Honey-Tan
The year was 1607.
Squint. Blink-blink. Squint ...
The honey-tan mouse, on the ground, on his side, left hip on the ground, squinted. Elbows bent. Chest and belly hovering inches above the grass. In this little, open clearing between clusters of deciduous trees. Leafy, green, breeze-groped trees.
A squeak. The high pitches a melodic accompaniment. A sentient, guided dressing to garner nature's breezes and bird-songs.
Honey-Tan (still on the ground) turned his head. Chittered back to the standing mouse.
Standing Mouse blinked. Lingered. Tilted his head, nose sniff-sniffing. "Mm," he prodded. Squeaking something else.
Honey-Tan squeaked again. With more veracity. Leave me alone. Leave ...
The other mouse nodded. Did so. Paused, and then scurried off. Though clearly not wanting to leave. Clearly hurt at being turned away.
Honey-Tan turned his attention back to the blades. The thin, green blades. And he took a slow, deep, stabilizing breath (through the nose, through his twitching nose). Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe of barky things. Limbs. Leaves. Of dampness. Moistness.
Breathe of life.
And he splayed the stubby-clawed fingers of his right paw. And ran the paw through the grass. Closing his eyes. Opening them. Still running his paw gently (oh, so gently) through the sun-dappled, shadow-scented grass. Making the motions as if the earth were alive. It was alive. And he was stroking the grass like one would stroke a lover's fur.
His whiskers twitched. Picking up every stray sensory motion. His ears swiveling, too, and tail snaking.
All was innocence.
The sky was forever. As the sea had been.
But the land was even more so. So many possibilities. Ones hued of gold. Riches. Frontier. Anything (and everything). Was that not why they had come? For the resources? For the unknown? The thrill? The life of it? Because it was God's will that they find this place? That it be here for them?
The breeze was of salt. Was of water and earth. Was of woodlands.
Was temperate.
All was temperate.
The trees beyond the shore, they were green. They were thick.
And the snow leopard watched them from the bow. A single-lens telescope to her eye. The eye darting ... seeing the shadow figures lurking out of view. Knowing them to be mice. Primitive, uneducated creatures. Prey. Oh, there were mice where she came from. And they were no smarter. But at least they knew rational language. At least they understood their place.
These mice ran wild. Had no borders or barriers, and had yet to learn their place.
There was nothing more dangerous than prey that didn't know its place.
And nothing more exciting, either, than ... teaching it to them.
The snow leopard sighed and leaned against the wooden railings.
Oh, her ship. After two long months, her ship ...
... had made it here. Had made it.
With sails like white sheets hung out to dry on a clothesline (so high). So high. Teetering in the sky, as the bottom of the boat slid (over waves). Over waves. Into the bay, in the middle of the day ...
... as the mice watched from the shadows. From the bushes and the dense, temperate growth. The deciduous trees. The ferns and the thorns. As they scurried to follow the path of the ship (all the while, keeping just out of sight). Squeaking to each other.
What manner of creation was this?
Who were these visitors?
More of the sharp-teethed types? More of the ones with the cocky swaggers and the throaty purrs?
Did they all live in the ocean? Where did they come from?
The sun dappled down. Rained, melted, shimmered down, did the light.
And the big, wooden sailing ship laid anchor. Lowered its rowboats.
And the felines came ashore.
"I am Assumpta," the snow leopard said slowly. Loudly. Cooly. "I am," she said, "from the North. The North-east. Across the ocean." A pause. Seeing they didn't understand. "Assumpta," she repeated. "From across," she enunciated, "the ocean."
The mice blinked. Seven or eight mice surrounding her small landing party. Surrounding the five cats. The cats wore their armor. Their uniforms. And the mouse wore very simple attire. All the mice in the current party being male, and none having shirts or shoes.
"Ocean," Assumpta repeated. The snow leopard, pure-white (with grey patches and stripes), sighed with frustration. "Ocean ... " She pointed to the water. "Across the ocean. Europe."
A black-and-white mouse, sniff-twitching, poked at one of the felines. At his armor. The cat squinted at this, and the mouse backed off.
"We've come to trade. To settle," Assumpta continued. Did not any of them speak English? Were not any of them rational? Of course not. Of course not ...
A grey-furred mouse squeaked. Chittered to one of the other mice.
Assumpta zeroed in on him. "What is your name? Grey-furred mouse ... "
The mouse head-tilted. Eyes wide. "Mm?"
"Name?" she repeated. "Name ... " And she pointed to herself. "Assumpta. Assumpta." And pointed at him. "Name?"
