Switch Flipped On
The toffee-furred cottontail was hot, hotter. As if on fire. As if burning, a whirling dervish of thoughts and flashes. It was three days later, and he was better. No longer 'less a rabbit,' no. Fully, so fully himself. And, oh, this startling event, this recovery of sexual desire after a bad cold was, to Desmond, a sensual splash of cold water, a sensory reawakening. It was a switch flipped on.
For his body was aching, throbbing in that raw, dawning way, like a plant getting its first taste of sun. Like a bird spreading its wings, teetering on the edge of something vast and grand. Space. Volume. Holes of need, begging to be filled. His breeding drive was back on track. Ill no more, no more. I am ill no more. I am a vital, virile creature, building up steam, steam, steam, and it must be released. There is nothing but to release it.
And he was all over her. In a heartbeat, in an instant. Paws moving in a way that could only be described as 'hungry.' Voracious, his caresses, his strokes. His pupils dilated, and his slender rabbit ears tall and proud, tall and proud. Sensitive with blood. As other parts of him were. As he flushed, yes, beneath the fur. Toffee was made by mixing, boiling together butter and sugar. Toffee was so very sweet. And his fur, such a color, looked good enough to eat. He was delicious.
And Hyacinth, easygoing as she was, gave such lazy, luscious licks to his pelt. Her cow tongue big and scratchy, giving her husband 'cow-licks.' And giggle-mooing as she did so, wetting him. With a lick, lick. Lick. So clearly affectionate were her touches. This was intimacy.
Desmond gave a heavy sigh, head leaning back. His brown eyes were closed, his lips parted. To breathe, softly. To pant, softly. But 'softly' wasn't an adjective that had any staying power today. Not right now. Not when he hadn't bred in nearly four days. Not when he was nearing the morning 'peak' of his breeding cycle. Not when he was awake, finally cured after another long night's sleep. Not when he was in bed, with her, his wife, his love. His everything familiar and trustworthy. The kind, gentle soul who made him laugh and made him think, who tolerated all of his quirks (as he tolerated hers).
She urged him on, in her soft, docile way, hoof-like hands roving up and down his bare, trim sides. And to his hips. And to his thighs. Rabbits had very strong legs. Excellent leg muscles. They could kick like nothing else. They could lope, too, for miles and miles. What legs! What legs that could wrap around you. And what big, hoppity foot-paws! Foot-paws that ran up and down her shins, bumping her hooves. Foot-paws that could push off the bed with power, digging for purchase. Toes that curled when it became too much to bear.
The cottontail drew a breath, so raw, nerves flaring. Every touch seemed to be heightened. Oh, truly, he had missed this. Truly, when he'd been incapacitated by nasty cold bugs, nose running, itching, sneezing. Unable to sleep for the congested dizziness. The throat that stabbed with pain each time he swallowed. It had seemed to last forever. And now it was gone, gone. Finally gone!
And, now, he felt renewed. Refreshed. He felt irresistible and all too real.
Desmond, you've just gotten over the common cold! What are you going to do next?
I'm going to make love with my wife. I'm going to get as close to her as closeness will allow. Nothing holding me back. I am going to bring us closer, closer.
Oh, yes, yes, yes. He was, was, was.
Hyacinth gave a giggle-moo, managing, "You're ... hey, watch it. Don't get too excited. I'm not goin' anywhere." Her hoof-like hands held to his head, gently, sliding to the back. Holding to his head-fur. "I'm not goin' anywhere," she repeated, more quietly this time. With a tender, little sigh. Words (and sounds) of promise. And she cradled the back of his head as he suckled at her left breast.
Lips over a pink nipple. Eyes closed.
"Mm ... " Hyacinth shifted a bit, lying beneath him. She was bigger than he was. Cows tended to be solidly-built. And Desmond was on top of her horizontal form, equally horizontal. Milking her with relish. Tug-tug-tugging, suck-suck-sucking on her teat. "Mm," she went again. A throaty, happy sound.
