Quiet Exceptions
It was quiet.
Except for the rain drip-dropping lightly on the old, black-shingled rooftop. Incessantly, in a grey and dreary way, ringing in the 'New Year's' with more wetness. Oh, but hadn't the newspaper claimed last week, in bold, black letters (on the front page, even), to prepare for a 'dryer than normal winter?' Field seemed to remember this. Funny, then, how it had rained EVERY day since winter had officially started two weeks ago. (Shows what weather-furs know. Or, more the point, what city-furs knew. Only a city-fur could be so oblivious as to the reality of the elements.) Yes, the rain fell, softer now, almost at a drizzle. Drip-drip. Drop. But the muddy mess of the naked-tree, empty-field countryside was already made.
But, still it was quiet. As the rain fell.
It was quiet.
Except for the whir-churning of the corn stove, the auger turning, turning in its slow, timed way, dropping kernels of corn into the lapping, flapping flames. The kernels not popping in the orange-red of the fire (which Field had to explain to every-fur that came to their house and asked 'that stove burns CORN?'). But with the oil and ethanol inherent in the kernels, the corn burned with a slow, golden heat. The kernels stored in the stove's top, being fed into the flames at a slow-churn. A fifty-pound bag of corn could keep the stove at a constant burning for a full twenty-four hours, with no additional lighting or poking or stirring. Just light it and let it run. The exteriors were kept cool (save for the windowed hatch) so as not to burn your paws, and not to mention that corn was very inexpensive compared to wood or oil, and was replenished a lot faster.
Yes, Field listened to their corn stove. The whir-whir-churn. The blowing of the hot air out of the little vent. The crackling and the flapping.
It kept the house so toasty.
But, aside from the rain and the corn stove, it was quiet.
Except ...
... except for the ticking of the kitchen-clock, the one hanging on the wall next to the wooden, hundred-year-old Hoosier cabinet (with all the little drawers and pull-out bread-boards). The battery-powered clock with the big minute-paw and the shorter hour-paw, and the very thin, very long second-paw, which ticked-ticked-ticked as it went-went-went.
Tick.
Tick, tick. Tick.
Tick-a-tick-a-tock.
It was the first day of the year. And time was energized. Refreshed. Time was raring to tick.
So, it was quiet in the old, Hoosier farmhouse, on this very wet and grey New Year's Day. Oh, it was so quiet. Except for the rain, the corn stove, and the kitchen-clock.
But, otherwise, it was quiet.
So quiet.
Well, except for the breathing.
The breathing.
Coming from him. Field. The gentle, shy, honey-tan mouse.
And coming from her. Her. Adelaide, the confident, nurturing pink-furred bat.
They were, the two of them, husband and wife, on the living room couch. Sinking into the soft, navy-blue cushions. Half-dressed, snuggling, and breathing and talking in quiet, unassuming ways.
New Year's Day was at the bottom of the holiday barrel, in Field's mind. It had no true significance, other than acting as a marker, a numerical point. It hadn't the life-changing messages and feelings that Christmas or Easter had, for example. He never stayed up to watch the 'ball drop.' And his family had never held New Year's parties or anything like that. He hadn't grown up celebrating it. Every day, to him, was a blessing, a gift from God. New Year's Day, therefore, had no more hope in it than the last day of the year did. He wasn't one to make empty resolutions.
No, he'd never been a fanatic of New Year's, necessarily. Not to say he disliked it. He didn't dislike it, no.
It just wasn't a holiday that made him quiver in anticipation. It wasn't a holiday that inspired sharp, tangible memories of smells, sights, sounds, and traditions. It didn't hold any great personal meeting for him.
It was just another holiday.
And Adelaide wasn't a big New Year's fur, either.
So, they'd spent this New Year's Day by themselves, in quiet, huddled reflection. In comfort. Shielded from the weeping winter, basking in each other's love. Basking in presence. Thinking, quietly, about all the possibilities inherent in life. The hope that glowed brightly in their souls.
Year-old baby Akira was asleep in her room, in her crib. Having crawled her way to exhaustion earlier in the day. She'd become quite the master of crawling. She was a fast crawler, too. And, always, when she was about to be scooped up by mommy or daddy, she gave out a delightful giggle-chitter, as if partaking in a game of 'crawl away fast!' She would increase her speed, but would not get away.
