Seamless
As a photographer (in name, at least, if not reputation), he was inherently enamored with light. To be wholly submersed in it. In broad washes, yes, and focused rays. To have it on your whiskered face? In its varied intensities? The way it could occupy and transform a space! Moods altered, temperatures changed. It was a force. Light was life.
But the source (the sun) was never as important as the receiver (that which the light touched). The gifted before the giver, putting the 'other' before yourself. Their comfort first. Their pleasure, too. So believed the pure of heart. The endangered species of 'true romantics' ... like the farm-bred meadow mouse.
He'd once heard that you couldn't really keep that which you loved. Because true love was non-possessive. If you truly loved someone, you didn't wish to own them. So, if they left? You let them go. Didn't give chase. But that failed to take into account that true love was so much like light, and maybe even more vital. So much alike. And nothing could live without light. Selfless or not, you held to it tightly when you found it. It was instinct. It was animal nature.
And so it was that he hardly noticed the startling sunset to the west. At all. Or the scent of freshly-cut lawn grass. Distant first-cuttings of alfalfa, as well. Everything in the countryside attempting to purchase one of his senses. To get his attention. Nose, ears. Plowed dirt (such earthy earth). Ripening cottonwoods. The mockingbirds, too, and their ever-changing tunes. To no avail. (The bats against the pink clouds got his attention for a few seconds, though.)
Instead, entirely rapt on the white-furred figure a few paces to his left. Within touching distance. How the light illuminated her, reflecting, bouncing. Making her glow, like an ethereal dream. But she was no specter. More than real. In fact, hyper-real. She was, as all rabbits were, incredibly physical. Sensual. He should know. He'd been married to her for three years, now, and their passion was insatiable ...
... evidenced at sunrise, thirteen, fourteen hours earlier, no space between them. In full, pressing contact. They existed as one. Soft squeaks and aching mews. Such close, intimate views. The orange-hued light, meanwhile, beginning to peek through the dusty bedroom window, casting a haze against the far wall. Throwing a warm glaze, too, over the strewn, navy-blue sheets, the snow rabbit's paw-feet scrabbling about for purchase. Toes curling. Digging. And then the soles, the pads ... exposed to the air. As she crawled atop of him, raising her upper body to a knee-standing straddle.
She moved with such authority, didn't she? Panting all the while, breasts hanging. Loosely moving with gravity. Her gaze was clear. Piercing. And hot.
The muddy-furred mouse, on his back, could only n-nod up at her. Understanding. Gladly bewildered, whiskers a-twitch. He was awake. No mistake. All grogginess had left him the moment she'd perked his pulse. With whispers into his big, sensitive ears. With promises. With 'hello, good morning, I love you.' Well, uh ... that. And some things he wasn't going to repeat. His arousal had been close to instant. The blood, the stiffness, the shortness of breath.
Like last night's thunderstorm, nature unleashed.
It was as close to hunger as one could get without desiring food. Perhaps that's where kisses came in. To suck, to taste, to consume. Metaphorically, symbolically. Something like that. There was just something about a watermelon-wet, scintillating kiss. It always led to another, and then ... five. Ten. Sloppier as they went, louder ...
... breathless.
Desperate.
Already begging himself to calm down. Calm down, Ross. He wanted this to last. No ending, please.
The snow rabbit's right paw cupped his cheek. She closed her eyes. And breathed in, slowly, through her charcoal-colored nose. Always taking time to savor the moment, initially, even in the heady, heart-hammering rush (which she always succumbed to).
He followed suit. Knowing the importance. Own nose (pink and sniffy) taking air. Holding it there. And then sighing ... s-sighing out ... that's it. That's better ...
... and she cocked a brow. As if to ask, without verbal cue, 'Ready, now?'
His long, ropy tail grazed her side. Her very bare ... exposed. Curving gently down to her supple hip. Side. She, like his thoughts, existed as some kind of poetry. On a pedestal. But love did that, right? It elevated things. Made you look past any flaws. Made you forgive.
Made you forget.
Aria had led, in the past, a very 'casual' life. In the breeding department. (She had 'been' with more males than she could count on both paws. Had started young, too. At fifteen.) A lot of rabbits did. Their infamous breeding drives, their promiscuous culture. And logical, serene snow rabbits, in particular, with their emotions restrained (even repressed, to a degree) ... were even less prone to long-term relationships. As a rule. But she'd always been tempted to buck the norm. Leaving home. Leaving Alaska (it was rare that you saw snow rabbits outside the North) ...
