Exit Strategy
"You wanted to see me?" The casually-dressed otter strode into the captain's ready room. A moist, muggy place. The environmental controls were stifling in here.
"Yez, I did," wisped the yellow-spotted salamander. His skin smooth, slightly-wet, a dark-green with yellow spots all over. He wore a patch over one eye. Cliched, maybe, but he saw best under water. Dry air was uncomfortable to his eyes. Made him blink all the time. "Yez, we're almost to the station. We'ze gonna attack it agin'."
The otter, standing with her weight skewed to one hip, crossed her arms. Like most otters, she had a rough-and-tumble air about her. A definite sense of play. "Again? We attacked them a few weeks ago. I don't recall getting much loot ... "
"Yez, yez, but that was diff'rent, see? They got's a new captain. A mouze." A smooth, big-faced grin. Behind him, outside the windows, the stars streamed by. The ship was at warp. Always heading from one place to the next. Like nomads. "Mouzes are fun to bully. Eazy, too," he added.
"Was a lion the last time, wasn't it?"
"He'z gone."
"Says who?" the otter pressed, her roundish ears perked. Her whiskers gave a few brushes (or twitches).
"Sayz me and thoze who told me. It's my decizion," the salamander said, waving a webbed hand. "Bah. Juzt be ready, 'kay?"
"I'm always," the otter whispered, her tone a bit aloof, "ready. I'm a space pirate, aren't I?" Her sturdy, soft-furred rudder-tail hung behind her, brushing the floor. Her body was pleasing to the eye. Her fur a rich brown. Her gait being one of confidence.
The salamander, giving a slippery tilt, squinted his uncovered eye at her. "You uzed to be. You're lozing your edge."
"I'm just tired of attacking the same place all the time, is all. Why don't we prey on smaller ships?"
"Cauze ships don't come out here. 'Cept that last one, an' all it had was stuff we'z don't need."
"Thought we put some of it to good use."
"Not enough of it to be worth the effort," was the captain's insistence.
"Then let's go where ships DO come. Someplace more ... fruitful," she suggested, tactfully. Always, when you made a suggestion to the captain, you worded it so it sounded like you were trying to impress him. Use big words. "Someplace ... effervescent," she continued. "Mm?" She raised her brow. "How 'bout it?"
"How 'bout you'ze scared, is what. I want what'z on that station. There'z valuable thingz ... powerful things. Every-fur in theze partz knowz it. So, don't argue with me. We're doin' what we're doin', cause that'z what I sayz we're doin'."
"Your logic, sir, as always, is impeccable." Milka, the otter, just gave a polite, restrained nod. But grumbled to herself on the inside. The salamander may have been an amphibian, but he was still dangerous. Even if he was a dolt. Many on the crew were loyal to him. No, she couldn't afford to cross him. Couldn't afford to betray him. And a subtle, unseen smile flickered across her muzzle as she thought to herself: you can't afford to betray him ... yet.
"What'z 'bout the priz'ner? The nutrient?"
"He's a nutria, sir."
"Bleh." The salamander flickered his tongue, sticking it out. And waved a webbed hand. "Whatz-ever he iz, I wantz you to deal with him. You're in charge of priz'ners."
"Don't worry, sir. I have been dealing with him."
"Haz he talked?"
"Not yet. But I have my ways."
"It'z been weeks. Make him talk."
"Sir, you know how rodents are. Weak, fragile ... you can't hear their confessions through their tears. Just give me more time. I promise," the otter said, squinting darkly (for show, not because she felt any darkness), "that I'll wring something out of his squeaky neck."
A smile. "Ahz, that'z more like it, Milka. That'z what I like to see! Mm." A brief, approving nod at her attitude. "Juzt don't kill him, 'kay?" he added. "I know you can get rough with priz'ners."
"Do I have that reputation, sir?" The otter, standing tall, showing no signs of intimidation, met her captain's gaze. She was actually a few inches taller than him. Though the mugginess of this room was beginning to get to her. Made her fur feel hot and sticky.
"Aye. That'z how come you're my firzt officer. So, I can keep you beside me at all timez. So I can watch you. Cauze if you weren't bein' watched, you'd stab me in the back."
A chuckle. "You jest, sir, surely."
"I jezt," he mocked, bobbing. "Bleh. Get out ... deal with the nutrient. I needz him to talk."
"Nutria, sir. He's a ... "
" ... bleh," was all the salamander said. He liked to say that when he got impatient. It was a habit that grated Milka's nerves.
