniff-twitch. He sighed.
"It's cute," she whispered. "Really ... it is. You even make those ... " She descended into giggles. "Even make those zoom-zoom sounds! Really, that's ... that's cute, Field." Oh, he was as handsome as a magazine! If only she could make his confidence stick ... she was working on that. On him. She wished to heal him. Wished to nurture him. He was so fragile.
"Well ... well, I don't make sounds," he defended, flushing. Beneath his cheeks. And with his ears.
"Oh, you do. I hear them," she insisted. "Come on ... " She nudged. "Make the sound."
"No," he replied.
"Come on ... "
"Adelaide ... "
A giggle. And she sighed heavily (as she looked at him). With that playful twinkle in her eye. More a gleam, really. A brightness that, to the mouse, was a hundred types of appealing.
"You're tipsy," he whispered, smiling. "You are," he accused.
"I am not." A giggle.
"You are."
"Mm ... but so, dear mousey, are you." She leaned down upon his chest at the word "you" ... and sighed. "Yeah? So, come on. Giggle with me," she teased.
"I'm a sleepy drinker. I get all loose. You get ... the giggles."
"Well, I'm not tipsy," she defended. "For your information ... not yet. Anyway, aren't we trying to get tipsy? Mm?"
The mouse relented with a playful, "Maybe."
"Uh-huh ... " She breathed of his fur. And then sat back up, back to her knees. By his side.
They had gotten home half an hour ago ...
Their day off (from work) ... had coincided this week. Fortunately. Today. They both had today off. Had rested all morning, spent the day outside, and decided to have an evening out. And they had gone to Thorntown (on the other side of the county; eighteen miles to the west, and on the other side of the inter-state).
"I'm not in the merge lane, am I ... mm? Darling ... "
"Field, you're fine," she'd insisted. In the passenger seat. Adding, after a pause, "You should've let me drive." She licked her fangs. A habit she had. The mouse twitched. She, on the other paw, licked her fangs.
"I like driving ... sometimes."
"Yeah, but you're terrified of ending up on that inter-state. You knew you were gonna worry about it ... "
"Just let me know if I'm in a merge lane." The inter-state ran below. Several yards below. The state road ran above it. In bridge-like fashion. Field feared mistakenly being in a merge lane ... and being forced to merge onto the inter-state. And then being trapped on there for miles, unable to find an exit.
"You're not," the bat declared. It was light enough to see, but evening was coming. The sun was setting around 6:30 this week. The first week of March. It was 6:10.
"We're still on 47, right? State road ... "
"Field, please ... "
The mouse's paw gripped the wheel.
"We'll come up to I-65," she said, recalling from memory, "in about two miles. Just stay in the lane you're in. And we'll go right over the top of it, and come down on the other side ... in isolated, rural confines. A mouse's dream. Alright? You just gotta ... you're not even coming ... " She sighed. "Field ... you're freaking out about nothing, okay? You know, remind me to NEVER let you drive on 465. I mean, you and big roads ... "
"Well, darling ... "
"Just calm down. Please. We're NOT gonna end up on the inter-state, okay? Just follow the road signs."
"I am," he said. A bit frantically.
"You're working YOURSELF up, is what you're doing. For no reason."
"I'm a mouse."
"Really?" she asked (in a pseudo-surprised tone).
Field giggled slightly, shaking his head. "Mm ... "
She smiled at him. And sighed. And raised a brow.
"Sorry," he finally whispered, taking a deep breath. Looking ahead. Foot-paw still on the pedal. They were going sixty-five miles per hour.
"It's okay," she whispered. Taking a breath. Leaning back in her seat. She tugged at her seatbelt, adjusting it.
"Yeah, but ... I'm still sorry."
"For what?" she asked.
"For being a paw-ful."
"Darling, that's part of your attraction." A grin. "And, believe me, you're not as big a paw-ful as you think you are."