... coming to Indiana, of all places. A very conservative place (and herself by no means able to be described as such).
She'd never lost her dominant nature. She was confident. Assured. Knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. And when she'd heard Ross shyly bumbling through a reading in one of her general-education classes (poetry, actually), she'd been ... well ... intrigued. There was just something there, and ...
... things. Yes. Happened.
Ross, himself, was much more modest. Shy, gentle. In the past, he'd been visibly naïve (emotionally ... sexually, too). Not so much anymore. But the innocence had definitely remained. It always would. A romantic, a dreamer. One of those 'soft males,' effeminate, artistic.
At first glance, the meadow mouse and snow rabbit were complete opposites. But that, in itself, was alluring. The exoticness of 'the other.' And drew their curiosity. Like magnets. Attracting. Pulling. Sticking. What they shared, though: both outsiders in their respective cultures, even amongst their own families. Both the 'black sheep,' if you will. Knowing how it felt to exist in the margins. To be lonely (even, in Aria's case ... being in one's bed did not necessarily mean an end to loneliness) ... and they both had an organized, philosophical approach to things, mentally ...
... no more, n-no more ... alone, though.
No more nighttime, no.
The light!
Day (or morning, more precisely) had come.
The risen, the born again, the sun, the body's pulse ... body parts. Beating hearts ...
... in tandem ...
... he remembered this, vividly, so much so as to make his paw-pads sweat. Sunrise today. This morning. Had been magnificent. And, now, it was later. It was sunset. Bolder, more orange. Deeper. And, yes, there was an unspoken intention (and tension) in the air. That the same activities would repeat themselves. Everything in the waking world was ripe for romance. How in God's name could you believe otherwise? It was May, for heaven's sake.
That was just how mouses looked at things (well, this mouse, anyway). That was just how it had to be when you were young (twenty-five wasn't considered old, was it) and hopeful. When you had a whole future, an undiscovered country, ahead of you. And armed with such personal faith. When you were addicted to someone else in a way that almost defied sense.
Aria, thinking only of the present, however, curled the blunt-clawed, white-furred toes of her left foot-paw. In the grass. And slowly moved it back, back, uncurling the toes and stretching the leg they stemmed from. A nice feeling, bare foot-paws on plush grass. There was no questioning a rabbit's lower-body strength. Or elegance. To see her poised like that ...
... forced him to swallow. Imagining. Her thighs hugging his hips, his waist. Her foot-paw pushing him down, to his back, and ... just ... scenarios, things. Giving her muzzle. He l-loved ... giving her ...
... that.
She loved getting it.
She was a practiced seducer. (Sunrise.)
He, meanwhile, an expert in swooning. (Sunset.)
The game of love, for sure.
She turned her head, halfway, one ear raised and the other angling to the side. Giving him a veiled, ice-blue eye-smile. That thing that only snow rabbits could seemingly do. (Smiling without using the muzzle.) Her serene whiskers glinting in the light.
It wasn't that Ross couldn't seduce her, in turn. He had a cuteness about him. All twitches, whiskers, ropy tail. Big-eared, dimple-faced ... mouses. Cute. They were almost synonyms! But cuteness was mellow, passive. Aria's lust was active. Again, their differences ... perfect complements. Tit for tat. Oh, this and that ...
... this morning, again, after sex. Just after. Literally a minute ... after orgasm ...
... and Ross whispered, " ... o-oh ... I almost can't feel my tail." A heavy, chittering sigh. He wavered it. S-side-winding it in the sheets. It tingled.
A mew of mirth. And bliss. "T-that ... is a 'good' thing, I take it?" Her breath coming in bursts. She reached for the water bottle on the bedside stand. Took two heavy swigs. And put it back ... still straddling.
A dumb nod. "Y-yeah ... "
"Mm." Fingers tracing his lips, pushing inside (delicately). Touching his tongue. Watching as, soon, he was sucking on her blunted claws. Her fingertips. "You've a lot of blood elsewhere, certainly ... " She hunched over, laying down atop of him, now. Her walls still fluttering a bit. She mouthed his forehead. " ... don't you, darling." A statement more than a question. Followed by a small, tender kiss. And another.