Each suckle brought forth a little squirt of milk. Which coated his tongue. Warm, creamy, with a drug-like hormone that made him feel very, very relaxed. He liked the taste of it. He liked the texture of her nipple. He liked the heat of her breasts. He liked the sounds she made during the whole thing. He liked so, so much. He liked everything. Oh, what was there not to like about today, the day that he'd gotten over his very bad cold?
"Mm," was the brown Swiss's pleasure-sound. Her husband's tongue lashing at her nipple, now, doing more than just suckling. Oh, it wasn't enough to just suckle. Give her some nipple-stimulation. Bring your paws up and knead her supple breasts. She's a femme. Revel in her body. In what it is, and what it gives to you. In all that it can do. Oh, but she's like a flower. Delicate, with petals and everything. And with a scent so familiar to his nose. The scent that stayed on their bed-sheets. The scent that he identified with their love, with comfort, with trust. Fidelity and rust-less hearts.
Eventually, Desmond slowed on the suckling. Easing up. He would save the right breast for later, for after. For 'dessert.' If 'muzzle' was to the appetizer and intercourse the main course, then suckling the other breast would have to be dessert. Yes? It all made sense to him. Sex, like food, was to be enjoyed in courses. Not all at once. But savored over whole evenings. By candlelight. With stimulating conversation. Sex, like food, was to be a pleasure.
He went down, down, down, prying apart her soft, furry legs, the fur brown-grey and soothing. Oh, he opened her legs, yes. Not asking. Not waiting. Just pushing them apart. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, and he would get it.
Hyacinth's head, her nosy nose and flapping ears and all, rolled to the side. On her pillow. Her breath coming out in hot, heavy huff-puffs.
Desmond's tongue delicately traced the edges of her labia. Delicately up, delicately down. Muzzle pressing further in, closer to the source of such heat, such beauty. Femininity, truly, was a jewel. And that he was able to partake of that jewel! He felt himself blessed. More than that: loved. And his licks gave that love back. Lusciously, between her petals, up to her little, most-precious nub. Tease it, tease it, hear her moan. Back off, back off, go down. Taste the nectar that freely drips from her honey-pot. Let your nose be hit, hit with the scent of it all, her sex-scent. Let the heat bring you to a sweat. Let it spur you to greater action.
Let your body slide back up hers.
"You don't have to do all the work, you know," the cow said, still on her back. Breathing harder. "I feel a bit lazy, just layin' here."
But the cottontail wouldn't hear of her exerting herself. "You've been takin' care of me for the past three days. Staying up late, nurturing me ... and I'm flooded with so much energy, and it needs to go somewhere, and it's goin' into you," was his promise. "Just hold on, darling. Just hold on ... " Oh, his body tingled, all the way from his pink nose to his fluff-white tail. A few flickers, a few strokes, feeling her body with his fingers. "Just hold on," he whispered, a feverish desperation in his voice. He felt like a rocket about to go off. He felt like a biological time-bomb. Breed, breed, breed. It didn't make sense, no. But did it have to? He just had to do it. Wanted to do it.
And he had a love, a spiritual, committed love with her, with Hyacinth. And that love purified any animal lust inherent in this act. Their matrimony gave it greater purpose. This was not about mere pleasure, mere release. But also about emotional closeness, furthering their bond. About sharing, openness, vulnerability. About the fusing of souls. About things that he couldn't put into proper sentences.
But enough with thought processes.
Enough with build-up.
His rabbit-hood, fully erect, out of its sheath, bumped against her groin-fur. At seven inches, the pink, stiff organ was quite sturdy. Quite experienced. Quite confident. And it bounced about a bit as his hips moved. The shaft of flesh, beading glistening drips of pre from the blunted, curved tip, ticked, ticked. And slid, slickly, through her outer folds. Through it all. He found her vagina with little trouble. Sometimes, in his excitement, he missed. But not this time. Not this time, no. Not ...