And, not only was she a crawler, now, but a walker!
She had taken her first steps.
A few weeks ago ...
... Field had been sitting on the floor with her, cooing to her, talking, and she'd crawled off. Shuffle-shuffle. Stop. Shuffle. Stop. Wearing only her diaper, which made a swish-swish sound when she moved. Crawl-crawl-crawl.
"Where ya goin' ... mm?" Field had gone, softly, in his light, airy voice. "Mm? Where ya goin' ... "
Chittery!
"Where? You think you're goin' to the coffee table ... "
She was at side of the wooden coffee table, and her tiny paws reached up, for the edge. And she began to pull herself to a shaky stand.
Field's eyes went a bit wide, and he drew himself off the floor (for he'd been on his belly), to a knee-sit. "Adelaide," he'd said, quite squeakily. For the bat was in the kitchen. His whiskers twitched.
Akira had pulled herself to a stand. Staying in place. Supported by the side of the coffee table. Just lingering there, as if debating whether to head out in the open expanse of the living room carpet.
Adelaide emerged from the kitchen, with flour on her paws and her shirt. "Yeah?" She looked from Field to Akira. "Oh ... she's gonna walk!" A chitter. And she padded closer, dropping to a crouch, and finally, to her knees. Right next to Field. Watching with him.
"Shh," went Field. "She's trying to concentrate ... " The mouse's tail snaked about, this way and that, innocently.
Adelaide, turning her head, grinned. "Sorry," she whispered at him, a bit teasingly. But with good humor. "Maternal enthusiasm." A pause. And looking back at their daughter, saying, "I can help her ... give her telepathic guidance ... "
"No, well ... she needs to learn how to do it," Field whispered, "on her own."
Akira, still standing, her legs spread at a wide stance (to support her wobbly, little form), watched mommy and daddy. Eyes wide, darting. As if wondering what they were looking at. As if deciding, still, what to do.
"Field, my mother helped me take my first steps ... she told me so. It's not like I'm interfering. I'm just ... giving her some instinctual lessons." And she did so. Her stronger, bigger telepathic feelers instantly reaching for and entwining with Akira's little, undeveloped feelers. Giving her images. Feelings. Sensations. Of how to walk. Giving her warm feelings.
"I think she's gonna do it," Field whispered, very, very quietly, after a moment. He, also, on his knees.
Akira, feeding off all the loving attention, gurgle-chittered, eyes bright, chittering, and she began to totter away from the table, stance wide, toes pointed out. Her little, mauve-furred, winged-armed body wobbling. She waved those winged arms, quite pleased with herself. Step. Step. She teetered after only four steps, and ...
... plonk! She plopped down onto her diapered rump, blinking, as if thinking 'was that all?'
"Oh, she fell," Field said, whiskers twitching. He bit his lip.
"But she walked," Adelaide whispered, her paws clasping together, her deep-pink eyes glowing. Her angular, swept-back ears keenly alert, and her stubby, shorter, rudder-like tail moving a bit. "Oh ... oh, my gosh. She's walking."
Field beamed, whiskers twitching. "That she is ... " And he crawled over to Akira, and scooped her up in his arms, and gave a warm, paternal nose-nuzzle. And a kiss to her cheek. "My baby," he whispered. Her scent was so comforting. So familiar. Ingrained, imprinted in his mind. He couldn't imagine life without his little daughter. Without holding her and nurturing her. Watching her grow. "My baby ... "
For Akira epitomized his passionate, spiritual love for Adelaide. She was conceived and born out of Field and Adelaide's love, and she bore traces of both of them, mother and father, in her eyes, in her expressions. In her build. And her personality. And she represented God's grace and glory, knit together by the Creator's intricate, beautiful ways. And she represented life itself, the hope of continuation, of passing on the family line. Leaving something for the world's future, a part of yourself, part of your essence instilled into someone else. Leaving a mark on things.
Oh, when he looked into his daughter's eyes, Field felt so much. Thought of so much.
The love just floored him. As love always did.
Akira wriggled, gurgling.
"I think she's excited," Field guessed, quite accurately. His own whiskers twitched, and his big, dishy ears swiveled. Pink, delicate lobes capturing every sound in the room.