The mouse, eyes closed, tilted his head. "Mm?" was his throaty sound. "You gonna kiss me?"
"I am. Perhaps you are more light-headed than you realize ... "
" ... no, I know that. I meant ... on the mouth?"
"If I do that ... I may lose my appetite for breakfast. Decide to have you, instead. And we will not get out of bed," she whispered, against his cheek, "for quite some time."
"You just had me once ... "
A raised brow.
" ... just, uh ... saying ... you should be sated, a little. No danger in kissing ... "
" ... a rabbit is never sated. Physically. You know this ... "
"What about mouses?" was the innocent response.
A paw. On his chest. Directly above his heart. "They are never sated emotionally. Though there are exceptions to every rule ... sometimes, mouses can act like rabbits. Or vice versa. Especially when they spend so much time around each other."
"Osmosis," Ross breathed.
"A good way to put it ... " Soft sigh. Rolling her neck. " ... mm. We have to shower ... go to work."
" ... yeah. We do." He seemed a bit ambivalent about that.
Not that he was lazy. Far from it. A very productive (manically so) individual. Unable to relax, sometimes. It was just that his job was all manual labor and ... well, he liked that. Kept him fit. And it was outdoors. He wasn't sitting inside, at a desk, but ... yes, but. At the same time, it was all routine. Same thing. Every day. Agricultural jobs were like that. Circular. No creativity was involved or even needed. And Ross thrived on creativity. It was slightly stifling to work in an environment where it wasn't really allowed. And, face it. Rural jobs tended to be masculine.
I'm not very masculine ... for a male. Am I ...
... whiskers twitched. No.
You're masculine enough for Aria, though, aren't you?
That should be enough for you.
They were both students, still. Both seniors in the fall (albeit, uh ... eighth-year seniors, or something like that.). But it was May, now, of course, and 'summer break' meant 'summer work.' They had their seasonal jobs. Not stimulating, well-paying jobs, but ... it was something. To do. To earn with. And at least they were in the countryside, now. And no longer in the city (which was fine to visit but not so great to live in).
She lifted her hips. And her flicker-flickering, cottony bobtail. And, uh ... dismounted. Flopping onto her back beside him. Making the mattress bounce. A paw touching between her legs. " ... the more outdoor activity you get, the more seed you produce. Am I imagining that, you think?"
A deep ear-blush. " ... A-aria," he stammered.
"Truthfully. I swear you produce more semen in the summer."
Whiskers twitching, he sat up. Scrunching his features. " ... how would you even ... measure that. I mean ... "
" ... I can tell."
"Well, I never noticed." His ears still rosy-pink.
"Because your male instinct is to bestow it ... in other words, to get rid of it. My female instinct is to attain it, correct? To be sown? It's my business, then, to know how much seed I'm actually receiving."
"That's just a fancy way of saying you're a sexpot ... expert ... uh, thing."
"Is that like a teapot?"
" ... why?" A blink.
"Cause, if it is, and if I steam and whistle ... it would only be because you brought me up to temperature, correct?" A rabbit-purr, or the equivalent throaty noise. Pushing him, playfully, keeping him down. Horizontal. "Thawed my Arctic freeze." And she leaned forward, nibbling on his bare shoulder. Shifting to all fours ... directly above him. "Darling?"
" ... yeah?" he whispered, exhaling slowly. Looking up. Whiskers a-twitch.
"I can hear your mind spinning."
" ... I didn't start it. It, uh ... turned on," he said, "by itself."
"I wonder which part served as the trigger? Your philosophical side, your artistry ... your imagination? Who flipped the switch?"
"Well, if I make you whistle, maybe you flip my switches ... "
"Engineers are good at turning things on," she agreed, sagely. A pause. And then sitting back up, at a straddle. Massaging his belly. And then, ultimately, his chest. Again. He liked that. "You never remember your dreams. Or so you tell me. But ... in your eyes, I see that you daydream more than enough to make up for it." A soft exhale, thumbing his nipples. "You get that glazed look. And I know you're lost somewhere in your own imagination."
" ... well ... you're normally in there, too. With me," was the shy mumble.
She cupped his whisker-twitchy, soft-furred cheek.
" ... is it gonna be hot today?" he asked, with a swallow.
"It already is." A sultry look.