"Assumpta," the mouse repeated. Smiling shyly. Pointing to himself. "Assumpta."
"No. No," the snow leopard said, sighing ... " ... no, I'M Assumpta. Who are YOU ... you ... "
"You," said the mouse, " ... Peregrine."
"You are Peregrine?"
"Peregrine," said the mouse, nodding. Pointing to himself.
"That's a bird, isn't it? A falcon? One of you native birds-of-prey?" She squinted.
"Bird-uh," went Peregrine, trying to repeat the word.
"Bird."
"Bird-uh."
"No ... bird. Bird."
The mouse considered. "Bird-uh!" he pronounced, smiling. Very satisfied with himself.
The snow leopard sighed. Shook her head. And looked to one of her compatriots (a jaguar). "Your parents were from the New World ... "
"Yes ... "
"You speak their language?"
"Hardly," the jaguar responded. "Mice are ... " A sigh. "Their language isn't worth learning."
"Well, we have to communicate with them somehow ... "
"Why?" asked another cat. "We should take what we need. If they get in the way, we 'deal' with them. Why ask their permission? Why align ourselves with them?"
"Because they know this land better than we," was Assumpta's measured response. "They know the seasons better than we do. Because I say so." Her word, with her crew, was law. She was of Northern heritage. Of royal blood. She led these expeditions because she wasn't overly emotional. She wouldn't lose perspective. Wouldn't become power-hungry. She produced results.
Plus, no one was willing to challenge her in battle.
She had never lost.
"And, because," Assumpta whispered, "we can conquer them better if they are not fighting us. If we learn more about them."
The mice continued to sniff-twitch and nose the newcomers. Lurking and tipping around on foot-paws. Tip-toeing around, thin tails snaking behind them in such lazy ways.
Assumpta eyed the little pack of prey, and ... blinked. Eyes settling on a honey-tan mouse. Whose blue-grey eyes briefly met her ice-blues.
"Do you want me to take him?" The jaguar asked, seeing the look his captain was giving the prey. None of the felines had any qualms about taking prey. Taking them for ... whatever use they were fit for. Usually something physical. Always ... something physical.
Assumpta hesitated. Was going to say no. As if it wouldn't be right to just pluck this prey from his kind. But ... wouldn't he be better off under her care? Educated? Taught? Wouldn't it be better if he knew his place in the chain of things? In the world ...
"Ma'am ... "
She nodded. "Take him," she whispered. "Back to the ship ... we can teach him our language. He can become our translator," she justified. She had to have SOME tangible reason for just taking him. Some veil.
Peregrine, eyes wide, looking from snow leopard to jaguar, trying to figure out what they were talking about, began to squeak as two of the felines (the jaguar and a cheetah) went for Honey-Tan. As their paws grabbed him and pulled him toward Assumpta.
The mice squeaked and batted their paws at the felines' armor (in weak and wispy, worthless fashion).
The cats shoved them away.
"We are planting our flag," Assumpta announced, in a loud, carrying voice, "here." She pointed down at the soil. And nodded behind her, at the beach, at the shore. At her ship. "We are claiming this land," she said, "for predators. Ours," she said, pointing (again) at the ground. "Ours."
Peregrine seemed to understand this time. And he shook his head, squeaking.
The snow leopard nodded. "Yes," she countered. And, though she knew they couldn't understand her words, she continued, "We'll spend the night on our ship. We will be back in the morning. I suggest you don't make trouble for us ... " Her eyes darted. " ... when we return."
The mice squeaked in confusion and frustration, eventually scurrying back into the woods.
The cats, in their rowboat, heading back for their anchored ship. With the Honey-Tan mouse, at blade-point, in tow.
Night had fallen.
The snow leopard was in her quarters, the window open. The sound of the sea. The sound of the night-things. The sounds of promise.
Of frontier.
And the mouse quivering in the corner.
"I do not know your name," Assumpta said, sitting at her desk, with a quill in her paw. The end of the quill dripping in ink. The feathery part in the dim air. Cast in candlelight. She was writing to her superiors. The feline shifted in her seat, putting the quill down. "I do not know," she repeated quietly, "your name." She squinted. "Name?" she asked him.
The mouse gave no response.
"The silent treatment won't work. Name," she repeated.
Still no answer.
"You know what 'name' means. You may be stupid, but you know as much." A pause. A breath. "Your fur is a honey-tan. I'll call you Honey-Tan, then, until I've reason otherwise."
Honey-Tan's whiskers sniff-twitched. He was crouched, quivering ... in the corner there. Concealed in the shadows. His tail, though, just within the range of the candlelight. And she could hear him sniffing. Could hear his dishy ears swiveling on their bases.