A chitter from Adelaide. "She's growing up ... " A sigh. "Next thing you know, she'll be talking, and then ... " She trailed.
Field, smiling, turned and gave Akira to Adelaide, who was standing, now. And Field stood up with her, Adelaide also bestowing Akira with nose-nuzzles. And she kissed her, too (but on the forehead, instead of the cheek; one must spread the kisses all around, after all). "Good girl ... we love you. You know?"
Chittery!
"You do know," Adelaide whispered. "Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm," she went, in a cooing fashion. And then she set the baby down on the carpet, saying, "I got stuff in the oven ... and Akira's got flour all over her, now, don't you? Yes. Yes, you do," Adelaide said, starting to chitter with amusement.
"What are you making?" Field asked, nose sniffing the air. Sniff-sniff. Twitch.
"Blueberry ... "
" ... bug muffins?" Field finished, scrunching his muzzle. A frown. He should've guessed. "Adelaide ... "
"Hey, WE like them, don't we, Akira? If daddy doesn't wanna eat bugs, very TASTY, juicy bugs, full of protein ... "
" ... well, is that all? Just muffins?" he asked, ignoring her blatant teasing. But, in the back of his mind, he had a little paranoid thought: he'd have to sniff his food extra-careful before he ate tonight, lest she slip bugs in when he wasn't looking. She loved to do that.
"No, YOU," Adelaide insisted, with a grin, "are gonna make us some corn casserole and whatever else you can come up with."
"Me?"
"You're the better cook." A wink. "I only make things with bugs in them." Another wink, and a grab. Grab-grab!
Squeak!
A sultry chitter.
"You ... you goosed me," Field accused, standing on the tips of his bare foot-paws, turning his neck around, to see behind him. His rump with a white paw-print on it, now. Her floured paw. His silky-pink, long and thin mouse-tail waver-waved, and he looked back at his wife. "You goosed me," he whispered again, but a smile was melting onto his muzzle.
"Uh-huh," was the quiet, simple response. And she did it again.
Which drew another, body-raising squeak!
And she giggle-chittered to herself, lingering, and then padding off into the kitchen, while Field, hotter beneath the fur, let out a deep breath, confiding quietly to his daughter that, "Your mommy knows how to make mouses to scurry, Akira." A pause. "I bet she's got some 'itchy' fangs about now ... " His pupils dilated, and he stared off at the kitchen. Sighing. It would have to wait until after supper. After the cooking was done. And he looked back, finally, at Akira, blinking himself back into focus.
Akira blinked in return.
And Field giggle-squeaked, scooping up his daughter, rocking her gently, talking with her.
But, yes, their daughter was walking, now.
"Field ... "
"Mm?" went the mouse, eyes closed. His whiskers twitching, so softly, and yet so incessantly, against the back of her pink-furred neck. He was loosely spooned up behind her, nuzzling with his nose. His paws on her sides, and slipping to her belly.
"I, uh ... I dunno," she whispered, "what I was gonna say." A pause. "I was gonna say something." A sigh, her own eyes closed, too. "I'm just so comfortable ... feel like I could float away," she whispered. So warm in the stove-heated living room, sinking into this couch, sharing each other's body heat. And oblivious, now, to the legions of raindrops streaking down the glass of the windows. It was getting dim out there, as the day was moving on. Closing in on five-o'clock. It would soon be dark.
Field gave a contented, squeaky sigh.
"We're missing the football games," Adelaide whispered, exhaling through the nose.
"It's ... fine. No Indiana teams," was his lazy, whispered reply, "play today, anyway ... I'd rather lay here with you."
A dawning muzzle-smile. "Mm," was her happy-sound.