"I'm a scurrying anxiety attack," he mentioned, "waiting to happen."
"As you said: you're a mouse."
"Which makes me small and weak and flawed and ... "
" ... cute and innocent and gentle and genuine. Field," she said tolerantly. "Please ... alright? Please ... "
The mouse nodded and breathed through his twitching nose. And went quiet. And drove. And after a moment, remarked, "I'm going ten miles per hour over the speed limit. TEN. And this car behind me ... is right on my tail!" A huff. "He's been tailing me since Elizaville ... " He squinted at the rearview mirror. Started to sigh. "I hate it when they do that ... "
"They can pass you if they want. Don't worry about it." Her voice: a soothing, calming balm.
He twitched and nodded, eying the rearview mirror. Wishing that over-eager car would lay off. He tried to ignore it. Eying the road ahead. Repeating. Until, eventually, they went over the inter-state. Went a few miles more. And came to Thorntown. A rural Hoosier town in this predominantly rural Hoosier county. It was quaint. It was rustic. It was forgotten by the rest of the world.
And Field loved it.
They ate supper first ... in the town's only restaurant. (Though there was an ice cream shop and a bar, but ... those weren't "restaurants," technically.)
"I'm gettin' chicken," Adelaide remarked, showing her fangs.
"Mm ... well, I'm gettin' ... getting," he corrected.
"Hey, come on," she teased.
"Hey, what?" he asked, blinking.
"You added a 'g' to 'getting' ... "
"Yeah?"
"Well, stop hiding your rural accent. You're a farm mouse."
"I'm a writer."
"AND a farm mouse."
"And a writer," he repeated. "I ... I'm too literate, too into words. I can't speak with an accent anymore."
"We all have accents," she started.
"You know what I mean. I mean, when I got my education, when I started writing, I ... became too proper with words. I lost my accent."
"You use it sometimes ... "
"When I'm loose, maybe."
"Well, I'm just saying ... I like it," said Adelaide, eyes perusing the menu. "I just get the impression, sometimes, that you think about everything you say," she told him, "for at least ten minutes before you say it. Just ... sometimes. Not all the time. Just don't be so self-conscious when you speak." Pause. "Mm ... onion rings. Come on. Split some onion rings with me."
"Aren't those fattening?"
"Darling, you're totally trim. You can afford to eat onion rings."
"Would rather have French fries."
"Onion rings. Onion ... "
"Alright ... alright," he relented, giggling, shaking his head. Staring at his silverware.
"Alright," she chimed with him. "Okay ... we'll get that as our side. And then I'll have the chicken, and you'll have a big salad, and ... "
"Aren't onion rings s'posed to do somethin' fierce to your stomach?" the mouse asked, having picked up a menu of his own. Squinting at it. Purposely using his native rustic dialect.
She giggled. Pleased he was being so playful tonight. "Dunno ... are they?"
"What I heard."
"Yeah?"
"Yep."
She grinned at him. "You've had onion rings before. Don't tell me you haven't."
"Had them in Sheridan. At the Twin Kiss," he said, dropping the rural accent (again). "They were good there."
"Twin Kiss only does ice cream ... "
"No, they do onion rings."
"You never told me that!"
The mouse giggled. "Well ... " He shrugged. "You never asked."
"Well, you're gonna take me there. We're gonna try them out."
"Well, like I knew you were a connoisseur of onion rings? I mean, we're ... " He blushed. Lowered his voice. "We're intimate. We're ... we're mates, darling. So much of you is seared into my mind, but ... the fact that you like onion rings so much ... never came up." A frown. "How many minutes are we gonna spend talking about onion rings, anyway? This is silly ... "
She chuckled, twirling her fork between her fingers. "That's kind of the point, Field. It's silly, and it's fun, and ... " She looked to him and grinned, trailing. "So, you'll take me to Twin Kiss?" she asked.
"Guess I'll have to." A soft smile of his own.