"I m-meant ... outside of bed." Goodness. Rabbits. He should be used to it by, now, but ... mouses were very modest about sex. Aria's bluntness still managed to bowl him over. And probably always would.
"Mm?" A slow nod. "Ah ... warm, not hot. With a breeze. According to yesterday's newspaper. I don't know how up-to-date that is."
A paw on her side, traveling up her side (until gravity brought it back down), he nodded. "I need to make something," he confided to her. "A project, a series. Something. I know I should take a break. School just got out, and ... I have my whole life to make art. Or so everyone tells me ... "
" ... you don't believe that?"
"Not really. I mean, I'm young now. I have energy now. Don't you think this would be the peak time? I don't want to waste my potential, or ... I feel like ... anyway, wasn't it Mario Andretti who said, 'If you wait, all that happens is you get older.' I don't know. I feel like ... everything has an urgency to it ... "
" ... you do love your Indy Car racing," she interrupted, playfully. 500-Day was only four weeks away. The biggest event of the Hoosier year (usually)! And they both had their tickets.
" ... yeah. But ... you know? I feel like things ... "A frustrated breath. " ... every day. It has to be every day."
"Creation, you mean?"
"I guess. Not that so much as, uh ... it's like life is a small series of climaxes. In the middle of a huge sea of ... 'after' ... that after-afterglow feeling, when it's, like, 'oh ... what now'?"
"One's battery needs to recharge, I suppose," she reasoned. "If life was all climaxes? Then you'd have no time to breathe. To reflect. To appreciate. Perhaps you are over-thinking it."
"I know I am," he admitted, whiskers twitching wildly.
"We just made love, after all. Does that not figure into the equation? Of great 'doing,' of creation? Artistry? Sex is a performance piece, is it not? You are a romantic. Surely, you can count that ... "
Blushing, he smiled up at her. Adoringly, with that submissiveness. Dimples showing. " ... it, uh, definitely counts." Deep. Slow. Breath. " ... it counts."
"Then relax." A command, not a suggestion. Fluffy bobtail flickering, drawing such attention to her supple rump. Those fertile hips.
"I'm trying. I just ... " Fidgeting. " ... it's a compulsion. A need. It's more about expression than actual creation, really. Untapped inner things? Unleashed in physical form, in ... formed. Created. Things." Stumbling over words, now. They were coming too fast. They got tied up when they reached his tongue. "Letting my inside, uh, be ... out. If that makes sense."
"It does."
"No, it doesn't," he mumbled, whiskers twitching.
"Does."
He was quiet for a moment. Breathing. Non-stop twitches. Mousey motions, all over. Cute.
"I think you have a restless soul. Is what I think. Full of scurry. A juxtaposition to your heart, actually, and your body ... both of which yearn for deep roots. Your spiritual energy is boundless. It wishes to expand, but ... you get too attached, too emotional about things. There's a tension deep inside of you. A push and pull. The reality versus the ideal. You try so hard to reconcile the two. And you aren't always able."
He let that sink in.
"I mean, you're a perfectionist ... sometimes. You're competitive. But you're quiet and gentle. You have so many sides. You are a curious creature. Complex." Her own whiskers gave a singular twitch. "It wasn't just your cuteness that inspired me to pounce you. When we first met. I hope you know that by now ... I tell you, but you don't often seem convinced."
A tiny nod. "I'm convinced," he assured her. "Just ... my self-esteem fluctuates. More than yours." And, after a moment, responded, mumble-bumbling, " ... think you're beautiful. But you're so intelligent. So calm. And ... I panic, you know? And you don't. You're like my rock." An exhale. It was important to say these things. In any relationship. To communicate. Even if you'd put forth the same sentiment many times before, it never hurt to say it again, to reinforce it. "I know this is lame ... or, uh, cheesy. But you inspire me. I mean, you're my muse."
"Why would I find that lame? Such a lovely sentiment?" she questioned, affectionately. "You are too hard on yourself."
"Maybe."
"Definitely. You are driven ... but you hide it well. As if you think ambition is a sin. As if you think it would make you selfish."
He wasn't sure what to say to that. "Anyway, I think," he continued, "the reason I want to create all the time is because of you. You're, uh ... well ... "
" ... go on," she breathed, prodding. A bit playfully.
" ... my Ariadne."
A blink.