"I just wish it would stop being ... so wet," Field breathed. He was a country-mouse, born and bred. It just PAINED him, in an achy, drooping way, to be stuck inside, day after day after day. For the world, right now, was a mired, muddy mess, and that chill that was too warm for snow but cold enough to freeze your ears. Nasty weather. "I long for ... flowers," he breathed. "Daffodils. Tulips. Flowering trees, even, and ... and watermelons, and ... corn on the cob. Just, like, sun, and full fields of alfalfa, and the woods full of birdsongs and leaves, all rustling, and the hazy, lazy twilight moons of the summer, and wooly worms, and ... stuff," he whispered, faltering, trailing. And sighing. "If all this rain was ... snow," he decided, "I think I'd feel better about it." A pause. "I could do with a big, beautiful blanket of snow about, now ... not a blizzard, mind you ... no blizzards," he breathed. "But some snow. Instead of all this ... rain, rain, rain ... "
"You wanna scurry," she told him, knowing him all too well. So well. She'd been inside his head. Felt his body. Knew his reactions from his perspective. Oh, the intimacy. "You wanna scurry round and round, the sun on your bare fur, and ... you wanna be outside for hours, doing what mouses do."
"Mm-hmm," was the soft, breathed-out response.
"Well, when it snows," she promised him, "we're gonna go out there, and we're gonna have a big, big ... snowball," she promised, "fight."
An eyes-closed grin. A giggle-squeak. "I like snowball fights. But ... you always cheat," he accused.
"Do not. I just ... "
" ... use your telepathy to convince me that I don't wanna throw snowballs at you. And then I just sit there, all mind-confused, while you pelt me!"
Chitters of mirth.
"Mm ... but I forgive you," he assured, smiling.
"I'm so glad," she whispered, still chittering. And she snuggled back against him, whispering, "But we need the winter, Field. You know that. It's ... part of the seasons. It's ... it has its own beauty. The rain won't be falling forever. We'll get snow, and ... we'll get some dry-time, and ... don't let the rain wash away your sense of scurry."
"It's hard to scurry in the rain," was the response. "You slip and fall."
"I know," she whispered gently. "I know. Mm ... " A slight rustle, as she tried to turn her body. "But don't lose ... "
" ... my scurry? My sense of scurry? I'll never lose that." A breath. And a contented, toasty sigh. "I'm a mouse."
"And don't I know it," she said happily, squirming a bit.
"What are ... mm ... "
" ... trying to," she breathed, "face you, so ... there," she panted, having turned her body around, now muzzle-to-muzzle with him. On the couch here. "Mm," she went, sighing. "Oh ... Field," she breathed, needing to breathe that. Just needing to. "Field ... "
" ... yeah, darling," was the soft, air response. His bare, honey-tan chest, the fur soft, rose and fell. He was only wearing his white briefs.
She in her bra and panties. Casually, comfortably dressed. Enough so as not to be bare, but they both had every intention of winding up there (in that naked state).
"Field," she said, yet again, at a whisper.
"What ... what," he kept whispering in response. His tail was trailing off the edge of the couch and to the carpeted floor, like a lifeline-rope tossed over the side of a sailing ship.
"I'm, uh ... feel hot. Feel ... I feel," she breathed, "like I wanna ... "
He was already nibbling on her cheek. On her soft, pink-furred cheek. His breath was soft, was warm. Was so near.
" ... oh," Adelaide breathed, not needing to verbalize her wants. Not needing to use any crude, inefficient words to bring her burning, physical needs to light. He intuited them. He always did. Their telepathic link (originating in her and spilling into him, due to their closeness) so deep, so loving. He could feel her mind, and her wants. Not nearly as clearly as she could feel his own. But he'd always been good at observing. He was a good listener, as well (what with his ears, for a start). And he didn't need telepathy to know what his wife wanted. It helped, but he didn't need it.
He was feeling her body with his paws. And, eventually, he slid his lips to hers. Wet, loosened lips, lightly sucking, tongues lightly touching at the tips. Her tongue longer, more versatile. And she could stick it out further. And lick at his gums. Touch his teeth.
His muzzle tilted.
Her nose flared.
His whiskers twitched, twitched, nose flaring with hers, and his whiskers tickled and brushed her in the softest of ways. As their wet, hot lips pressed, pressed, parting. Sucking.
Kissing.
Was there any act of affection so simple and straightforward as a kiss? Hugs, maybe. But hugs didn't have the same kind of heat. Hugs were full of wrapped-around limbs and close bodies, true, but kisses? Kisses were simply sublime. Things that blinded the mind. Things that just happened, almost by themselves, sometimes. Wet, taste-driven things, so moist and so delicate. Kisses stole your breaths. Kisses were as old as life itself, seemingly. They must be.