She chuckled. "Ooh ... you tease! You better. You better take me."
"Darling, you make more money than me ... if anything, you should be taking ME."
She giggled and tilted her head. Conceding his point. "Alright ... alright, I'll take YOU to Twin Kiss. And treat you to some onion rings. And one of those vanilla-chocolate twist cones."
"Well, they're only open in the summer, so ... "
"I'll mark it on the calendar. Memorial Day weekend. That's when we'll go. While the race is on the radio," she said. The race being the Indianapolis 500.
"Mm ... with any luck, we'll BE at the race," he said. "If my relatives come through with the tickets."
"They never let you know 'til the last moment, though ... "
"I know." He frowned. "My family isn't good with communication." His whiskers twitched. "It's part of how come I'm so ... like I am."
"And how would that be?" she whispered.
A weak shrug. "An introvert," he whispered.
"You are not," she whispered back. Defending him from himself.
"Not around you." He quietly met his eyes. "You're different. You open me up ... and I trust you," he said, still quiet. Remembering how he'd been before he'd met her. He fiddled with his spoon. Tapping it lightly against the table-cloth. "Anyway ... at eighty dollars at ticket, and one for each of us ... might be too expensive for us to go, you know?"
She nodded. She knew. They were squeaking by ... with their finances. But they were rural furs. And their jobs weren't what they wished them to be. But ... they were getting by. It was just hard. Today, tonight, this ... the out to eat ... was a rarity for them. It was splurging. Eating out in Thorntown was splurging.
After eating, and when the darkness came, they quietly perused the main street. Walking down the sidewalk on one side, and then crossing the road ... and walking the other sidewalk. The layout of the main street was wide. With buildings lining both sides. Old buildings. This resembled, in many ways, a prairie town. And though Field didn't live here, specifically ... though he lived on the other side of the county, he still felt, inside, that he could relate to this place. That he had some kind of connection with it. That he knew where it was coming from. But where was it going? Where were any of these small farm towns going?
Field wished they would endure. Wished them long life. But feared that they would slowly become extinct ...
Feared that the farmland would get slowly eaten and developed away.
Feared a slow and steady assimilation of his heritage. His birthright. The life he'd known.
But, then, he was an emotional mouse, and he spent too much time thinking, and ... he pushed his worries and yearnings and everything. Pushed them. Away. To the back of his mind. For another time. But ...
... he couldn't stop that fear. That fear that all these small, sleepy places, all the towns nestled in the fields of forever. These places. He feared that they would simply become places. Just places. Just towns to be crossed ... on your way to someplace else. Someplace bigger.
But, oh, the infinite (and subtle) varieties ... the personalities and the characters of such places! These small places were special. Rural America (and Indiana, specifically). It was in these small places (and spaces) that the mouse felt most at home.
Oh, for fields to forever roam!
He was a (stubborn) rural mouse, through-and-through, and he would cling to that identity with tooth-and-claw. He knew the difference between hay and straw. Knew how big an acre was. Knew how to wind-row alfalfa. He had held hummingbirds in his bare paws. Had wrestled snapping turtles in the creek. He knew about life and death. Saw it daily ... in the plants and animals around him. Had, since an early age, come to know the earth. The cycles of it. How one grew food. Where it came from. How it was grown and harvested and processed. So many basic things about life. The eyes of God ... the evidence of Grace in nature.
These things ... surely, they were of worth? Surely, they made the mouse unique? Surely, they were worth preserving ...
Field was an anomaly. Straight. A straight fur. Religious. A rather devout Christian. And had lived on a farm his entire life. Rural. You wouldn't find very many furs who matched up to all three of those keywords.
He'd felt himself a misfit ... alone. Confused. Trying not to listen to the voices that told him he was "burying himself" ... that he was in denial. That his true nature couldn't be ignored. That he would come back to it. Telling him that it was impossible to choose to be straight after having been gay. That no one could do it. Telling him he must be lying ... when he would say he would be better off with a femme.