"Greek mythology?" Ross whispered. Bashfully. Whiskers twitching. Tail side-winding like a wayward rope. "She, uh ... was the one who gave Theseus the yarn she was weaving. When he was in the labyrinth. So he would be connected to her. Led back to her, find his way out ... freedom via love. And ... " He cleared his throat. " ... something like that." An exhale. "You do the same for me. You free me from my cage. My maze. My self-doubt. You lead me out ... " A squeaky pause. " ... into the light."
"Mm ... " A barely-audible sigh. " ... that is incredibly ... sugary sweet," she mouthed, bobtail flickering. An arm moving, taking one of his paws in hers. Holding, squeezing gently for a few seconds. "Though I could say the same in return. That you lead me out ... into better realms. So to speak. Suffice it to say: we are better as a whole than the sum of our parts. We make a good pair. Yes?"
"Yeah." An innocent smile. "Well, I only thought of it cause Ariadne starts with 'Aria,' and ... but it made sense in my head."
"I like your head."
"H-heh. Is that a double-entendre?"
"Now that you mention it ... yes." He tone very teasing. She groped for his tail. Reeling it in. Tug-tug. And then let it go. "So ... " Deep breath, and a rabbit-y mew. " ... do you still feel the burning, all-consuming need to create? Even after our pleasure-making union?"
"Mm-hmm."
" ... I do not sate you?" she wondered.
" ... well, yes. But ... at the same time, you feed the fire, you know?"
"A paradox."
"Is that bad?"
"On the contrary," Aria decided. "I prefer it." An eye-smile. "Though it is ironic, yes? A snow rabbit ... snow. Ice. Feeding someone's fire."
"Metaphorically. Poetically ... "
" ... paradoxically," she finished. And a pause, considering. "Since your creative juices are flowing ... "
" ... yes?"
"Then you," she breathed, nibbling on his jaw-line, "can make my breakfast. Cooking's an art, true? Culinary arts?" And she added, sensually, before he could respond, "I know you're good in the kitchen."
"H-heh." Another double-entendre. "That's not what I ... "
" ... will have carrot cake, eggs, fruit, yogurt ... "
" ... had in mind," he finished, immediately beginning to giggle-squeak. "Carrot cake? I don't think so."
"Will only take you forty-five minutes, I'm sure. Less time if you make carrot cupcakes. With," she demanded, lightly, "vanilla icing."
Giggle-squeaking. " ... and ... vanilla, huh? That for me?"
"You prefer it to chocolate."
"I do ... mm. But weren't you were just telling me a minute ago ... well, however many minutes ago," he said, cause time had truly slipped away from him. It just didn't seem to exist when he was with her. When they bumped. And bantered. " ... how we have to get out of bed. Work. Or something ... " ... yeah, work. " ... how long have we been up?"
"Forty-five minutes, at least."
A surprised blink. Glancing at the clock. " ... oh."
"Our 'wake-up' sex normally doesn't take so long, but ... I gauged you had the ability to 'last,' and I milked it ... "
" ... h-heh." A shy squeak. " ... milked, uh ... what ... never mind. How could you know I was gonna last a long time?"
"The way you were touching me. Slow, steady ... you weren't rushing your body. You wanted to. Definitely. But you were attempting to restrain yourself." A pause, with a warm breath. Very warm. "Our styles are like storm fronts when you think about it. Opposing temperatures, making but simple spectacles on their own? But when they collide, the resulting tension, the push, the pull ... puts on a startling show ... "
" ... now, you're waxing poetic. Like me."
"But, in this case, poetry is truth ... is it not?"
"Yes. It often is."
Her ears twiddled.
"I like it when you share your insights ... in that flowery way. Very rodent-like."
"Rubbed off, didn't you." A statement.
"Goes both ways. I actually want carrot cake right now. You're making me crave your cravings."
A playful shove. "Indeed?"
"Yes. I do ... I want carrot cake," he said, squeakily, almost sing-song, "and you." His light, wispy voice returning to normal. "Maybe I'll put it on your belly and eat it off there. No utensils or anything."
A mew of mirth. "That is the 'afterglow' speaking. Tidy, polite Ross does not want crumbs in bed. You would have a fit. I guarantee."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Maybe, yes," she teased, sitting up. Arms raising, stretching. Breasts jiggling (well, they had to, really). "Get your camera."
A blink. Propping himself up on his elbows. Still naked, fur matted. Whiskers lightly twitching. "Why?"