" ... there. There's nothing there," Mortimer insisted, packing his tool-kit. "I did every scan ... "
" ... that you could think of? I am sure there are more," Amelie said, slightly unnerved. Her tall, slender ears twiddled. Twiddle-twiddle. "Please, lieutenant-commander ... "
" ... Amelie," the raccoon said, patiently. "Ambassador," he corrected. "Whatever your title is ... there is nothing in this room but you, me, and those artifacts." It was later in the day. Afternoon.
The snow rabbit was quiet for a moment, looking around the room. In a slow, almost suspicious way. Her whisper being, "I heard voices. Jumbled voices. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but ... " A sigh, and she looked back to the chief of operations. The chief engineer of the station. " ... but it was there."
"I believe you heard something. But it wasn't voices. It must've been the conduits expanding and contracting. Maybe a faulty coupler."
The snow rabbit padded a few steps away, putting her paws on a computer console. And hunching forward, leaning against it. Her tail gave a weak flicker.
Mortimer, staying where he was, asked, "If you don't mind me asking: when's the last time you slept."
"Between breeding, eating, and my research," she said, slowly turning around, "there has been no time for sleep." A pause, squinting her ice-blue eyes. "I did not imagine those voices. I am not delirious."
"But you are tired?"
"That has nothing to do with the veracity of my ... "
" ... situation is one of two ways: either you DID hear something, and being that you were the only fur in the room, the voices must've come from the artifacts. Which means Petra is probably right and this is all dark science. And you're starting to get in over your ears. Or: you're tired, stressed, spending too much time obsessing over the ruins, and you 'thought' you heard something."
Amelie was quiet.
"The second explanation is more logical, wouldn't you say?"
"It is," was the slow admittance.
"But, if you want my personal opinion? I'm not convinced it couldn't be the first option. This stuff," the raccoon said, looking around the room, "is scary. It's ... like you said, the quest for knowledge, the constant upping of technology's capabilities ... " He trailed. " ... these things might end up destroying you. And all of us. And you heard the Commander's orders. You're to report to him about anything you find or do in regards to your research. So, if you honestly think you hear voices, you best be telling Peregrine, not me."
Amelie was very quiet. And only said, "That will be all, lieutenant-commander."
"Amelie ... "
" ... they say snow rabbits have a reputation for being icy. For being cold. I suggest you leave the room before I get icy."
The raccoon sighed. She was obviously upset. And grumpy. "You are tired," he told her. "Don't care what you say. If I have to order Prancer to tear you out of this science lab and make you sleep, then I will. I'm sure Wheldon's worried sick about you ... he's afraid you love your work more than you love him, you know? We played some racket-ball in the simulation room, had a few drinks ... and, in the process, he blurted that out. He loves you deeply. You know that, right? He puts on a masculine show, but ... that love is very tender at its root." A breath, remembering the conversation (from last week) ...
" ... I just ... " The tea-furred rabbit looked down into his drink. "What's this stuff 'gain?" he asked, starting to slur his words.
"Vanilla vodka in soda."
An exhale. "Don't know my liquor. Don't know much ... " He picked up his glass with one paw, bringing it to his lips. A deep sip, and he tilted his muzzle back. Swallowed. And made a sound.
"You should be happy," the raccoon said, not as tipsy as the rabbit (not yet, anyway). "That's the fourth time in a row you've beaten me."
"Eh, I got the legs for it. For the darting, the positioning ... deft hop this way, that way. You coons are too slow on your foot-paws, is all."
"You're sorta takin' the fun out of it, here."
A sigh. "Sorry," was the apology. And another sip of his drink. "You know ... " He hesitated. He normally didn't talk about these kinds of things. But Mortimer was his friend, right? And he felt like spilling some things, so spilled, "I think Amelie breeds with me more because cause it feels good and, as furs, we have to breed ... and not cause she wants to be intimate with me. You know? Know what I, uh ... " He trailed. "I don't know," he said, not waiting for the raccoon's answer. "I think she finds her research more intriguing than she ... " He cleared his throat.