He'd lost a lot of friends. A lot of the friends he'd had ... had not supported his decision. Had wanted no part of him anymore.
He would cry himself to sleep, wondering what he'd done wrong ... wondering why he was so different. Wondering what everyone wanted from him. Why didn't anybody want to be his friend? Was he too honest? Too open ... with his feelings. Too emotional? Too unstable? Do they think I'm a chore? Am I a chore ... to know?
Am I doing the right thing? What does God want me to do?
What do I want me to do?
A misfit. Always. And was part of that ... by choice? Did he do this to himself?
Misfit.
Until Adelaide had come along. The pink-furred, strong-willed bat. Until she'd entered his life. Until she'd attempted to decipher him.
She made him feel like he belonged. Like he wasn't messed-up.
Regardless ...
... the mouse tried to turn his mind off. For now.
And simply walked with Adelaide. Past the IGA grocery store. Passed the Ivan's Auto Repair with its big sign (that looked to be from the 50's) ... with an old, red Coca-Cola logo on it, that said, "Welcome to Thorntown!"
Past the drug store.
And to ...
" ... a toy car shop?" Field asked. Pausing. Stopping. Blinking.
Adelaide stopped a few steps later, looking back to him. "Mm?"
"A toy car shop," said the mouse, pointing a paw.
She followed his gaze. Squinted. "Is it open?"
"I don't know, but ... I mean ... isn't that odd? Look at all the cars in the window." The mouse went to the window, almost pressing his nose to the glass. "Ooh ... "
Adelaide giggled and came up behind him. Standing on tips of foot-paws. "Hmm."
"Well, you just ... it's ... "
" ... open," she read. "Wanna go in?"
"I don't know." The mouse hesitated. Small Hoosier towns were full of little odds-and-ends shops. Little antique places. But he'd never seen a shop entirely devoted to toy race cars! And right here, too ... in a farming town of 1,700 furs ...
"Come on," she whispered, taking his paw. "You can get a car or two. You collect them. It's our day off," she said. Her voice as warm as the promise of the coming spring.
"Yeah?"
"Mm-hmm." She tugged on his paw again.
And they went inside.
Field got three cars. Two Indy Cars and a NASCAR stock car. Spending thirty-five dollars in the process (a few dollars beyond his weekly "free-spend" limit).
And, upon leaving the town (nearly two hours after arriving), they took a small detour down to Lebanon. To get some alcohol. Island blue sweet and sour schnapps.
"Looks like Romulan ale," Field had remarked, picking up the bottle, sloshing it about. "Thought this was illegal."
"Maybe it's a fake," Adelaide supplied, grinning.
"Better snap it up, then," the mouse had concluded.
So, they got that. And some generic lemon-line soda from the Wal-Mart. To mix with the sweet and sour drink.
And then they'd headed home ...
... where Adelaide was still on her knees in the middle of the bed. And where she sipped from her condensation-covered glass. Wet and chilled to the touch. "I wonder ... " A sip. A swallow. "Wonder why the color sinks. The alcohol, it sinks to the bottom of the glass, and the soda stay at top. I mean, they mix, but ... there's more color at the bottom of the glass. Why is that?"
"Dunno ... I'm bad at science," said the mouse.
"Here. Taste."
"I have my own glass."
She put her glass to his lips. The mouse now at a sit (on his rump, with legs straight ahead of him, and upper body propped up by his arms, which were behind him, elbows straight and paws to the sheets). He sipped. And then again ... and smacked his lips a bit. "Mm ... "
She brought the glass back to her own muzzle. Took one more sip, and set the glass down on the bedside table (again), and let out a huff of breath. And leaned toward him. "Mm ... darling ... "
"Yeah," he whispered.
"Your shorts are frayed."
"Mm?"
"Your shorts ... they have all ... they're all loose threads."