The otter, grinding her teeth together, tried not to growl in frustration. She just forced a smile. Faked it. Like she always did. And saluted, turned, and left, thinking to herself: bide your time, bide your time. Bide your time, girl. You're almost there.
The nutria, the prisoner, was in the brig. Down on C-Deck, the third deck. There was no attending officer. They'd just thrown him in a cell, raised the glowing, angelic-blue force-field (which faintly hummed) and left. A few times a day, someone would poke their head in to check on him. And then there was Milka. She came every day. She fed him. She entered his cell. She ...
... came through the door.
The nutria perked.
"Benji," Milka said, giving a nod. Showing no emotion. The doors whooshed shut behind her. "I suppose you'll be wanting food and water?"
"Yes, please," was the quiet response. Equally emotionless. He avoided eye contact. But, out of the corner of his eye, he watched her with anticipation. As she went over to a computer console. Tapped a few buttons (beep-a-beep, beep-a). And then raised her head. Giving an, "All clear. I turned off the security cameras."
Benji let out a deep sigh. Of relief. "You're sure they don't know what you're doing?"
"Not a chance. We got more than one holding cell on the ship. I just take a loop of earlier video ... earlier in the day, when you were alone, sleeping or something. And play it over what's happening right now," she said, her paws undoing buttons. Slip, slip, slip. The buttons slipping out, allowing her uniform-top to loosen, loosen. "Besides, I've been one of them for years. They wouldn't suspect I'm going off 'em." Not quite, anyway. She didn't tell Benji that the captain had certain suspicions. That would only worry the rodent. There were things he didn't need to know.
The nutria watched what she was doing, eyes wide. As if drinking in the scene. "Am I, uh ... "
" ... still a prisoner?" she asked, looking to him. Emotion was clearly evident, now. Clearly. Affection, concern in her tone. "Sorry, darling." She sighed. "But we're gonna get you out of here soon, okay? Soon," she breathed, her shirt finally slipping off. She draped it over the security console. The brig here was small, monochrome grey. Two cells in this one. Dim lighting. And the healthy otter, with her rich-brown fur, her top half only covered with a bra, whispered, "We're gonna attack a station."
"A station?" Benji asked.
As a nutria, he was smaller than a beaver but larger than a muskrat; unlike beavers or muskrats, however, he had a round, furry tail. His paws had five digits, but only four were clawed (those claws filed-down, in practice with prey hygiene), and the thumb was reduced in size. His foot-paws consisted of four webbed, strongly clawed toes and one un-webbed toe. His legs were strong, built for kicking water, for swimming. His ears were small, and his nose and mouth were valvular (they could be closed to prevent entry of water). In some ways, he had similarities to Milka. Similarities to otters. Some. He was, though, more like a beaver. He was a rodent.
"Mm-hmm. A station. And when we do ... we're gonna stay. We're gonna turn against our slimy salamander and his cronies, and ... " She tapped a few more buttons. A whiz-whir, and the force-field came down (glowing and humming stopping in the process). A soft breath, and a warm, tender smile. " ... and begin a new life for ourselves." She padded into the cell, her bare foot-paws making soft scuffing sounds on the carpet. "Oh, gosh," Milka breathed, closing her eyes, sinking down to her knees. She breathed his now-familiar scent. "Mm." She stretched and made an otter-sound. A chirping sound. "Oh, and then," she reminded (as much for herself as for him), sighing, leaning toward him. Putting her forehead against his. "Then we won't have to fear anything."
Benji swallowed, nodding lightly. "Alright," he whispered, ears cocked, whiskers twitching. "I trust you ... "
The nutria had been a prisoner for three weeks, now. The only survivor of a small ship bound for 'frontier exploration.' A Federation ship. The space pirates had attacked, swooping out of a nebula. Ransacking it, they killed the crew. Except him. Though a pirate, Milka hadn't been able to do it. She'd never killed before. She wasn't going to start now. She'd tossed her weapon away. Benji had relaxed, thinking maybe she would help him. But she'd only looked to him and said, "Sorry, but I gotta make it look like I hurt you."
And WHAM!
A kick to the muzzle.
He'd blacked out.