Mortimer said nothing for a moment. Just, "Wanna slow down on that drink? I've hardly had three sips of mine, and your glass is almost empty."
"Eh, doesn't matter. We're off-duty ... nothin' on this damn station. No visitors. No nothin'. And that feline's scheming. He's off his rocker." He brought his glass to his lips. "Why are we out here, Morty?" The rabbit, eyes somewhat pained, looked to the raccoon. "Out here? On this station? What are we doing? What's ... why? Why doesn't the Federation just shut this place down instead of making us man it ... it's like exile," he said, shaking his head. "It's like we're misfits." He looked down into his glass. "I guess we are. We're the misfits that nobody else wanted. Maybe it was mistakes me made in our past. Things we couldn't get over. Maybe we were all sent out here because they wanted to get rid of us, but ... maybe God can turn it into a ... something better? Maybe we weren't meant to find out who we were until we were shoved to the margins."
"Or maybe you think too much?" Mortimer said, with good nature. A pause, fingers feeling the sides of his condensation-covered glass. It was cool to the touch. "As for your wife, it's common knowledge that snow rabbits are emotionally distant. They have freezes. You knew that when you got involved with her ... "
" ... love's not logical."
"But she's a creature driven by logic."
"Says who? Snow rabbits, they do some pretty stupid things ... they're not perfect. They make mistakes. That whole business with the Arctic foxes. They blame it entirely on the foxes, but the snow rabbits had to have had a part in keeping that thing going for as long as it did ... but they won that war. So, they write the history. And their history says that they were the victims."
"You're prey, too, you know, AND a rabbit. Why would you ... "
" ... I'm not takin' the foxes' side. I'm just ... just sayin', you know, that the snow rabbits aren't saints. Lord knows I'm not. So ... don't tell me she's driven by logic. She's got emotions in there. I've felt them. I've ... and I KNOW she can give more than she's giving. She has a melting point that she can't cross, but she's nowhere near it. You know? She's holding back. It's cause of those ruins. She's ... they have a spell on her. She wants to know everything they have to offer. The secrets. And ... " Wheldon trailed, polishing off the rest of his drink. "She's spent her entire life with 'breeding partners' ... and it's almost like I'm one, too. But I'm not. I'm her husband. Husband," he stressed. "That's more. That's ... a lot more. That's spiritual. That's not something you can break. I don't believe in divorce," he said. "I can make this work. I can put forth any effort to please her and love her, and ... "
" ... but you're afraid that, no matter how much effort you put forth, she won't notice it? Won't thank you for it?"
"She's not a bad fur, Morty. Not at all. She has great moments. I just want all of her ALL the time ... not all of her some of the time. My work? It's just work. It's completely secondary. Hers isn't."
"Some furs are very passionate about their professions. They define themselves with their jobs. Society," Mortimer said, honestly, "defines us by our jobs. You meet a stranger, and one of the first things you get asked is 'what do you do' ... not 'do you have love in your life,' or ... you know? We're brought up to be defined by our roles in life, not our loves."
A sigh. "I wish it was the other way around. You'd think love would be the most important thing to everyone, but ... it's really not. Even if they say it is, it's not. No one cares ... "
"That's not true."
The rabbit said nothing more about it.
"Hey ... you know, cheer up. She loves you, okay? She may have a hard time showing it, but she loves you. Besides, she's gorgeous. Any male would be blessed to have her ... "
" ... I'm just ... tired. Tipsy. I shouldn't have said anything. I am happy. I'm just ... sometimes, it's stressful. I'm so outgoing. I'm vocal. She's restrained, prim, proper. We're very different. But I don't care. I find her ... captivating," was the whisper. And a small, tipsy smile, adding, "And she's a damn good breeder."
"I'll bet," Mortimer whispered, giving a giggle-mew.
Wheldon leaned back, sighing.
And back in the present: "He's afraid you love your work more than you love him," was the raccoon's repeat.
No response from her.
"Do you?"