"You want to create? Still? Even at this very moment?"
A nod.
"I have an idea for a project, then."
"You do?" He sounded slightly uncertain. Aria was an engineer. Often too logical and analytical to, uh ... truly get into art. Or, at least, to deeply get into it. She appreciated it, of course. Could talk about it. But making it? That wasn't her forte.
"Yes. Do not sound so surprised."
"I'm not. I'm just ... tell me," he went, squeakily.
"Get your camera," she repeated, coyly, bobtail flicking.
He crawled to the side of the bed, swung his legs. Nakedly. And scurried. Was back in a few seconds flat.
"Your tripod, too."
He handed her the camera, nodding. And, again, scurried. It was cute how he did that. (But, then, most mousey motions were cute.)
When he returned, Aria, ears raised prim and proper, said, "Take a picture of us kissing. At the edge of the bed. A close up ... shoulders and above. Each time we make love in bed ... we take a picture of an 'end kiss' before we get up again ... "
" ... what if, uh ... we do it outside ... " That wasn't uncommon with them. They had a whole woods. They had, uh, fields, and ...
" ... only bed. You need the same setting. Same colors, similar lighting."
"Why?"
A slow breath. "Because. After months ... a year. However long you deem," she told him, "compile the images into a stop-motion video. Call it 'The Long Kiss'."
"H-heh ... " He beamed. That was ... well, that was very romantic. "And how am I gonna conceptualize that? When I'm critiqued, or graded, or displayed ... I have to be able to articulate a meaning."
"That part is up to you." A dip of a shoulder. A flick of her bobtail. She looked so beautiful. "All I know is that our days are not initially seamless. They bump into each other. As do we. Trying so hard to fuse, to ... become one. And we do become seamless. Eventually. I believe." A breath. "But our differences are noticeable. Unique." A pause. Feeling spent for words, suddenly.
He didn't say anything for a moment. Just glanced at the clock, the camera, and then at her. "You told me if we kissed on the mouth, didn't you ... that maybe we wouldn't stop. Too tempting, you know? Once you have that taste. We really should get out of bed." At this rate, they were gonna be nearly late for work. Nearly. They still hadn't showered or had breakfast. Or even dressed.
"We should, shouldn't we ... "
" ... yeah ... " He was mumbling. Almost. Leaning in, and ... forgetting to set the camera, the timer. Anything. Just zeroing in on her lips. And there was friction. There were subtle twists and smacks, and, no, it wasn't seamless. But, Lord, they tried to make it be. Broken, though, by breaths. By touching tongues, and ...
... p-panting, behind the house. Shielded from the gravel road. But still in view of such sprawling open space. Green pastures. The woods, out there, full of sycamores. A big sky as the buffer between the two realms. Very nearly night. Deep, blushing blue at the zenith, and lighter colors on the western front. The sun was gone. Down. Just as they, their bodies ...
... had gone down.
Into the ground's sturdy embrace.
Mouth slipping over a hardened nipple. His mouth. Her breast. Mousey whiskers against her pelt, twitching, tickling.
The snow rabbit arched, bare belly lit by the sun's remnants. Glazed in a glow. Glistening, her nipple. As the mouse pulled off it. Her paws running through his head-fur. Massaging his big ear-bases.
S-small squeak. O-oh, erogenous ears.
Fierce eye contact. Things that didn't need to be spoken.
They were at it again. Just couldn't keep off each other, could they? The passion was too consuming. The chemistry too real. The paradox too much a lure. They had to solve it, and they knew they never would (entirely) ... and, oh, that was fine by them. More than fine. By them.
As her soft, white-furred thighs fell open, as his trim hips dipped in, his essence peeking, poking, piercing. As they joined. In wet, hot fusion. Limbs holding each other in place as they writhed ... bucked. Gyrating, testing their intimate mettle. Time blurred. The day, itself, had bled straight through ...
... sunrise, first.
Now, this, sunset.
All that lied in between.
All that was to come.
Right now, in the grass, the snow rabbit moaning on her back, tracing his earlobes with one paw. The other clutching to his back-fur. The mouse panting so desperately atop of her, drunk with such vital, connecting pleasure. Right now, yes, y-yes ... everything blended, everything was one. They, for a split second, felt seamless after all. It was possible ... it was ...
... so seamless.
And eternally lovely, too.