Upon waking, he was in this cell. The otter standing there, asking him if he was okay, apologizing for kicking his lights out. (Who knew that a bare otter foot-paw to the muzzle could hurt so much! It's not like otters had foot-paws like rabbits or anything.) She kept insisting it was the only way to ensure his survival. As well as the only way to avoid losing her reputation among the crew. If she lost her reputation, she lost her position. If she lost her position, it would be much harder to leave this ship when the right opportunity came along.
Benji had been hesitant to forgive her at first. His muzzle hurting as it did. His fellow crew-furs being dead. His ship stripped and destroyed. No, he wouldn't talk to her. Not on that day. Not on the next day. Finally, on the third day ...
" ... you're not mute. I'm sure you're not," the otter said, lowering the force-field. Pausing, eyes darting, analyzing him. "I got your meal. You wanna eat?"
His gaze stoic, the nutria said nothing. His short, roundish tail gave a few motions. And he sniff-twitched, smoothing at his uniform and his fur.
"That really hurts me, you know? Ignoring me like that? Cuts me to the quick," was the otter's sarcastic response. She squinted, putting his food-tray down. Pushing it to the side. And she sighed, and then rolled her eyes. "Give me a break. Look, I'm a space pirate, yes. But it's not like I chose this ... you know, like I aimed for this profession? This wasn't my idea." A pause, and she let out a breath, swallowing, explaining, "I was on a colony. They attacked. My parents, family? Well ... they did to them what they did to your crew. I was just a child. The pirates took me. I don't know why. I guess even space pirates can't bear to kill children. But they tried to imprint their ways on me. Figured they could use a mammal to their advantage. For special missions and all that nonsense. So, I grew up with them, in this ... in this world," she whispered.
Benji finally looked to her, but still said nothing. Just listened, sitting on the floor of his cell. While she stood there in the entrance.
"I went along with it cause I had to. Cause if I didn't, they'd punish me. If I tried to escape? They'd hunt me down. But I'm old enough now, and I'm looking for a way out, and I AM," she vowed, "going to get out. I don't care anymore about what they'll do to me if I fail. Cause I know I can outsmart them." She paused, claiming, "And if you want to get off this ship, you're gonna have to leave with me. Gonna need my help, okay? So, you best start talking to me, rodent."
Benji, squinting, said, "That an insult? 'Rodent'?"
"It's what you are. A rodent. I'm a mustelid. Call me a mustelid. I won't get upset."
"Sometimes, furs use the word 'rodent' as an insult," he mentioned, warily.
"Was my tone of voice insulting?"
Benji considered, biting his lip. He slowly shook his head.
"Well, there you go. So ... "
But the nutria cut her off, shaking his head. "Wait, wait ... look, I'm not gonna fall for all this, okay? You almost had me, but I know what's going on."
Milka made a face, whiskers brushing. Her black, diamond-shaped nose giving a sniff. "You do, huh?" she asked, somewhat dryly.
"Yeah. Yeah ... see, that's a nice sob story. That whole thing you said about being forced to grow up as a space pirate. About you wanting to help me. I wonder if you tell that to every-fur you capture. To win them over? I bet you want information from me, don't you? If you're gonna interrogate me, then DO it!" he chittered, with a bit of fear in his voice. With a bit of anxiety. "Just get it over with," he pleaded. "Stop playing games with me."
"I'm not playing games," was her forceful insistence. Which was followed with an impatient sigh. "And I'm not," she stressed, "going to interrogate you." A pause. And then bobbing her head. "Okay, okay, I'm supposed to. But I'm not," she promised. "Okay? I'm tampering with the security systems ... so they can't hear what I'm saying to you. So they can't see what I do," she said, "when I'm in this room. I'm fooling them. Knowing how dense the rest of them are, it'll be a good while before they figure it out, but ... "
" ... you're a pirate. I don't trust pirates." Benji was most adamant about that. Pirates were not the sort of furs he wanted to associate with. He wouldn't collaborate with them. The nutria was a somewhat introverted fur. A dreamer. Shy, perhaps. But with a strong sense of empathy. He didn't like injustice, and regardless of any shyness, he would get irate when made to be the victim of injustice. Or when seeing other furs being victimized. How many furs had Milka and her salamander friends wronged?
"Have you ever met a pirate before this week?" Milka demanded, staring him down. Not intimidated by him in the least.
A frown. "No." He crossed his arms. "But I don't see what that has to do with ... "
" ... hello, my name's Milka. I'm an otter. Oh, and I'm a pirate. Nice to meet you." She stuck out her free paw down at him, smiling jovially. "You're supposed to take it."