Could hear his breath.
The snow leopard slid out of her chair. Stood. Peered at him. "My eyes," she informed him, "can see very well in the dark. You can't hide. You can't escape, either."
A tiny squeak.
"No," she told him. Shaking her head.
Chitter-squeak.
"You don't like being indoors, do you?" she asked, not knowing what his squeaks meant. But assuming they were sounds of fear. That he was pleading for release. That he, like all prey, was being weak. It wouldn't be hard to break him. Wouldn't be hard to make him into a pet ...
The mouse closed his eyes. Breathe, breathe ...
"Get up," she whispered. "Come here."
The mouse made no motion. Didn't understand. And, even if he had, he probably wouldn't have obeyed. He had to show SOME modicum of resistance. His instincts would insist as much.
"Get up," she said again. And when there was still no movement on his part, she stepped toward him, strong, clawed paw reaching out, and she wrapped it around his arm. And yanked.
A pained squeak as the mouse was dragged into the candlelight. Forced to his foot-paws. He stood shorter than she. Was more slender. Wispier. As all male mice were. Wispy, but ... male enough to like the femmes. She was sure of that. By the smell of him. By her own instincts. She could guess as much.
She just wondered how much of a fight he was going to put up.
"We will teach you," she said, violently shoving him to the other side of the room. To the bed.
The mouse landed with a muffled, feared chitter, all his mousey motions ... in full effect: ear-swivels, nose-sniffs, whisker-twitches, tail-snakes. Squeaks.
Assumpta started to pace, started to sigh. Started to remove her armor. To unbutton her attire. Started to remove it. She had a lot more to remove than the mouse did. And, as she did so, she paced an talked. And prattled, "We will teach you our language. You will become, in time, an interpreter for us. We will use you," she said, pausing, pointing at him. "You," she repeated, "to communicate with the mice." A pause. As her armor clattered to the wooden planks of the floor.
The mouse curled up into a ball on the sheets, closing his eyes. Maybe it would go away. Maybe the sharp-tooth would go away. Maybe he would be back in the woods, on the grass. Maybe the night-breezes would be lulling him to another sleep.
Maybe this was a nightmare.
"I don't know what made me pick you," she said, now bare from the waist-up. "There were, what, eight of you to choose from ... I needed a mouse. I chose you. You just seemed ... like you needed," she whispered, "to have your eyes opened. To things. To ... mm ... " She trailed, as her pants slid down. Panties, too. To her ankles. And she stepped out of them. "I know what you must be thinking," she told him, padding to her desk. Lit by candlelight.
The mouse uncurled enough ... to look at her. To squint at her.
"You must be thinking how horrible I am. That I would force you to this. But you will not," she assured, "put guilt on me, mouse. I am a predator. You are prey. This New World is a frontier, and ... is MEANT," she assured, "for us to dominate. You were put on this earth to be subservient to us. Your whole NATURE," she sneered, "is submissive. But ... all the same, I am drawn to you. We all are. It is a push-and-pull of primal proportions. Is it not?" she breathed, leaning down, taking a deep breath ...
... and blowing out the candle on her desk.
Plunging them into utter darkness.
The mouse began to squeak. High, random pitches ...
... as he tried to slip away, but ...
... she pounced. The bed creaked. And the mouse squeaked.
And she, now on top of him (and the sheets), whispered into his ear (while pulling off his primitive shorts), "Don't fight me, Honey-Tan."
A chitter.
"No. No," she whispered. "Don't fight me. Don't fight it. What I am bestowing on you," she whispered, a paw groping his rump. Oh, pert, mousey rump. And that tail that was so long and ropy. That acted like a lure. Oh. "What I am bestowing on you," she repeated, "is an honor. My food is yours. My resources are yours. You will be educated. Taught. You will be smarter than any of those other mice. You will KNOW more. You will FEEL," she emphasized, "more." A pant. A nip at the nape of his neck.
Honey-Tan squirmed, trying to get away.
She nipped a bit harder, huffing, "Do you know how many mice have gotten to do this with a ... snow leopard. Not," she huffed, "many. We are a rare species. We are ... contained. But when we're let loose," she said, trailing. Knowing the mouse still didn't understand her words, but ... she felt the need to talk to him anyway. She still wanted his submission. His validation. She wanted him to acknowledge her superiority. Acknowledge that, yes, what she was doing ... was perfectly fine. Perfectly right.
That the predator/prey rift ...
... meant this had to happen.
Her desires were not selfish.