"That will be all, lieutenant-commander."
"Answer the question."
"I love my husband," she replied, with a force to her voice.
"Because you emotionally, spiritually need him? Or because he's simply the logical fur to 'defuse' yourself with? You're the only snow rabbit in Federation space, I'd wager. You must've been terribly lonely upon getting here. You needed to breed. You're a rabbit. He's a rabbit, though not a snow rabbit."
"If you are implying that I married Wheldon out of convenience, I suggest you ... "
" ... take a look at snow rabbit culture. Marriage is still a new concept to you, right? Most members of your species still belong to a breeding party. You've been using breeding parties for thousands of years. Ever since your emotions became feral to the point of self-destructiveness," the raccoon said, "and God froze you straight through ... to restrain you. To keep you safe."
"You know nothing about my species," was her simple statement.
"I think I know enough."
"My species is changing. I married him because it is the morally right thing to do. And because I wanted to. I am as much a Christian as you are, and you've no right," she told him, "to judge my faith."
"I have every right. That's what true fellowship is about. A good Christian holds other Christians accountable when they stumble or sin ... a good Christian doesn't see self-destructive behavior and let it slide. He makes sure it stops. And I don't care how smart you are, you're capable of just as much self-destruction as any 'warm-blood'."
Amelie skirted the points he threw at her. Simply saying, "I love my husband."
"Then stop giving him reason to worry. Get some rest. Please ... there are no voices in this room, Amelie, other than the ones in your head. And maybe that's the one that's haunting you. Whatever the case ... " The racoon trailed, tool-kit in paw. His striped tail and masked face both making subtle motions. " ... see you later, yeah?"
A simple head-tilt from her, watching him leave. And when he was gone, the snow rabbit gave a sigh, closing her eyes. She swallowed, opening them. And looked around at the dusted-off, carefully-studied artifacts. Ancient, powerful. The more dangerous ones kept in force-fields. They defied logic. She was a creature of logic. She needed to find logic in everything. She needed to find the logic in these ruins. Was than an obsession?
Whiskers giving a singular twitch, she turned around, padding for the door. Hesitated as it whooshed open. But she forced herself to leave the room. Forced herself to take a break. Perhaps she would go seek out her husband. And 'bother' him. He would like that. So, she padded to the nearest lift, thinking, 'If all you are going to do is swap body fluid with him, what is the point? Is Wheldon's fear justified? Do you love him emotionally, with poetic nobility? Or simply with mere biology?'
I love him, she told herself.
It doesn't matter how.
I love him.
And that is enough.
She kept telling herself that: it's enough. It's enough ...
... to make the porcupine hunch forward. A soft moan of happiness. "Oh ... "
And her paw went up. To his bare, furry chest. Keeping him from slumping off the couch. Other paw on his thigh, fingers curling, extending, slightly scratching. Muzzle, loose and wet, startlingly hot, twisting up and down the length of his penis.
Ninilchik, panting, leaned back, sinking into the couch-cushions. "Uh ... uhn," were his involuntary grunts, legs spreading a bit further apart. His toes curled and uncurled.
The sounds only fueled Prancer, who was on her knees, on the carpeted floor. Lips sliding up, up his modest shaft. Being a male rodent, Nin was circumcised. And was an average five inches. In her mind: a perfect penis. Which tasted of sex, pre, a bit of sweat. Tasted of him (apart from her own saliva). Her lips slid to the head. "Mm ... mm," she hummed, tonguing the tip, the slit.
Nin trembled, quills (on his back and tail) relaxed, tucked harmlessly beneath his fur. He trembled, paws shaking as they gripped his wife's bare shoulders.
She stopped the too-sensitive assault of his tip, giving a few suckles to the head, and then slip-sliding down the pink, stiff shaft, which glistened with a mixture of her saliva and his pre-cum. The squirrel did this several times. Lazy, slow bobs, up and down, up and down. Her tongue caressing the underside of his shaft, occasionally lifting to push his penis to the roof of her muzzle.