"And do what with it?" He, looking up at her, recoiled just a tiny bit. Whiskers twitching.
"Shake it. They have paw-shakes where you come from? They have pleasantries and methods of salutation?" And she settled down to a crouch, bending her knees. "Where do you come from? What are you?"
A sigh. He got asked that all the time. His species wasn't readily identifiable by the common fur. His species wasn't the most widespread. "I'm a nutria. I come from ... "
" ... nutrient?" A blink.
"Nutria. New-tree-uh," he stressed, eyes widening. "Alright?"
"Alright," she whispered, looking him over. "Alright," she said again. "You don't have to get testy."
"My life's just been sabotaged. I'm currently a prisoner. How do you expect me to react?" Benji demanded. "How would YOU react?"
"With a little more dignity," Milka said, letting out a breath. "With a little more ... reason." She swallowed. "Getting defensive will only make you angry, and anger clouds judgment. Your best chance of survival is to keep a clear, unfettered head. Your best option, therefore, is to not react."
A squint. "That makes no sense."
"Doesn't it?"
"No." A whisker-twitch. "What are you looking at me for?"
"You got webs on your paws," she whispered. She raised her own paws, pressing them to his. "I got webs, too," she said. And a smile. "You know, I haven't seen a web-pawed mammal in ages ... just those amphibians. They're slimy," she said, giving a wry smile. Which faded. "There aren't any otters out here. I've looked. All the prisoners we've taken ... you're a water-fur?"
"I'm good in the water, yes." The response was somewhat evasive.
"You like it?"
"The water?"
A nod.
"Course." A frown. "So?"
"So," she echoed. "So do I ... " A sigh. A shake of the head. "You don't encounter much water in the black, frigid void of space, though. Only icy dust-balls. Comets and things. We don't have a simulation room on this ship, otherwise I'd use that. This ship? She's a bit junky, to be honest. I'd prefer something ... " She trailed. "Well," she said, pulling back a bit. "Guess I should shut up."
"Why?" Benji asked, blinking. He'd been slowly getting used to the sound of her voice. It was nice, frankly, to have someone to talk to after spending all day in this cell. Alone. Afraid. Trying to pray but feeling it wasn't helping all that much. He wasn't averse to starting conversation with furs. If only to see where it led.
"Cause I was sent in here to make you talk, and here I am ... " She finally settled to her knees and shins, no longer crouching. " ... here I am, doing all the talking. Maybe you got some kind of strange, uh ... thing going on. Isn't that right about rodents? They prompt you to let your guard down? To get all gooey for 'em?"
"That's mouses," Benji said, obviously.
"Right. Mouses. The cuteness factor. Well ... I'm sure you got factors of your own. You seem a good fur."
"You don't know anything about me," Benji whispered, with a bit of mystery.
"Why? You some kind of criminal?"
He made a face.
"Thought not. No, you're good. I can tell the good ones from the bad ones. Cause I've lived around the bad ones for far too long ... so, when I see someone who's different, I take notice," she said, her voice trailing off. She cleared her throat.
Benji didn't say anything to that. Only thinking: she's not that bad, maybe. Maybe she's telling the truth. And maybe she'll help you escape. What do you have to lose by trusting her? The nutria enjoyed games of strategy. But this 'game' was a little too real for his tastes.
There was an awkward, little pause, until she whispered, "Uh, your name. I don't think I got your name? Or did I?" She didn't remember.
A slight delay before, "Ben ... but everyone calls me Benji."
"Benji." A slight smile. She liked that. Solid. Boyish. And she looked away. Her smile slipping away. Her pupils dilating, she whispered, "Benji, uh ... look, I know I shouldn't be saying this, but ... look, I'm almost near 'peak.' And, uh ... you must be, too."
The nutria was quiet. He blinked a few times, raising his brow.
"I, uh ... " A nervous giggle. And she rubbed her own paw on her cheek, clearing her throat again. She felt an emotion. Anxiety? "I, uh ... you're gonna end up pawing in here. Alone. We both know it." A deep breath. Just say it, Milka. "Maybe you'd like a warm body? Someone to breed with, instead?"
The nutria wasn't sure how to respond to this, honestly. The moment she'd mentioned her peak, he'd known where this was headed. But, still, what to say? How was he to take this? Had she just spent the past several minutes softening him up just to get sex from him? Or was he being paranoid? Was her request something he should consider? Or should he be offended? Questions swam in his head, spawned by her own, simple question.