Surely, life had never existed without kisses. Field couldn't imagine that life had ever existed without kisses in it. Oh, the history books detailed of wars and ancient societies, and art and architecture, but they never mentioned that kisses were older than all those things! Older than all those ancient civilizations. And kisses were still going on today, and ...
... she brought his mind back from the edge. Back from his thinking-too-fast pace (typical of rodents), by slipping a paw beneath the band of his briefs.
His heart seemed to skip a beat.
"You were starting to drift ... there," she whispered, licking at his lips. Lap-lap. Her tongue was SO built for lapping.
His own lips, parted, allowed him to pant in tiny, huffing exhales. "Yeah, I ... I'll focus," he promised.
"Focus," she whispered, grinning. A toothy, so-close grin. "I've no doubt ... that you'll be able," she breathed, "to focus." No doubt. As her paw, in his briefs, moved. Her fingers wrapping around his modest, sheath-less mouse-hood. It wasn't to its full five inches yet. It was semi-soft. Her paw easily wrapped around it, holding on. And not letting go. And giving, finally, a rhythmic, little squeeze-squeeze. Stop. Squeeze!
A sigh. "I, uh ... uh ... " Oh, pleasure.
"Yeah?" Her nose was on his cheek. Her muzzle slowly, constantly moving this way and that.
His nose sniffed fiercely. Sniff-sniff! Twitch-sniff, whiskers twitching, so excitedly, and big, dishy ears filling with blood. So that the capillaries began to show in the lobes. So that the sensitivity spiked. So that he felt physically hotter, flushing.
"Good boy," she whispered, very hotly, very softly. "Good boy ... "
Field swallowed, throat dry, heart hammering. "Oh ... " His nose sniffed, sniffed. Twitched. His mouse-hood ticking up with more and more blood. All from her attentions, and his want of her.
"That's it," she whispered, still urging him. Nurturing, her paw giving squeezes. Squeeze-squeeze. Stop. Squeeze. With little, soft tugs. "That's it ... mm ... " She sighed out heavily, having successfully gotten him to a full, stiff-with-blood erection. It throbbed in her paws, and a shiver went down her spine. "Oh," she sighed.
Field whimper-squeaked as she slid her paw out of his briefs.
Adelaide, huffing, squirmed a bit, horizontal on the couch with him, working her panties down. "My ... my, uh ... "
... bra, he knew. He was already reaching behind her, unhooking it. Tugging it off. And quickly wriggling out of his own briefs, worming until they were down to his ankles, and he eagerly gave a small kick. The briefs went through the air. Onto the floor somewhere. And a lusty, loving sigh. So attracted to her. And so in love with her, too. In the union of their holy matrimony, complete trust, complete devotion.
Nothing to fear.
Nothing to hold them back.
As they pressed their muzzles together, yet again. For more kissing. Wetter, this time. Sloppier, and a bit louder. The sucking-sounds evident, and the panting, too. Pant, pant. Breaths rising in tandem, along with the quick beatings of their hearts. Their breaths hitting each other, from so close, right on their muzzles, and the closeness and the heat and the tastes and the scents.
It just drove them forward. It just fueled them.
They wanted more.
Needed more. Needed ...
... to squeak out, in an airy, effeminate way as one of her legs slid between his legs, and as one of her paws went behind his back, holding to him, her arm wrapped around him. Their limbs starting to tangle. And their bodies writhing together, now, with muzzles sucking on cheeks. On lips, mostly. But straying to the cheeks, necks.
His neck.
She lapped and licked at his neck, an enzyme released in her saliva, due to her arousal. Which would numb the flesh beneath his fur. Would allow her to bite him without hurting him.
Field just sighed, clinging to her body. Her carnation-pink fur, and her winged arms. Her stubby rudder-tail. Oh, what a bat. What a winged thing, like an angel to him. Like more than an angel. She was beautiful, and her supple breasts were pressed up to his chest, squished there. He longed to cup them. Longed to suckle on her hardening nipples. Longed to run his paws all down her back, to squeeze her soft, pink-furred rump-cheeks. Longed to hug her tight and never let her go.