Nin, huff-puffing, gave a few rodent chitters. Chitter-chitter-chit. His furry sac tightened, drawing closer to his body. The orbs swelled. And Prancer, now, had one paw on his lower back, between his back-fur and the couch-cushions, and one paw on his testicles. She played with them. Tug-a-tug. Roll-roll. All the while, still giving him slow, sweet muzzle.
And, suddenly, teasingly, she slid her muzzle off.
The porcupine, in a hazy daze, gave a whimper. He'd been so close to orgasm. He needed to orgasm! "P-please," he stammered, whimpering.
"On your back first, darling," were the gentle instructions. And she, without waiting for a response, helped him to it. Crawling up onto the couch, pushing, pinning him to his back, reversing her position ...
... to where her aroused, pouting pussy-lips, the flesh of them standing out amid the fur, lowered above his muzzle. To where she felt him exhale, that breath washing over her sex. A shiver, waiting. Knowing he'd understand. Feeling that he did, as he unabashedly licked her folds, tonguing between them. Going for everything. Making her bushy, luxurious squirrel tail wave about like a flag in the breeze.
While her muzzle returned to its place: all around his penis. She slid over it with familiar grace, squeaking throatily as the entrance to her vagina was teased by his tongue, while his paws stroked through her sensitive, luxurious tail. While he nibbled on her clitoris.
While he gave her muzzle.
'Sixty-nine' was, Prancer had found, a trickier position than most believed. The odd placement of bodies, the support of one's weight. And stimulating the genitals with the tongue and muzzle required more delicate, precise work than the hip-driven humping of vaginal sex. The tongue tired and strained much more quickly than the hip muscles. It was hard work. But, oh, the oddities were worth it if it could be done right! If the better notes could be hit.
And he squeaked.
And she chittered.
And they did, indeed, hit all the better notes.
Peregrine and Petra writhed, rodent-on-rodent, making out in Ops. After hours. Lights dimmed, no one around but them. The mouse nibbling on the rat's scruffy-furred shoulder, her uniform-top off, to the side. Bra still on. Many wet, lip-locked kisses were exchanged, with tilted muzzles and closed eyes. Just getting tastes of each other. Just touching tongues to lips. Just licking. Just sucking, as if trying to consume one another in a lovely passion.
"Oh ... oh," she panted, irregularly, peeling off his own shirt.
He raised his arms.
She flung his shirt aside, to the master control table, a pentagonal 'island' with glowed with schematics and updates. Her paws fumbling with his pants when ...
... the lift whirred up, stopping, whooshing open.
The rat and mouse froze, terrified. Whiskers twitching, tails snaking. Ears arching atop their heads.
Nothing.
No sound.
"No one's there," Petra finally breathed, relaxing. Squinting. She padded across the room, tapping the lift controls. It whooshed shut, whirring away. "Huh ... gave me a bit of a start."
Peregrine, exhaling, just nodded (though, from her position, the rat couldn't see the motion).
"Must've just been a simple glitch." Whiskers twitching, she began to smile, padding back to her commanding officer. "Thought it might've been one o' the others, y'know? Seldovia or somethin' ... heh ... " She settled up against the mouse, paws going to his sides. " ... now, where were we?"
"I've never seen a lift do that," the mouse said, brimming with sudden anxiety. "Come to think of it, you know, I thought I heard voices today? In the corridor? And no one was there." A pause, suddenly paranoid. "Maybe we should go to your quarters. Or my office."
"It's night. No one should be in Ops," Petra insisted, stroking the mouse's soft, grey-furred belly, fingering his belly button. But instead of launching back into their 'nocturnal activities,' she stayed quiet. "Perry," she finally whispered.
"Yeah?" was his effeminate, wispy whisper. In the dimness, his pupils dilated quite widely. It only accentuated his extreme cuteness.