Milka, biting her lip, waited. Getting antsy. Her body getting a bit hotter. Her mind starting to fray.
Furs, as everyone knew, were extremely sensual creatures. 'Peak' was when their sexual energy built, built, like steam, to the point where it needed to be released. Without release, mental faculties became clouded. Irritation, confusion, nausea set in. All of it accompanying an insane 'yiffy-ness.' Literally, failure to defuse your peak would make you so 'yiffy' that you got sick. This explained why breeding was such a huge part of furry culture. Not just because it felt great (and, oh, it truly did), but because their biologies were naturally sexed-up. They were designed with hyperactive sex drives.
Obviously, the only way to release that steam, to 'defuse' one's peak, was to orgasm. Most furry species 'peaked' two or three times a day. Some, like rabbits (who were notoriously virile), 'peaked' four or five times a day. (As for nutrias and otters, they had three 'peaks' a day, in line with the average). This 'need to breed' was the basis for furry relationships being so fast and furious. Furry marriages (or mate-ships) were often formed quickly, even on whims. The ultimate goal of every fur, generally, was to find a 'mate.' Some-fur you could safely breed with. But, more importantly: some-fur you could love.
For love was that spiritual ingredient that turned simple, instinctual breeding into meaningful artistry. Into something lasting and purposeful. Into something greater. Love made it work. Love and all its intricate, confusing elements. It was something larger than life and unable to be dissected. But, oh, it was something so vital to life. Something God-breathed, truly. Companionship and fulfilment through sharing of self.
Milka swallowed, sounding vulnerable. "Benji?"
"We're not married," he finally answered. "And, uh ... look, a day? I'd need at least a week before I'd mate a femme. Cause, no offense? But I don't love you. I don't even know you." A pause. "You don't know me," he whispered.
"That's true. That's ... " A breath. " ... true." A pause. "We're the only mammals on this ship. The rest, they're all amphibians. So, you'll forgive me if I set my eyes on you: you're the first compatible fur I've come across in many months. You whet my appetite," she said, "just by being here."
"Make me sound like a piece of candy."
"Candy's sweet."
"It also rots your teeth."
A chuckle. "You gonna rot my teeth?"
No answer. He just made a face, whiskers twitching and nose sniffing. And a sigh. He'd not been in a relationship for quite some time. He was, indeed, introverted. He tended to avoid relationships. Not because he didn't want one. But because he didn't have the courage to pursue one, to deal with all the resulting trappings. It's not like he wasn't free to breed with the otter. But if he did so, some kind of attachment would undoubtedly result. You couldn't do something so intimate without giving rise to intimacy. And was that something he could handle right now? When his life was up in the air?
Well, Benji, you may not live to get off this ship. The salamanders may take over your care and decide they need to torture you to death. Why not take any opportunity for pleasure that you can get? Cause I'm a sentient fur. Not a feral animal. I don't breed just cause it feels good. There's gotta be an emotional motivation behind it, intentions of love. Those things aren't present here.
"Look, so we don't love each other. Who says that, in time, we couldn't grow to do so?"
"Who says you aren't simply using me to get what you want?" Benji replied, trying not to be cynical. Normally, he saw things in a positive light. Tried to, anyway. He tried to write uplifting poems about everything he went through. But what was uplifting about undergoing a traumatic capture by space pirates?
You aren't losing hope, are you, Benji?
You do have faith, don't you?
Of course I do, he responded to himself. Of course I do. I trust God will deliver me. Either off this ship or into the afterlife. Either way, I'll get out of this situation. Right. Right, so that being the case, why worry?
I'm not, he stressed to himself, worried.
"I can't give you any proof that will make you automatically trust me," was her honest response, interrupting his internal monologue. "Look, we can be friendly, help each other ... or I can leave and come back each day and just throw your food tray down on the floor and leave you to go insane in this cell." A tilt of her head. Her rudder-tail steered across the carpet behind her before stopping, anchor-like. "I'm just damn sick o' pawing three times a day. I wanna be bred," she stated, exasperated. "I want warm arms hugging me close. I want little pleasure-sounds panted in my ear. I wanna be filled. To be full of that friction. I want ... warmth. I want presence," she said, in my life. "A male presence. Someone I can lean on. Someone I can ... " She was going to say 'love,' but that sounded too cheesy. And it was too soon, indeed, to be saying things like that. "I just think it'd be nice, is all. Would feel awful good."