Longed to fuse their bodies together, to get inside her. To sow her. That's what he wanted. His body throbbed, throbbed, flooded with so many different kinds of need: emotional, physical, biological, spiritual. Love her. Touch her. Sow her. Imprint to her. Oh, the flashes of need! He wanted it so badly. Wanted her so badly. Draw her closer, love her more. Whisper it to her.
Whisper, "Oh ... I ... I love you, darling." A swallow. Panting, and managing to continue with, "You've the beauty of the ... the flowers," he breathed, "but you never wilt. You grow brighter, more beautiful to me ... every day." His eyes closed, and his neck tilted. She was still licking, lapping at his neck, matting his fur heavily with her saliva. "Your scent is delightfully," he whispered, "dizzying. Your touch is a shivering thing that ... weakens my knees. Your voice a melodic call," he said, panting all the while, feeling so entirely fevered, feeling so worked up, "and I thank the Lord that you are in my life. You are such a blessing," he told her, "to me. My wife. My ... the mother to my child ... you mean so much to me." He had to stop. Had to trail. He was panting too much, and he had to swallow, his mind getting so hazy, losing focus.
Adelaide's eyes, watering, blinked, blinked, as she paused from her lick-lapping to meet his eyes. From so close. From inches away. Mouthing, silently, "Thank you ... " And saying, audibly, now, "Darling ... you are such a light to me. You mean just as much," she assured, "to me. I just wanna ... wrap my wings around you and ... I just wanna latch to you. Keep you in place. Keep you forever. I may be a bat. I may be able," she breathed, "to fly, but ... your love," she assured, "you ... you make my heart to fly further than my wings could ever carry me."
He closed his eyes. Flushing fiercely, and eyes watering now. His turn to be overcome. His arms around her back, holding her.
Her lick-lapping resuming.
Him squeaking in light, helpless ways, being carried away by this, and his paw slipping down, down. Paw-pad on her lower belly. And paw slipping lower, to between her legs. To where the fur was tufted and a bit thicker. And then to the fleshy, labial folds, those delicate, pink lips. Which just radiated of utter heat. No fur there. Just flesh. Just loose, lovely flesh, and he slipped his fingers into her vulva, tracing the lines, running his finger-tips up and down. His fingers were wetted. Oh, her nectar, already leaking out. His fingers moving up, so as to lightly brush her hooded nub, her sensitive, pleasure-filled spot.
Which drew a throaty chitter from her. She liked that.
And he did it again. And once more, before deftly moving his paw just a bit down, his fingers down, so he could slip one finger, and then two fingers, into her opening. Into the slick, searing heat of her vaginal tunnel, the muscles clamping on his fingers, and giving him the most intense, anticipatory thrill. Which made him, unconsciously, to begin beading drops of pre from his mouse-hood. He wanted it in there. He wanted in there. Now.
She sensed this. Knew it. Was done with her licking. Her fangs dripping with murky, milky fluid, the mating milk that would spark his blood, would link them body and mind, putting them on the way to imprinting souls. As they had so often done. As furs in love did. Their bond only growing more intense, stronger, with each breeding. Breeding that was, by its spiritual nature, no longer mere breeding.
But making love.
His paws clutching her bare body, roving all over. Getting desperate, squeaking weakly, repeatedly.
"I ... I know," she huffed, "darling ... here goes," she said, and she bit.
His eyes were forced to a shut.
Her fangs sank, sank, sank into his neck. Until they could sink no more. Until her mating milk was leaked, drop by drop by drop, into his bloodstream, tying their consciousnesses, putting their bodies in synch, her leg untangling from his, lifting, giving him ready, needy entrance into her feminine treasure.
And they came together. Fully. In every way.
Pleasure!
And, oh, yes, it had been very quiet in this quaint, Indiana farm-house, on this very wet, dreary New Year's Day. It had been so quiet.
Except for the rain, the corn stove, and the kitchen-clock, and ...
... the very-much-in-love mouse and bat.
Field and Adelaide reveled in being 'quiet exceptions,' writhing, squeaking, chittering, fur matting with sweat, sinking into the couch, a mesh of carnation-pink and honey-tan.
The weather had no hold on them, no. Nothing negative did. For they were safely wrapped in their Savior's love, and wrapped in each other. Each other's love. And, though it was dark, now, they felt, almost, that they were glowing. For with all the heat they were giving off, surely they could power many, many lights.