"It's been a week. I ... I, uh ... well, not t'be crude about it, but I want ya in me. I wanna be 'one fur.' Wanna be sown." A breath. "We're both furs. Furs breed fast an' furious, and ... a week? That's longer than some, y'know, to be dating. I think it's time we proceeded to mating," she said. "I think we should start breeding. I wanna," she breathed.
Peregrine, whiskers twitching gently, whispered, "You smell different, you know ... you always smell good, but this is ... " He sniff-twitched, sighing. A tiny shiver made his ears tingle. "You're about to ovulate," he told her. "I can smell a femme coming into heat just as well as any male."
"I don't wanna take the vows tonight just cause my body's readyin' an egg, if that's what you're ... "
" ... not what I was thinking."
"Heat's a scary, overwhelming ... it's a big thing," Petra whispered, avoiding his eyes. "I lose control. Makes me an animal, an' I cry, and it cramps, and ... I'm sick of goin' through it alone." Her eyes darted back to him. "I need someone to relieve me. I ... and I want you, y'know? And like it's known, we're both far from society, the only un-married furs aboard, and ... we're each other's only chances for a relationship anytime soon. It's each other or nothin,' and I can't live with nothin' anymore." A pause, and a swallow. "But I don't think this is out of desperation. I think there's a genuine thing goin' here ... yeah? I mean, I know I used to have a grudge on mouses, but not anymore, y'know? I love ya, hun. Your vulnerability, your honesty, your goodness. And I know what it's like to go through a really tough time, 'kay? I been through 'em. And you have. And ... I know that pain. And I wanna help. I wanna make it go away."
"You don't have to explain," Peregrine whispered, almost shyly. "I'll mate you. I'll be your husband. You don't ... you don't have to convince me, okay? I understand ... " A small squeak. "Crazy as it is, I love you, too," he said, simply. Without pain. Without hesitation.
Petra gave a soft, little smile, taking a breath. "Well ... wanna make it official in, uh, the morning? In the ward room? And Seldovia can throw us a little party after, and then the next three days can be our honeymoon," she said, "bein' that we'll both be 'incapacitated' by my heat ... perfect timing, yeah?"
"Sounds like a plan," the mouse said, smiling.
"But I'll be gettin' ya condoms for a wedding gift," she teased. "You'll need 'em."
"I prefer injections ... "
" ... those have side-effects. Even if they do work. I throw up whenever I've taken one."
"Effects don't last that long ... "
The rat gave a scrappy smile. Not a teasing smile. But an honest one. "Y'don't want your very first time inside me ... to have anything in the way of your 'squeaky toy,' do ya? You want your bare flesh on my bare muscle? No barriers?"
His ears went rosy-pink.
And, giggle-squeaking, Petra reached for her shirt, tapping her comm-badge. "Prancer?"
A delayed response. And a panting, "Y-yeah?"
"Commander Peregrine's gonna need an injection real soon. Sooner the better. So the side effects will wear off by tomorrow ... "
" ... um ... "
"You just orgasm?" Petra asked, bluntly and cheekily.
A sheepish, squeaky, "Yeah."
"Good?"
This time, a dreamy sigh, and a slightly drawn out, "Yeah ... " In the background, Nin could be heard regaining his breath.
"Didn't mean to interrupt, though."
"It's, uh ... it's okay," the squirrel breathed. "Peregrine needs an injection? What for?"
So, Petra explained the situation ...
" ... you're gonna breed? That means ... oh, you're ... "
" ... gonna marry, yes."
" ... oh, congratulations!" Prancer squeaked, heartily. "I've prayed for you two, you know? This is great. You gonna have a reception and ... "
" ... can we tell ya while you give Perry his injection?" Petra asked, interrupting before the squirrel could ramble on.
"Oh, sure, sure ... uh," she went, "let me get dressed first." And, to Nin, she said, "Darling, I'll be back soon ... " And, to the comm-badge, said, " ... meet you in the infirmary."
And the channel cut, Petra looked to Peregrine. And gave a toothy grin.
And the mouse could only giggle-squeak, feeling a bit light-headed. And light-hearted, as well.