"I'm not doubting that," Benji said, carefully, slowly. He took a steadying breath, clearing his throat. "Look, it would be too easy to breed you. It would be," he squeaked, squirming, "way too easy. And that's a bad road to go down ... " A swallow. "I, uh ... look, uh, it's flattering that you asked? And, uh ... I just don't wanna get into a habit, is all. Of doing things cause they're easy. If there's no effort or sacrifice in what we'd be doing, then what's it mean? What would be the point?"
"You don't trust me," Milka said, simply. "If we make love, you'll trust me. If we make ourselves completely vulnerable to each other ... trust will stem from that. And who knows what will stem from trust? Maybe things much better, and ... much more," she whispered, "nourishing."
"You'll get us both in trouble."
"We won't get caught," she assured.
"So, it'd be, like ... what, a secret affair?"
"Look, Benji: I'm a pirate. I've gotten my paws plenty dirty in the past. I'm not proud of that. But genuine breeding ... I might be lusty right now, but I promise you that you won't be feelin' dirty when we're done. You'll be feeling refreshed."
"And how do you know that?"
"Cause when you're lonely and isolated ... kisses and hugs and hotly grinding hips," she whispered, "have a way of markedly improving your level of satisfaction." A pause. And then a huff. Followed by a softer sigh. "I'm making a fool of myself, I know. But ... do you blame me for asking?"
Biting his lip, the nutria slowly shook his head.
She nodded. "Mm." Her shoulders sank a bit. Trying to hide her dejection as best she could. "It was, uh ... "
" ... look, are you really gonna get me off this ship?" he squeaked.
"Yes," the otter whispered, meeting his gaze. Looking as trustworthy as a fur could look. But could she be acting? Could she be an expert manipulator? She was, after all, a pirate. And her whole back-story might've been fabricated.
"You promise? You get me off ... and you stay with me? You talked about trust and understanding? About, uh ... things stemming from things ... " His voice faded.
"Like I said: we're the only mammals on this ship. Who are we gonna rely upon but each other?"
"God. Christ."
"That's a given. And that's ... not what I meant," she replied. She panted, getting hot. "You're worried that, as good as it might feel, that I'm gonna hurt you when you open your heart. Cause you can't breed without your heart opening."
"I've had my life stolen from me," he said, referring to his capture. His being in this cell. "I don't need my heart stolen, as well."
"It's a risk. You have to ask yourself, rodent: are you willing to take a risk, an active shot at freedom, love, the whole shebang? Or are you gonna sit in this cell and passively wait for something to ... " A shake of the head. " ... something to come along and do whatever."
The nutria digested that. He as a Christian, true. But he wasn't entirely devout. He believed it. Practiced it. But he was lenient enough to where he could do this, right? As long as the intent was honorable? As long as she was telling the truth, he told himself. And that she wasn't just using him. As long as she meant it when she said she'd stick by him and help him escape. And that, after, she wouldn't cut and run and leave him on his own. As long as, "You promise?" he asked again.
She raised a paw, which trembled lightly. Her 'peak' was upon her. Her pupils fully dilated. "I promise," she breathed, swallowing, licking her lips.
His own peak hadn't fully arrived yet. But it was getting close. And he, too, felt the restlessness, the need. And he nodded. Needed. Nodded. Things starting to blur a bit as he took a breath and allowed it to happen.
And Milka ...
... gently, reluctantly rolled away from his body, to her rich-brown, furry belly. She laid there for a moment, in afterglow. Still shivering slightly from the force of her fading orgasm. A sigh as she finally pushed herself up to all fours, lazily crawling to where her clothes had been discarded. For she was, indeed, bare. 'In the fur,' as most furs called it.
"You're, uh ... " Benji gave a squeaky sound. He gestured with a paw, trying to get the words out. "You're, uh ... leaking ... "
Stopping on her paws and knees, the otter turned her head. "Mm?"
The nutria flushed beneath the fur. "Seed," he said.
"Always happens," she said, smiling, not seeming to care. "You're just a super-efficient sower. Giving me more seed than I need," she said. For the excess semen (that hadn't gotten into her womb) was trickling, very slowly, out of her vagina, in a little rivulet down her petal-like lips. A few drops dripped to the floor.
"I'm sure I don't make that much," Benji said, very shyly.
A chuckle. "Mm ... well, I'll clean it up before I go. Don't worry."