The mouse was shirt-less, only wearing a tattered pair of jean shorts. (And briefs beneath.) "They're my farm shorts. My outside shorts. They're old."
"Yeah ... " She picked at the unraveling threads. "They have a few holes in them."
"They're comfortable. Anyway, no one sees me wear them but you ... "
"Yeah ... gosh, I love your tail," she huffed, having reeled it in ... like a fishing line. "Mm ... " She held to it. Held to the middle of it. The bat was quiet for a moment. Until saying, "You know ... you know what I feel like we should do?"
"What?"
She giggled. "I know what you're thinking, but ... no, not yet ... "
"You don't know ... "
"Oh, come on ... "
"So, what ... what," he interrupted, trying to get their conversation back on track. "What should we do?"
Adelaide sucked in a slow, steady breath. And let it out. "We should swoon," she breathed.
Field blinked. "Swoon?"
"Oh, my gosh ... that's so cute. Say that again." A giggle.
"Swoon?"
She chittered with amusement. "Again."
Field made a face.
"Oh, come on, Field," she begged. "Please ... "
"Swoon," he said.
"No, no ... you gotta say it like a question. When you ask a question, you ... your eyes widen."
"Do they?" He made another face.
"Yeah. Yeah, just ... say it."
He breathed in. And exhaled, saying, "Swoon?"
She smiled. "That's so cute," she whispered.
"What's swoon?" he asked.
"Come on. You're a writer. You know swoon ... swoon," she explained, clearing her throat, paws on his sides, feeling him up. "Swoon is ... that heart-hammering, knee-wobbling flush you get, you know? When you're so in love that you just ... your lungs deflate. And ... that FEELING. That's swooning."
Field's nose and whiskers twitched and sniffed. "Well ... you wanna swoon?"
"Yeah. Let's swoon," she said, grinning. Her pink fur was effervescent, seemingly, in the lamplight of the bedroom.
"But we're already in love. So, shouldn't we already be swooning?"
"Well, we're ... mm ... " She paused. Thinking that one over. "Yes, we're in a ripened state for swooning, but the actual, physical swooning ... can't happen ALL the time. Else we'd never get anything done. So, we have to elicit it."
"And how," he whispered, "do we do that?"
"Well, we ... " She let out a breath. Took one in. "First, we have to ... do a little rub-rub," she said, "of fur. Get a little ... " She panted slightly, her paws going up and down his sides, and then to his belly. To his toned chest. His honey-tan fur, which was lighter there (on the chest and belly). "Get a little friction going."
"Yeah," he half-said, half-asked. Closing his eyes as she gently stroked and caressed him. Oh, her touch! How eager and airy it was! She that had wings ... only she could make him feel such delicate, sky-sent things.
Her paws roved over his belly. Up the line of symmetry of his chest. And down again.
And his own paws went, with her unspoken permission, to her body. To her hips. And up, up ... lifting her shirt. And she lifted her arms. And he helped her take it off. Helped her toss it aside (and to the floor beside the bed). And, eyes focused on her, he helped her undo her bra ... 'til it, too, came off. And was tossed aside, too. And until she leaned forward and gave a hungry, heated kiss. Off-balance. They nearly fell to their sides on the sheets. They nearly lost their breaths. Noses flared!
And they parted, panting, and their paws never left each other's fur and form.
"F-friction," Field stuttered. "What else?"
"Well, um ... " Adelaide licked her lips. She could still taste him. The taste of him was stronger than that of the alcohol. "After the rub-rub, we gotta do a bit of ... nib-nibbling. We gotta nibble," she said. "Gotta ... nibble," she panted, still on her knees (and him now on his), and putting her muzzle to his neck. Where she kiss-nibbled on his neck-fur. And on his throat.
"Oh ... " He leaned his head upward. Craning it. Eyes closed. As she nibbled on his throat with her lips. Nibbled his fur.
And as his paws clutched at the softness of her.