They were just desires. And had to be sated. Had to be dealt with.
She was dealing with them.
And the wriggling mouse, as she pawed and pressed at him harder, with more lust ... he began to go limp. Squeaking weakly (with a confused sadness), he had to let it happen.
He had no choice.
She was simply stronger (by far). She was simply the feline. The predator.
He was only a mouse.
She HAD him.
And, as she pawed him firm, he simply lost the will to fight.
A purr. A throaty purr from her, her snowy-white and grey-striped fur more visible in the dark than his own. With the slivers of moonlight that barely made their way in through the window. "You don't ... have a sheath, mouse ... I've," she puffed, "noticed that. Rodents don't have sheaths ... "
Honey-Tan, on his side now, made no sound. Made no movement. As she ...
... pawed him. As she turned him around.
As she nipped on his lower lip, giving it a tug with her teeth. And, upon letting the lip go, she sighed. Wishing she had something to drink. And she kissed him again.
The mouse's eyes went closed. His ears flushed hot, hotter. Hottest.
And her paws trailed to those ears, running delicately along the rims of them.
The mouse shivered and arched, muzzle opening ... and eyes still closed.
"Ah," she observed. "Like that, boy? Mm?" She kept doing it, and ... after a minute, she stopped. And kissed again. Wrapping her arms around his back. Gripping his rump and ...
... shifting them both.
So that she was beneath him. So that he was on top.
The mouse was puffing for shy, quiet breaths. Still not relaxed. Still tense. His muscles, his motions ... all radiating a tenseness. An anxiety.
A fear.
And she saw this, and ... hugged him back down, and ...
... rolled!
So that she was on top. And she sat up, straddling him. And nodded down at him, tweaking his nipples a bit. Her soft, furry breasts hanging loosely. Own nipples hard. Own tail lazily snaking.
The mouse's eyes, once so innocent, looked to her. As if saying "do what you must, but ... get it over with" ... as if lamenting the total lack of love in this act. This was not of his will.
"Just shut up," Assumpta whispered to the wordless rodent. Shaking her head. "Close your eyes."
He didn't understand.
"Close them!" She put her paws on his eyes, trying to force his lids shut.
A little yelp of pain at she batted at his face, and he squeezed them shut. Shaking again.
The snow leopard heaved. She couldn't ... couldn't stand that look of innocence. That look of purity ... in the prey's eyes. That look of soft, shy trust ... turned to fear. That malleable emotion. That she was now shaping.
That she was shaping into something dark and resentful.
Something born of fear.
"Keep," she whispered, showing her teeth (though he couldn't see them), "your eyes shut." A huff. A puff. She could feel his pink erection beneath her. Oh, the mouse could pretend to not like this. But, on a biological, instinctive level, he was getting pleasure from this. On a mental, emotional, spiritual level? Well, that was not her problem. He would have to deal with that himself.
Not her problem.
She had emotionally scarred prey before. Had used prey before.
Honey-Tan was no different.
And just like all the other prey she'd commandeered, the mouse squeaked as her wet, warm femininity slipped over his maleness. As she settled. As she sank. As she put him at a hilt in her.
The mouse huffed, furry, slender chest rising, falling. Rising.
Falling. She fell on him. And rose again. Leaning forward, paws on his chest (for support). As she rode for a bit. The squelching sound ... very soothing to her (in the dark). And she leaned back up, staying on him. Using one of her paws to rub at her clitoris. "Ah ... ah," she breathed, nodding.
Fluid dripped in little drops from her pussy down his penis. His sac tightened.
Ride, ride ...
... and hump. He weakly humped up at her.
"Good boy," she panted. "Ah ... um," she went, still fingering at her clit. Nodding. She'd had better prey. It was better, of course, when the prey put up a fight. When they tried to wrest away. When they squeaked. When they tried to fight it (while, at the same time, submitting to the pleasure). The fact that the mouse wasn't putting up a torn, pleasure-hazed resistance ... disappointed her.
But she would take what she could get.
It had been a long journey, and ...
"Huh ... uh ... "
... as the pants and huffs filled the room, and as the warm, furry bodies bumped (and humped) in the night, the snow leopard stopped caring. And simply relished her role as the predator.
Knowing that this whole New World was hers. Was theirs. For the taking. With all the riches and furs that littered it.
And the mouse, eyes closed, squeaking helplessly (cause it just felt too good) ... deep down, felt his heart break. Knowing he would never get away. Knowing that he'd now been corrupted. He was a predatory toy now. He couldn't go back to the life he'd known. Not to the nature. Not to anything.
Knowing it would never be the same.