It was three weeks after they'd first bred. And they were still having sex. Three times a day. In secret. But it had to be quick. Unfortunately, they didn't have the luxury of long, romantic bouts. No endless, sleepy-eyed snuggling afterward. If the otter started spending too much time in the brig, it'd raise suspicions. Someone would find out.
The nutria, eyes half-open, flat on his back, asked, "Don't they ... smell me on you?" His fur was an earthy brown. Lighter in some spots. Almost sandy-colored. But darker in others. His bare, furry chest rose and fell. He was still panting from the (pleasant) exertion. His modest, circumcised member shrinking back to limpness. There was no accurate way to describe what Milka felt like: steamy, silky, velvety, like a furnace. Those strong, playful legs held the flower of ecstasy between them. Oh, he could write poems about her body. And he would. As soon as he got out of here. But, then, he could write poems of her personality, as well. And her love. For they had, indeed, fallen in love. And that's what they'd both wanted, wasn't it? Deep down inside?
"Amphibians don't have a sense of smell ... in the same way us mammals do." Her silky, pink panties slipped on. One foot-paw going through, then the other. And paws pulling them up her shins, thighs, and to her hips. The back stopping just below her tail. "Darling, we're gonna get out of here soon. Just be ready. I love you, okay?" She reached for her bra. "Okay?"
The naked nutria nodded, a bit sleepy.
"You're not gonna doze off, are you?"
"Mm-mm." A shake of his head. And he took a deep breath and blinked a few times. Shifting his position, he sat up a bit. And smiled at her. A genuine, tender smile. "Thank you," was his whisper.
The otter, her bra now on, crawled back to him. And planted a kiss on his sniffy nose. "Thank," she whispered back, a giggle on the tip of her tongue, "you, darling. Mm?" She pulled back, smiling brightly. Otters were extremely playful creatures. When feeling good, they liked to joke around and roughhouse. Sometimes, when they bred, she got a bit too 'playful,' giving him nips and shoves when he wasn't expecting them.
Benji blurted out, "I love you." They were words that cut through anything. Everything. Words that defined moments and lives. Words that he'd longed to say and have said back to him.
And she, sitting on her knees, replied, "Love you, too." She smiled and reached for her pants. At the same time, she swiped at the floor with a small towel, cleaning up any fluid (from either of them).
"I guess I should get dressed, too," he said, after a moment.
"I'd say so." A wink. "Oh, and, uh ... got something for you," she said, reaching into her pant-pocket, pulling out a small computer pad. "Turn it on."
Curious, Benji took it, tapped it. It blinked on. And he bit his lip hopefully, smiling. "The mating vows."
"I figure, no matter what happens ... if this all blows up in our muzzles or if we pull this off and succeed in getting a new life on that station ... " The otter trailed. "Either way, it'd suit me to be your wife. I want to ... if you'll be my husband?"
"I will," he breathed, stammering. "I do. I, uh ... "
A chuckle, buttoning her pants and reaching for her shirt (her last item of clothing). "We'll recite them the next time we meet," she promised. Which would be in about six hours. "Until then, keep the faith, 'kay? Stay strong. We reach the station around mid-morning tomorrow ... I'll be part of the boarding party. But I'm going to stay behind while the others rush into the docking port. I'm going to break you out. I'll hide you aboard the station and then deal with the salamanders myself."
"Hide with me," he begged. "What if ... "
" ... I can handle myself, darling. I'm resourceful."
"But ... "
" ... I'm still a pirate. Gotta be one," she said, "one last time. I gotta take care of my crew-mates," she said, emphasizing the last word with disdain.
"You're not, uh ... "
" ... not gonna kill them, no. You needn't worry about it. Anyway, the furs on the station? Last time we ransacked 'em, they had a porcupine and a skunk." A grin. "I'm counting on them using their defenses."
"What if they use them on you? They don't know you're a good fur," Benji said, rodent anxiety starting to well. "You'll get sprayed or quilled!" he squeaked, starting to panic.
Fully dressed, the otter shuffled (on her knees) to her soon-to-be husband. And leaned her forehead against his. Closing her eyes, she whispered, "I'll be okay. Alright? You gotta trust me. This'll work."
And Benji nodded, breathing deeply of her scent. He wanted to say a million different things. Wanted to touch her in a million different things. But ...
" ... I really gotta go. I've been in here a bit too long." She stood, turned the force-field back on, padded for the door. Lingered, turning her head. She gave a smile and then left.
And Benji, in the fur, sighed. And reached for his clothes.