"Mm ... " She made it to his ears. Those dishy, swiveling ears. Sensitive ears! Full of blood. Warm and flushed a deeper shade of pink than their non-aroused norm. She nibbled with her lips on the edges of them. And even used her teeth a bit.
The mouse gave weak, weak whimper-squeaks. And sagged a bit.
She put her paws on his sides. As if holding him steady. As she nibbled on his ears as if nibbling on cookies. Careful not to hurt him with her fangs.
"M-my turn," he panted.
"Heh ... yeah ... "
"I get to nibble ... "
She pulled slightly away from him ... and suddenly found herself being laid on her back. Being guided to her back. And she looked up at him, heaving ... as the mouse pulled her free of the rest of her attire. And as she unbuttoned his shorts and undid the zipper, and ...
... they were both soon bare. Exposed to the warming bedroom air. Which was still and silent (save for their own sounds). Dust seemingly stirring from their passionate motions. From the heat they were giving off.
And the mouse nibbled on her own throat. On her shoulders. Down, down ... to her breasts. Panting over the pink fur of her, and to a nipple. Blindly (with eyes closed) to a nipple. Which he nib-nibbled on. Starting to suck ...
"Uh ... no, no," she panted. "That's ... s-sucking. Nibble, Field," she panted.
He pulled his muzzle and inch or two off her. Heaving. "What?" he panted. "You ... sure?"
She had to think about that one. For a minute. "Um ... " Her mind was swimming. The alcohol was definitely doing its job. She couldn't concentrate. Or maybe it was Field. Maybe it was this. This love.
What was she drunk on, again?
Field's own head swam. He couldn't hold much alcohol (which is why he'd been drinking less than she'd been drinking). He huffed, eyes half-open. Everything warm and fuzzy ... and feeling and smelling of her. His mate. All he wanted. His mate. He didn't wait for her response. Just started suckling again ...
And she sighed and arched on the sheets. And then relaxed. "Oh ... "
Moonlight filtered through the window. Was the moon full? Wasn't it only a crescent last week ... or was that two weeks ago? Or ... regardless, it was out. In the chilly, starry air. Shining through the bedroom window as if it had just pulled into the driveway. As if it would soon be coming to the door. Soon be knocking, the moon would be ... mistaking the two furs for the sun. So bright their love! So much light it gave!
The bat, after a minute more, wriggled out from under him. Turned the tables. And had the mouse pinned on his back. And she straddled him. Just straddled him. Sitting there, peering down at him. "There ... that's," she breathed, "better."
The mouse could only flush and weakly nod.
"Oh, my ... lovely, submissive mouse. What am I gonna do with you?"
"Swoon me to death?" was his shy, cheek-burning suggestion. So airy, his voice. His words almost floated away.
She giggled. And giggled some more. "Hmm ... well, that's ... if you've haven't swooned yet, you soon will. I think we're both gonna swoon," she said suggestively, "several times before we sleep."
A returned giggle. "Yeah?"
"Unless," she breathed, "you have any objections ... "
"Can't," he panted, "think of any ... " He trailed, any further words (were any to be coming) cut off by her lips. By a kiss.
"I love you," was her pant (upon the breaking of the kiss). "Oh, I love you ... "
The mouse, in his tipsy haze, felt his eyes water. Felt a shiver down his spine. Those words! And how she said them ... with such passion, such breath, such care. Such meaning. Such honestly. Such fire.
And he could only stutter back, "I ... I l-love you ... too ... darling ... " He clung to her. And said, honestly, "I ... I think my heart just swooned."
Her own eyes closed now, and her voice more fragile than before ... she replied, "Not something ... you can word," she breathed. "Is it?"
"No," he admitted. "But I wanna feel it again. Make me feel it again. Love me," he pleaded, "senseless."
"I'll do my best," was her vow. Sinking with him to the sheets.
Leaving the light on as they swooned into the night.